If you like my work, thank this guy

This is the second memorial I am writing for Gordon Lattey, my second most-tenured friend, and my most important mentor, who died Sunday, peacefully, when his heart gave out at 85.

The first time was in 1961, as I recall, when he blew out a lung cheering for Navy in the Army-Navy game played at Municipal Stadium, later to be renamed John F. Kennedy Stadium. He collapsed and was rushed to St. Agnes Hospital, at Broad and Passyunk. (R.I.P.)

At the time, he was the editor of the Brooklyn College evening division newspaper, named ken (lower case), which is Scottish for knowledge or scope. I was the news editor and none of us knew how the biweekly newspaper got such an unusual name. 

I had wandered into the newspaper’s basement office in 1959, hoping to give journalism a shot. I knew I could write — I always prayed  for essay questions on a test — but could I write a news story?

Gordon was sitting behind the mahogany editor’s desk in the corner, sucking on a Marlboro.

I told him what I wanted, he was not put off by my lack of experience, and gave me a story to write.

It must have been OK, because he made me a reporter. No pay, no expense account, just a lot of fun with other students who worked by day, and studied by night.

We were both tall — he as thin and angular as a crane — me with a little more meat on the bone, and I was still smoking Luckies.

Neither of us were Brooklyn natives. I was from The Bronx, and he was from some town in New Jersey.

We were never called to the military because he was 4F — bad heart — and I was deferred because I had a son. 

Although he couldn’t serve, Gordon had a love of the military and the first time I ever heard of military strategist Carl Von Clausewitz, it was from his lips. I was kind of a specialized war buff — World War II and the War for Texas Independence — so we were natural allies. 

Whatever guidance I had in news writing came from him, and I remember his strong dislike of punctuation. He wanted sentences so short — classic news writing — they didn’t need commas and he ruthlessly pulled them out of copy. (Today, they are back in, between phrases. Times change.)

Gordon was married before me, and also divorced before me. I followed him, but not just there.

A few months after he hired me as a reporter for ken, he paved the way for my first job in journalism, being a copyboy at the World-Telegram & The Sun (R.I.P.) That was 1959, and I am still at it today, 64 years later.

Gordon was sort of a low-ranking editor, and was my boss there during the day, and at college at night.

I knew him 64 years. We never had a fight. I looked up to him, admired him.

I advanced rapidly on ken and became news editor after a year, and it was in that position that his then-wife, Elsa, told me what had happened in Philadelphia. She had gone back to Brooklyn to get some of his things, and asked me to come to Philadelphia with her.

I don’t remember the train ride, but I do remember the rocking C bus ride from Center City to St. Ag. It was my first time in Philly since childhood.

Gordon had a private room, very plain, and above his bed was a huge crucifix. His face was as white as the sheets. He was always skinny, but now his face looked flat as an ironing board.

All I recall about our conversation was him saying I had to make sure the newspaper got out. 

I did — and it included my tribute to my boss.

Happy ending — the nuns pulled him through, and he returned as editor, until I eventually replaced him.

Way back then, unlike me, he wore a tie every day, loosened at the collar, over an Oxford shirt, usually blue. He always looked like he was in command.

As editor, he was coach of the newspaper’s intramural teams — basketball and football.

As coach he would wear a naval baseball cap and carry a clipboard, because that’s what coaches do. On that clipboard, he would draw up plays for football, all serious like.

I can say without fear of contradiction, as athletes, we were terrific writers. Under Gordon we won our first “All America” award — for the newspaper, not the team.

One quick memory: Gordon hammering away on a Royal manual, growling, “Butt me.” I’d pick a Marlboro out of his shirt pocket, stick it in his mouth, and light it with my Zippo. He had a flair for the theatrical. 

Shortly after I moved to Philly in 1966, Gordon called with an offer. He was working for Reuben H. Donnelly, a big publishing house that put out magazines and directories. Gordon was an editor with Travel Weekly, which was going to launch regional magazines for travel professionals — travel agents, mostly.

Next thing I knew, I was the Chief of the Philadelphia Bureau for TravelAge East.

The job was part-time and didn’t pay much. I did a monthly feature on a travel agent and provided photo coverage of cocktail parties thrown for the travel agents.

But the real benny was this — on vacation from my full-time job, I could grab what was called a “fam trip” for travel agents.

Those were “familiarization trips” that took travel agents — free — to experience various kinds of travel, so they would be familiar with what they were selling.

My first fam trip? A crossing on the magnificent SS France, from New York to Marseille, boat train to Paris, and two nights at a 5-star hotel. Museum tours, hotel inspections, meals and nightclubs — front row seats at the Crazy Horse Saloon — all included.

My biggest out-of-country experience prior to that was Niagara Falls. 

My family was poor, and foreign travel wasn’t even a dream.

That piddling part-time job opened the door to the world for me, Argentina to Zurich. All thanks to Gordon, who always said he was proud of what I did with my career. 

While still in Brooklyn, and still a liberal (we all were in college), Gordon worked to get an obscure Democratic politician elected to Congress.

That was Chuck Schumer, and now, as a Trumpster, Gordon kicks himself for helping to elect “that schmuck.”

If you live in Brooklyn, you will pick up some Yiddish, even if you are a Lutheran.

Lutheran? “Is that like Mormon?,” I asked Gordon.

Growing up in The Bronx, and then Brooklyn, all I knew were Jews and Catholics.

Gordon laughed and treated me to a tune: I was lost, but Luther found me, by the sea of Galilee.

OK, I said, but kept thinking Luther was a Batman villain.

Gordon eventually migrated to Troy, N.Y.

He dabbled in business, in PR, marketing, politics, and a hobby called the U.S.S. Slater, a World War II destroyer escort that a group of altruists had gotten a hold of and were refitting in Albany, N.Y. Gordon had helped them out, and introduced me to the project. I became a supporter of the only WWII DE afloat in the United States. (You can too: https://ussslater.org/)

This story began with the Army-Navy game, and will end with it.

For the past quarter-century or so, I saw Gordon and his wonderful wife Michele in December.

They were in town for the game, and Gordon had four great seats, because he had been buying them for so many decades.

He would treat me and my guest to the game, and I treated him and Michele to dinner at a special Philadelphia restaurant on Friday night.

I specialized in only-in-Philly places like the Victor Cafe and XIX, along with some pricy chains. We always had a good time.

When we first started attending games — and sitting with Navy — I told Gordon my whole family was Army.

Maybe by osmosis, maybe because Philly is a Navy town, maybe because Navy so often badly kicked Army’s ass, maybe because I have half a dozen Navy caps, I started rooting for Navy.

And then Army won three straight years.

I believe Gordon forgave me.

God rest you, my dear friend and mentor.