Copyright berkshireeagle
Fifty years ago, a senior editor at the New York Daily News confronted a nerve-wracking occupational challenge: writing a crackerjack headline for a blockbuster, page one story. It was Oct. 29, 1975, and then-President Gerald R. Ford had announced his intention to deny federal aid to the city, which was rapidly descending into a severe financial crisis. The editor, William J. Brink, didn't have much time. Deadline was creeping closer by the minute. He called on colleagues to shout out headline ideas, but no suggestions filled the bill. Then, suddenly, inspiration struck. Without hesitation, Brink wrote it down and sent it to the composing room. In a recent oped in the New York Times, Bill Brink Jr. reflected on the impact his father's headline had on America's news-going public. “'Drop Dead' is generally considered one of the two most memorable headlines of the last half-century, along with The New York Post’s 1983 gem, 'Headless Body in Topless Bar,'" wrote Brink Jr., a senior editor in The Times’s Opinion section. [The New York Post headline was written by an editor there named Vincent Musetto.] Apart from such attributes as simplicity, his late father's "Drop Dead" headline "also had the benefit of truth-telling, at a time when truth was easier to discern and less open to argument," Brink Jr. wrote. "More significantly, media consumers didn't face a fire hose of conflicting or false messages that distorted their understanding of events. Today, we don't even agree on facts." Just about anyone who has worked in a newsroom is likely to recall a headline that stood apart from the rest. Some "heads" offend readers; others delight and/or amuse them. From my 18-year tenure as a full-time reporter on this newspaper, I most vividly remember a headline that accomplished both of the latter two missions, not only because it was funny but also because it presented readers with the irresistible opportunity to catch the newspaper out. The late Grier Horner, a veteran Eagle reporter and editor, freely admitted that spelling was not his strong suit. A fine writer and first-rate page layout designer, he sometimes opted to "wing it" on spelling, particularly if he was pressed for time. On April 1, 1995, Horner took flight on a headline over a story about tense negotiations between then-North Adams Mayor John Barrett III and the city's police union. "Barrett, police union go for the juggler" made it into the paper. The Eagle's switchboard lit up, and letters poured in over the next few days. It's informally axiomatic in newspapering that receipt of one or two letters concerning a news item or photo is a fairly strong response. I remember being told that more than 25 letters and innumerable phone calls had come in. It took the paper's letters editor several days to choose which to publish. She picked out eight, one of which expressed outrage over what the writer viewed as the "downright stupidity" of The Eagle's apparent assumption of illiteracy on the part of its readers. "Does the headline not mean 'jugular'?" the writer wondered. "This is not a simple misprint or case of dropping a letter." A professional juggler wrote to declare that he had, after a fashion, determined that the headline writer meant to refer to the jugular vein, but should be ashamed nevertheless. "Oh well, my wait for a juggler in the news continues," the letter-writer concluded. On that April Fools Day 30 years ago, what Brink referred to as the "fire hose" of false and conflicting messages hadn't yet been as closely connected to the hydrants of politics as it is now. The temperature of the water in 2025 is never just right, and the pressure is consistently too high. News has either numbed or scalded many of its former consumers, exhausting them so early in their search for facts that they often don't read much beyond the headlines. That's risky business these days. Glancing at my "news feed" on Monday morning, I spotted a headline that read: "Supreme Court won't stop Trump tariffs. Deal with it, officials say." If the headline aimed to get me into the story, it worked, but I came away feeling that I'd been had. As it turns out, I had been: The Supreme Court had not yet ruled on whether the president exceeded his legal authority to impose tariffs. The "officials" were holding forth on what might be done if the court upholds Trump. The headline had one thing right: We'll end up "dealing" with tariffs — and a lot of other things. Field House mystery solved The solution to a decades-old mystery surrounding a box containing three Williams College football jerseys bearing the number 50 was recounted in an essay published in a recent football game program. Williams football fan Jim Winchester of Pownal, Vt., drew a visitor's attention to the "Eph Legend" article written by Bridget Brazie about Glenn Boyer, a retired athletic equipment manager for the college. In 2010, Boyer was asked by a colleague about the box, which had apparently been "moved around the field house shelves for years, even surviving a 1995 renovation of the field house," Brazie wrote. The box, which was marked "Do Not Issue," contained a practice jersey and two game jerseys, colored white and purple, all bearing the number 50. Extensive inquiries revealed that the "50" football jersey had been quietly "retired" in honor of Mike Reily, a football team member who died about a month after his 1964 graduation following a lengthy battle with Hodgkins' disease. "No #50 football jersey has been ordered or worn at Williams over a span of seven head coaches," the article reads. "The unwritten tribute has been passed down verbally from one well-meaning equipment manager to another over five decades." It's now officially retired; an award named for Reily is presented at the team's annual banquet.
