MAKICHUK: Memories of Dwayne and the Masters
Annual golf tournament in Augusta brought out the best in SUN Sports
I'm watching the Masters today, and, I'm enjoying it.
I didn't always like golf on TV.
It was once said, what was worse than golf on TV? Golf on the radio.
But hell, in retirement it's OK. I appreciate the skill now.
And it's amazing, watching these pros, battle for the coveted green jacket.
But it also reminds me of the old days, when I was Sunday editor at the Calgary Sun sports department.
That means, I was in charge of the Sunday sports section.
And when it came time for the Masters — a big, big tournament — we had to go big.
And, there was only one man, for the job ... Mr. Dwayne Erickson.
A hard-drinking Alberta cowboy, who covered rodeo like no other man, on the planet., and a man who could stitch together every source on the wires, to do it justice.
He once told me that the farms west of Edmonton, were God's country, and I believed him.
And so, when he wandered in on a Saturday, looking disheveled, his hair mussed, and wearing his best dirty shirt, I would hand him the two pages — Front, and Page 2 in Sports.
For me, it was a big relief, knowing he would put out the best two pages in the city, on Augusta ... bar none.
Me and the other desker on shift, would handle the rest.
Whether it involved a hockey game, or not.
But it would be the Masters, that would get the big hit. And justifiably so.
In those days, golfing’s stars included people like Nick Faldo, Greg Norman, Fred Couples, Bernhard Langer, John Daly and Severiano Ballesteros.
Back then, golfers had character.
Not like the bland PGA golfers of today, who appear to be clones run through the deflavourizer.
Anyway, Big D wouldn’t say a word, just smile, and walk away with the pages.
I swear, I can see him, just like it was today, my God.
Then, we would call on Robo, the copy-runner, to get us some food.
Most of us didn’t bring lunches, too much fuckin’ hassle.
And there was no lunch hour, we ate as we worked — no time to do that.
This was the SUN baby, and you worked hard for the money, as the song goes.
But it was fun too, because it was your creation. You would design your own pages, write the hedlines, the hoto cutlines, edit the stories.
There was a fantastic creative element, albeit under the pressure of deadline.
That always loomed large.
Fuck that up, and you would hear about it the next day.
Robo, a big strapping fellow who was a part-time firefighter, would take the orders and the money.
In an hour, he would come back with burgers, fries and more from Willy’s. I still remember the mushroom burger, so damn good.
Would kill for one right now.
Robo would then have to deal with giving people their change, which was always a big hassle. That never went right, never.
Except for Dwayne, a.k.a. Big D, Cowboy … he always tipped Robo, or whoever the copyrunner was, big. Which was really classy.
“Here son, just keep it,” he’d say.
And then the fun started.
Big D would go into something called “split-screen heaven.”
On our screens, you could split it … open two stories on the wire … and then meld them into one really good story.
Dwaye would also catch the TV reports, and often come up with his own lead … a better lead than either wire service could come up with.
I mean, f—k, it was almost like he was there … he was so clued into it.
And man, he loved doing that.
He would work non-stop, no breaks, on the Masters main, and the inside sidebar, and anything else, he wanted to add.
He would pick the art for us and liaise with SUN News side, to make sure we didn’t use the same photo.
Big D always got his way in that regard. And he was always right, too.
As the night wore on, he would pound on his keyboard, like a man possessed.
Sometimes, he would break it.
Then he would yell for our IT guy.
“Whipper!!!” he would yell, to get the attention of Brian Whipp, our humble but capable onsite IT trouble-shooter.
Dwayne busted a lot of keyboards, LOL!
But no one ever questioned it, because the man delivered.
He was the best at what he did.
As you would have guessed, the last two pages off the floor, were the Masters pages, 1 and 2. He would use every minute, to create the best stories possible.
To him, quality meant everything. To me, meeting deadline meant everything.
So, we would be a few minutes late, as Big D would stand over the compositor, making sure there were no fuck-ups.
Some comps were good, some, not so good.
The next morning, I would go out to my front door, to pick up the SUN.
Open to Sports, and see the Masters pages.
Our opposition would run the wire — whatever the wire sent. Boring stuff.
We never did that, we had Big D, fashioning the best Masters pages in the city.
Beautiful pieces, that were literally bespoke.
I had Sunday-Monday off, so I didn’t care what happened after that.
I would also have the pleasure of playing golf with Big D, in a tournament called The Thank You Flames Open.
When the Calgary Flames were eliminated, as they often were, in the playoffs, we … the deskers … would celebrate.
Because those bastards at the SUN, would never pay us overtime during playoff runs.
We would work dozens of hours, like dogs, for weeks on end … and get nothing for it. Our wimpy sports editor, would not even offer us a special night, in return.
So, we said, fuck this. We will have our own Masters, and, we bought a second-hand green jacket at Goodwill, which the winner would be given for a year.
Our golf writer, bless his heart, would arrange it all with a local course. Including prizes. One of which, was Longest Drive by a Black Guy.
Always won by Talbert, who came from Jamaica.
Anyway, one time, someone hit a ball next to some nice old ladies, and Big D did his best Gary Cooper, going over and apologizing. The true gentlemen.
We all walked to the next T.
Big D shanked his ball, and the air turned blue, with a long list of expletives! LOL!
The little old ladies, looking on, in horror.
Ahhh … what great memories!