Jim Weeks: Farewell to an old mentor
I walked into the Norman Transcript office, 215 E. Comanche, in late September 1978, hoping to talk to Jim Weeks. Crazy me, I had no idea what kind of office hours a sports editor might keep. Probably had no idea what office hours were.
I was 17 years old, a high school senior who long ago figured out I couldn’t hit a curveball or dunk a basketball but loved sports and loved newspapers and figured there couldn’t be much better way to make a living. So I stopped by the Transcript to ask for advice.
Lucky for me, Jim Weeks was in. Lucky for me. Lucky should be my middle name.
I had a short conversation with Jim, he gave me good advice. Go to college, work on the school newspaper, see what happens. Then about three weeks later, the phone rang.
My brother, who was 11 in the fall of 1978, reminded me this week that he actually answered the phone and came running for me. “Jim Weeks is on the phone!”
You’ve got to realize, in our house, sportswriters were no less hallowed than Grecian gods. My dad took four newspapers a day, and we read them all. Transcript. Oklahoman. Oklahoma City Times. Oklahoma Journal. On Sundays, he would buy the Tulsa World and the Dallas Times Herald. I could imagine nothing more dashing, no one more exotic, than a Dallas sportswriter. When Jim Weeks telephoned the house, we couldn’t have had a more startling call than if Reggie Jackson or Steve Owens had dialed in.
Jim Weeks had written down my name and phone number. Then a part-time job came open. He couldn’t find a college kid to fill — I’ll never know why, other than this was during the oil boom, so guys could work for pretty good money doing most anything, and working Friday night and Saturday night on East Comanche for $2.75 an hour wasn’t all that appealing. But it was to me.
Thirty-one years later, I’ve pounded the keyboard in the pressboxes of Yankee Stadium and Notre Dame and Final Fours and a Super Bowl and more great sporting cathedrals than I can even count, and it started with that week-night phone call so many years ago.
Jim Weeks died last week at the age of 76. He had suffered from Alzheimer’s in recent years.
I worked 12 years for Jim. I was a high school kid when I started. I was president of the PTA at Eisenhower Elementary when Jim left the Transcript in 1990 and started a new adventure in Grove, with a beautiful house on the shores of Grand Lake.
When I went to work for Jim Weeks, I didn’t know anything about sportswriting. When I left, I knew a little something about this joyride that has passed for a job and a career. Jim taught me the little things, about word usage, what my friend Ed Frost termed “careful writing.” That’s exactly what Jim espoused. Careful writing. Say what you mean. Mean what you say.
Here’s an example. If you write “couldn’t,” mean “couldn’t.” Don’t say, the Sooners drove to the 4-yard line but couldn’t score. What does that mean? Of course the Sooners could have scored. They DIDN’T score. Say what you mean. I still use those lessons every day
Jim was an excellent mentor and a wonderful boss. I spent 13 years at the Transcript, where I learned the value and result of hard work.
The Transcript was what I came to term meatball journalism. I stole that from Hawkeye Pierce’s meatball surgery. Patch ‘em up and move ‘em out. That’s what our 31/2-man staff did. I worked many a 16-hour Friday, followed by a 12-hour Saturday, and I enjoed every second of it.
I have a soft spot in my heart for people who labor on their jobs. People who grudgingly go to work every day. What a testimony to dedication, because I never had to do that. I never once went to work, at the Transcript or Oklahoman, without a spring in my step. Never once went to work without thinking, wow, this is great. Must be awful if you’ve got a job that doesn’t lift your spirit.
I’ve had that job for 31 years. Thirty-one years of taking calls and typing agate and editing stories and laying out pages and planning stories and phoning coaches 15 minutes before midnight. Thirty-one years of covering junior high football and high school wrestling and college baseball and the Eli Manning Super Bowl. Thirty-one years of Jamelle Holieway and Big Country and Kevin Durant.
All because that phone rang one night in the old house at 1223 E. Boyd.
Jim Weeks’ funeral is at 2:30 p.m. Monday in Grove. And here’s the kicker. I’m not sure I can go. It’s not the Sooners or Cowboys or Thunder keeping me from it; it’s my new granddaughter. She’s scheduled to arrive Monday morning at Norman Regional Hospital.
But I hope I’ve already paid my respects to Jim. In the almost 20 years since he left the Transcript, I only saw him a handful of times. A few years ago, he came to my house, along with Bob Barry Sr. and Brent Clark, and we engaged in a roundtable discussion on OU football history for Jay Upchurch’s “Sooner Spectator.” It was a lot of fun.
And also a few years ago, Jim asked me to come to Grove and speak to his Rotary Club luncheon. I agreed as fast as I could. I told the Grove rotarians what Jim Weeks had done for me and my career, how he had impacted me more than anyone outside my dad.
When I think of Jim Weeks, I know I couldn’t have had the career I’ve had without him. And by all means, I do mean couldn’t.
-------------Berry Tramel can be heard Monday through Friday from 4:40-5:20 p.m. on The Sports Animal radio network, including AM-640 and FM-98.1. You can e-mail him here and follow him on Twitter @BerryTramel. Visit Berry's website here.
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Comments
“Never once went to work thinking, wow, this is great.” BT – so sad to have this sentence in such a nice tribute…perhaps you meant ‘Never once went to work WITHOUT thinking…”
Great story.
Since I was a kid his book “Sooners” was always there for me.
I was not aware of his passing until today.
Great opportunity you have taken advantage to put in writing what a mentor means to you. We should all have the same chance to let someone and their familly know the influence that they have had. Thanks for sharing your story. Eccl7:1
i was a coach foe thirt-nine years but more importanly a teacher. i am mostly a reader. as a teacher i am proud or your comment at Jim Weeks memorial.
He was a friend. thank you.
A lot of Friday and Saturday nights we shared there at 215 E. Comanche, Berry–I guess about 7 of them with both of you, although as a reporter or wire editor I was not nearly as close to Jim as you all were. But knew Jim’s name all my life before I knew him, and enjoyed his quips and his steady hand at the helm. Obviously, a great mentor, yes.
Barry,
I’ve never met you, but I would have met you at Jim’s funeral if I had not left for a lengthy and distant vacation on Nov. 21. Jim’s sweet wife, Micki, was so considerate as to delay notifying me until I returned to my home in Louisiana on Dec. 7. Jim was my college roommate. A finer man I never met.
Larry Maddin
Mandeville, LA
Oops! ‘Sorry I spelled your first name wrong, Berry. People often misspell my last name, thinking I’m related to John Madden (actually, my name ends with “in”).
Wonderful Tribute Mr. Tramel. A definite show of class and character to acknowledge how someone else helped to make you what you are today. Well done sir.