Everybody Needs a Reggie

"I didn't do right by you." Those words were uttered by Gerald M. Boyd during our last conversation of substance. Gerald wasn't managing editor of The New York Times yet, but he had ascended to the masthead. It was at a dinner at Gerald's East Side apartment, where he urged Michel Marriott to return to The Times from Newsweek. I was at The Daily News, having gone there after Marty Gottlieb offered me a job as an Assistant City Editor, a position I knew I would not get at The Times. Marty had returned to The Times and Gerald suggested that I do the same. "You can write your own ticket," he said.

I didn't have the heart to tell him he was wrong. I had upset too many people there and I knew it. Nonetheless, I agreed to talk to the paper. One of the first things I was told during that talk was that I could not expect to return anywhere near my Daily News level. I said thank you and left.

Gerald and I had subsequent conversations after my Times visit, mostly at journalism conventions. None of those talks were of great significance. We joked around, teased each other and drank scotch. Chivas seemed to be his favorite then. Occasionally things would get out of hand. Gerald had this way of taking gentle swipes at you, the mischief in him. Sometimes those swipes were hard and he had to be reminded to back off. Such an occasion occured when we were having drinks with other black journalists at a convention. Gerald made a comment and I took offense. I think Gerald realized what he had done. He quickly announced to everyone that I was the conscience of the Metro desk when he was its editor.

I thought about those incidents as I read Gerald's posthumously published memoir, "My Times in Black and White: Race and Power at the New York Times" (Lawrence Hill Books, $26.95). The book brought back a flood of memories, some good, others not so good. The more I read the more I thought about the lament I gave him when he did something I did not like or when I wanted him to know someone had his back, ready to step up and take the heat for him.

"Gerald, you're gonna mess around and lose your Reggie," I would say. "If you don't know what that means, just look at the Yankees and what happened to them after Steinbrenner lost his Reggie. Everybody needs a Reggie."

Gerald would smile, shake his head and walk away.

I also thought about the first time I met Jayson Blair, who had not yet been found out. I was having drinks with a friend at a bar around the corner from the old Times building.

"Man everytime I come in here I see you," my friend told Jayson.

"Then maybe you come in here too much," Jayson replied.

"Look man, I'm off. You're supposed to be at work."

"You're lucky I'm not at The Times anymore," I interrupted. "I'd have my foot so far up your ass you'd be tasting shoe polish for a month."

Jayson stared at me. My friend laughed.

"He would," my friend said. "He would."

But most of all, I thought about how a proud, black journalist was left hanging in the wind by several of his colleagues and people he thought were his friends. As I finished "My Times in Black and White," I thought, "Brother, you could've used your Reggie."