Camille Mackler: Baseball was our common language

My dad had two daughters and a very French wife. But he needed someone to discuss sports with. Unfortunately, we lived abroad for most of my childhood, mainly in countries where cricket was the most exciting sport. So my dad taught me first how to speak English, and then he taught me about sports. We lived in Hong Kong and we rooted for the New York Knicks. We moved to Brussels and I learned to love the Yankees.

The Yankees were somewhat of a conundrum for my father, having grown up in Brooklyn with the Dodgers his entire boyhood. But then, what child doesn't root for at least one team that will drive their father nuts? In the end, perhaps in one of his greatest acts of love to me, my father converted, and the Yankees became our team. Our reference point. Our go-to source for analogy and metaphor. The last time I saw my dad, we were together at Yankee stadium on our yearly excursion to the subway series. We rooted together valiantly, but unsuccessfully, for the Yanks to beat the Mets.

Of all the sports, baseball was our favorite. I don’t know why, but maybe it is because it combines our love for history and anecdotes, and because it is the one sport, more than any other, that will give an underdog a chance. Whenever our teams weren’t playing, we always rooted for the underdogs together. Even in 2005, after the Yankees inexplicably went on strike half-way through the American League Championship Series and the hated Red Sox won their first World Series in eighty-six years, my father called me to tell me that there was a very small part of him that was happy for Red Sox fans. Secretly, there was a very small part of me that agreed. And then he told me that if I ever quoted him on that, he would deny it.

I loved the stories my father told me about growing up in Brooklyn in the 50s and 60s, playing stick ball on the street. He told me how his older brother Steve took him aside one day, after a particularly miserable attempt to connect stick to ball, and taught him the secret: Just count in your head “and-one-and-two-and-swing.” He told me about how my grandfather would take him to watch batting practice at Ebbets Field and one day pointed out a particularly scrawny black kid who couldn’t seem to hit the ground with his bat when he tried. That kid, my grandfather announced, would turn into one of the greatest hitters of his time. That kid’s name was Hank Aaron. After my grandfather died, my father and I took refuge at the Museum of Natural History, which had on exhibit at the time part of the collection from the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. We found solace in wandering through the rooms, looking at Joe DiMaggio’s first glove, seats from the Polo Grounds, dirt from Candlestick Park.

When we moved to the States, my dad introduced me to American football. And yes, I say American football, because the tenacious French person in me will not agree to a game that actually involves a foot and a ball being renamed soccer for America's convenience. We added the NY Giants to our roster of conversation topics. Last February, I came down to DC to watch our Giants compete in the Superbowl for the first time in eight years. I hadn't done that since college, but then again, neither had the Giants. Whether we won or lost, one thing was clear, my father was the only person I wanted to be with when it happened. We commiserated, cheered, and lamented through the first 3 quarters together. We kneeled side by side on the floor in front of the TV, knuckles white, during the last drive of the game, not breathing until David Tyree caught that last pass over his head and Plaxico Buress scored the final touch down. We jumped up and down like maniacs when the game was over, screaming, cheering, hugging, and probably convincing my mom we both needed to be committed without delay. That would have been fine, as long as we had neighboring padded cells. He bought the DVD that memorialized the Giants 2007-2008 season, and watched it when he’d had a bad day.

My dad often told me I should become a sports writer. He loved reading the round ups of the local teams’ efforts that I would send to his email box whenever he was off in some remote corner of the world, covering, or more often than not anticipating, the next big story. I was proud to think he enjoyed my writing. But mostly, I was happy that we had this world that we could share, just the two of us. Just one more facet of our priceless bond.

-- Camille Mackler

James Brown: Deepest sympathies

I wanted to pass on our deepest sympathies to everyone at AFP – I was greatly saddened to hear of Peter’s death.

I remember meeting Peter for the first time in 2006 when we first thinking of launching ForesightNews in the States.

To be honest I wondered what his reaction would be to some upstart Englishman who dared to even think of starting up a news-events service for journalists – and, if I am honest, it was with great trepidation that I waited to meet him !

Like every time I subsequently met him, he never seemed to be doing less than 20 things at once, whether editing, monitoring the wires, questioning passing colleagues and having at least 2 telephone lines perpetually “blinking” at him.

In the midst of this stream of all equally urgent business, he was incredibly generous with his time and showed such great faith in what we wanted to achieve.

It was only over the next couple of years that I found out by chance that he had from time-to-time passed our name to other agencies in DC suggesting they contact us – typically he never told me he had done this for us, but as someone let slip a couple of months ago, he had said wanted to support us in anyway he could.

Peter continually demanded we “raise the bar”, always said we could do better and better and his wise words and advice were always hugely appreciated.

Peter was a “giant” and I wanted to convey in a small way our huge debt to him for all his support and the great kindness he showed to us.

-- JAMES BROWN
Key Accounts Director
ForesightNews