| They might as well call off the impending America's Cup races now that John Ahern
won't be there. What's the point to the sailboat sideshow at Newport, R.I., if its
foremost chronicler and presence has been called elsewhere to cover higher affairs?
Not that most of us could discern a point to the activity anyway. But when Ahern,
who died last week at the age of 64, was reporting for The Globe, you had a chance
to understand what such Ahabs-in-topsiders as Ted Turner were trying to do.
America's Cup without Ahern will be like the Court of St. James without the US
ambassador, or the Pequod lacking Ishmael to tell us what was going on. There were
many who believed that John Ahern had originated the competition, a notion he didn't
discourage.
Indeed, John, as kind and generous a rival and colleague as a journalist could
encounter, was the press' ambassador to the court of Narragansett Bay. Perhaps
John knew his subjects so thoroughly — boxing, hockey, football, golf, tennis, rowing,
as well as yachting — and was so secure in his own abilities that he felt no rivalry with
others in the business. Or maybe it was his seemingly spontaneous graciousness
and gregariousness that made him a missionary ever willing to shepherd the
uninformed and unwashed. Not that John was a St. Francis-style missionary.
Among newspapermen, a group not noted for changing shirts as often as three times
a week, Ahern was a dazzler who sometimes changed immaculately and
thoughtfully tailored garb thrice daily. A Beau Brummel in any crowd, John was the
only guy I know who didn't look like a fop or an usher in a green jacket. It's too bad
his golf game wasn't good enough to win the Masters. He routinely knew the best
places to eat and drink. "When you're with Ahern, the Irish Thrush, and he chirps to
maitre d's, you get well taken care of," Jim Murray, Los Angeles Times columnist,
once remarked.
If John dropped a few names in his time, they didn't bounce badly at
all. "Here's the guy who taught Teddy Kennedy how to sail," he was once hailed by
another reporter.
"But not how to drive," came the reply. Mike Lupica, a columnist for the New York
Daily News, recalls — as will numerous journalists — "John may have seemed like a
bigshot, but he was never too busy to help a young reporter or to introduce you
around. Heaven won't be anything new, though, because he already knew everybody."
With his graying wavy hair and commanding tone of voice, John sometimes
resembled the distinguished character actor Charles Bickford. "Does that guy own
your paper?" a reporter asked me after meeting Ahern. "No, but he hasn't told the
owners yet. He sails with them, and maybe that's as good as proprietorship without
the headaches."
But as much as he enjoyed the good life and was cut out to be a
briny boulevardier, John would not like to be thought of as a "yachting writer." He was
one of the better fight writers, coming up when Boston was one of the better fight
towns, and justifiably prided himself in being able to glide smoothly between the
Eastern Yacht Club and New Garden Gym. Sonny Liston, the fearsome ex-con,
heavyweight champion between 1962 and 1964, was an ogre who intimidated
reporters and almost everyone else but Muhammad Ali, and Ahern. John always
called him Charles, his straight name, and got his attention. Few reporters were
anxious to track down Liston that bizarre 1965 night in Lewiston, Maine, when Ali
defended his title by knocking out Liston in a cloudy first round. Ahern found him in
his hotel room, which was guarded by another burly, surly chap. "Get outta here,"
rasped the hallway sentinel. "Sonny ain't talking to nobody," Then . . . "Oh, Mr.
Ahern, it's you. But Sonny won't even see you."
"Please tell Charles that I need to talk to him," was the reply. "Yes sir, but he won't."
Shortly the sentinel returned, "Come right in, Mr. Ahern."
Inside, Liston mumbled, cursed, growled. A reporter, also allowed into the hotel room
through Ahern's blessing, though appreciative, said: "Interesting, John, but the guy
didn't say anything."
Responded Ahern: "You'll be surprised how well Charles' noises translate through my
typewriter."
Still, it was as the self-assured and caring padre of the Newport docks that Ahern
forever endeared himself to his journalistic brethren. He was a St. Bernard rescuing
travelers in a perilous blizzard of ignorance. Barry Lorge, now sports editor of the San
Diego Union, almost trembles telling of his being sent to the 1977 America's Cup by
the Washington Post. What sportswriter knows anything about yachting?
Nevertheless, covering America's Cup is a heavy responsibility because the handful
who are actually interested includes publishers and owners of newspapers. The boss,
if no one else, is watching and reading, and seasickness may not be as great a
hazard as displeasure at the office. "During America's Cup," recalls Lorge, "Newport
is flooded with the uninitiated, worried about handling the assignment. Ahern would
take us by the hand, explain everything so we could write acceptable stories,
introduce us to the right people.
"I'll never forget his splendid performance in '77, the US against Australia. You can't
see anything when you're out in the press boat, but John told us not to worry. The
race starts. A minute or so later, John shakes his head, Did you see that blunder by
the Aussies?' "What blunder . . . what's he talking about? We're all mystified. " The
Aussies blew the start. It's all over,' John said. What's over? What happened?
"John went below to write his story, which covered everything solidly even though the
race didn't finish for about three hours. When he was finished, he gave us the details
so we could keep our editors happy. Then he'd make sure we got into the Canfield
House to eat even though we weren't finished with our stories until the kitchen was
closed. The news that Ahern-and-party had arrived immediately stirred the chef to
action." The word went across the country for years: "If you have to cover Newport,
see Ahern. He'll take care of you."
One time, a female reporter arrived nervously and sought him. "Mr.
Ahern, I understand you can tell me something about yachting . . . " "Madame," he
greeted her comfortingly as though she were the prodigal daughter, "you have come
to the right place. I happen to have invented yachting." |
