HOFFA MADE ME A HERO
By Dick Meister
Let me tell you about how former Teamster Union President Jimmy Hoffa made
me a hero. A great story, believe me. Could even be a great movie.
The scene: San Francisco 1963. The protagonist: me, a reasonably bright-eyed
journalist in his twenties, just starting out as labor correspondent for the
San Francisco Chronicle, one of the three highly competitive daily
newspapers in a highly unionized city where labor news still mattered a lot.
In comes a steely-eyed editor, a no-nonsense general in the Chronicle's
frenzied circulation war against the other papers.
"Get it fast and get it right," he says to me -- "but mainly get it first!"
No easy task, getting it first. The labor reporters on the other papers had
a bit more experience than me.
"OK, so they've got a little time on you," says Mr. No-Nonsense. "But if you
can't learn more in 25 minutes than those jokers have in 25 years, well
...."
In the next scene, we meet a police reporter and former member of the city's
major Teamsters Union local, Birney by name, who offers assistance to the
young labor reporter. He has contacts, says Birney, and they tell him that
local Teamsters are rebelling against Hoffa's plan to include them in a
nationwide truck drivers' contract that he would negotiate and enforce.
"They think Jimmy's trying to take over everything," says Birney.
He was, of course. But that was not the main reason for the rebel voices,
the naïve young reporter was saddened to learn. It wasn't local autonomy,
union democracy or any of that high-minded stuff that moved them. No, it
was that old devil money. Their own locally-negotiated contracts set their
pay higher than that of Teamsters in most other places, and they'd have to
give up their superior position if they were lumped into a contract with
every Tom, Dick and Harry who might be carrying a Teamster Union card.
But Jimmy had lots of friends, including the officers who ran the San
Francisco local. They decided they'd give Hoffa what he wanted without even
bothering to ask what their members wanted.
This is where it starts getting exciting. Into action springs the eager
young reporter to discover that the rebellious Teamsters have forced their
officers to call an emergency meeting at which members will be allowed to
vote on the question.
I had it first and I had it right, bless Birney. Jimmy's friends were not
pleased, though, to have it reported that "San Francisco Teamsters are in
revolt against James Hoffa and their local officers." Jimmy, it soon was to
become painfully clear to me, was not happy, either.
Next in this scenario we hear the harsh voice of the Teamster local's
secretary-treasurer.
"Listen to me! You got it all wrong! Tell you what -- you just come to that
meeting when they vote and you'll see. Won't hear hardly anybody talk
against Jimmy, no matter what you been saying in that newspaper of yours."
But what about that business in the Teamster constitution barring reporters
from union meetings?
"Forget it. Just be there; we'll get you in."
Now comes the big scene. It's about 8 p.m. outside the meeting hall. Three
reporters, one much younger than the others, stand by the doors, peering in
at hundreds of Teamsters milling around noisily.
The secretary-treasurer emerges, smiling, puts his arm around the young
reporter's shoulder and leads him inside, ignoring the demands of the rival
reporters for entry.
"Look, we might get in trouble if you sit down where they can see you," says
the union officer. "Just stand back there -- behind that curtain off on the
side. You can hear everything. Stay right there, don't move. OK?"
It turns out that the drivers are as anti-Hoffa as I had reported. The
officers try mightily to explain how Jimmy has only their best interests at
heart, but can hardly be heard over the angry shouts of dissidents.
But why, then, was I invited to the meeting? The curtain I'm standing behind
parts and I quickly find out why. A burly guy who I'm sure is six-five, 250
pounds minimum, demands the notebook in which I had been furiously
scribbling the choice comments of union members regarding the character of
Mr. Hoffa and what he could do with his plan. Naturally I refuse. He grabs
the notebook from me. Naturally I try to grab it back, all five-ten, 155
pounds of me. I'm a reporter, after all.
Bam! Pow! Two rights to my head. Next thing I know, the big guy is pulling
me up from the floor by my necktie, cocking his fist to do it again. But a
nearby Teamster tackles him. Out the door I stagger and then, after a brief
detour to an emergency hospital, into the Chronicle, noteless and bruised
head throbbing, to write a stirring account of "shouting, angry truck
drivers" voting 2-to-1 against Hoffa's plan.
The story was displayed prominently on page one. The story of my courageous
action was only a modest little item on an inside page. Ah, but I was page
one in both the rival papers.
One of the papers even ran an editorial citing my heroic performance as
evidence that "despite the hazards facing reporters, the American press is
living up to its obligation to inform the people to the best of its
ability."
A touch of uplifting music would be appropriate at this point, before
turning to the final scene, in which Birney the police reporter is sent out
in search of the villain. He soon finds him, a truck driver with a long
record of arrests for malicious mischief and disturbing the peace. Just the
man you'd hire for putting a smart aleck young reporter in his place.
But you know, I never got around to thanking Jimmy for making me a hero.
Copyright © 2006 Dick Meister