On a frigid Christmas Eve in the 1970s, against my wife’s better judgement, I insisted on donning the lone suit in my closet, a ‘Miami Vice’ light colored, summer cotton ensemble, to our Midnight Mass. Exiting the church that night, I felt someone grab my shoulder.
It was my good friend, Paul Struck. Boasting that big smile and mischievous twinkle in his eye, Paul asked, “Denny, you going to Jamaica or just getting back?”
That’s quintessential Paul. I joined in the laughter around me and realized I should’ve have listened to Cherie’s sound advice and left the Don Johnson look in the closet.
Paul was quick witted, clever and gifted. “Paul had the gift,” noted Art Cullen, publisher and owner of the Cherokee and Storm Lake newspapers and Pulitzer Prize recipient. “Not many have the gift. He was distinctive and possessed a peculiarity with the printed word.”
I became close friends with Paul in the early 1970s, starting out as a rookie sports reporter for the Cherokee Daily Times, a six-day-a-week publication.
For almost two decades, we spent many late nights and early morning hours pounding out sports copy to the clicky-clacking sound of our Royal typewriters.
On one of those nights, Paul opened his desk drawer to a cold 12-pack of Falstaff and a semi-warm, half eaten pizza. Our pizza-beer shenanigan was short-lived however, when Tom Miller, owner and publisher of the paper, showed up and caught us taking a swig.
“Sorry fellas, but your stories are becoming way too creative. Too much typewriter oil,” said Miller. “The beer has got to go,” he said, grabbing one and downing it before disappearing out the front door.
Paul and I loved Tom, but that’s another story.
In those times, newspapers were the heartbeat of a community, and Paul reveled in being a good newspaperman. For most of his adult life, Paul dedicated his talents to the written word, entertaining with his long running and award-winning column, Struck Strikes Out. He provoked thoughts and opinions with his editorials. Folks got their news from the newspaper. No internet, no cell phones, no social media. Just the truth about what was happening in our small part of the world. Sports, news, editorials, Paul did it all.
He sold advertising and on occasion, delivered papers to customers who were missed by the one of the 50 plus paper boys and girls on staff.
Paul mentored me, patiently leading by example and I strived for years to emulate him, reading his “Struck Strikes Out” and hoping someday to be as good.
Paul went to bat for me and got me the job at the Daily Times. “Tom (Miller) asked me if you could type,” Paul told me. “I lied, so you better take home one of our typewriters and learn. You got a week,” he said.
It’s ironic, but my brother from another mother and I had so much in common. We both played the drums, dabbled with the guitar, loved sports and treasured our community and the folks who made it special.
Paul reminisced often about his fast-pitch softball playing days with the Mike Ryan sponsored Hamms Beer teams of the 1960s and 70s. A first baseman, he loved playing alongside his brother, Giles, and teammates Gene Anderson, Danny Schuver, Ron Ogren, Dave Siegel, Ronnie Means, Paul Fuhrman, Stan Stizmann and Dick Hirschman. Also, Bob and Bill Brady, Larry Galvin, Pete Mathern, Bob Nelson, Gary Slota and Mark Ammons.
Paul wrote of Hamms sponsor, Mike Ryan: “A lot of people don’t understand our “Hamms Family” and how most of us have stayed in touch through the years just because of you. It all surpasses friendship. It’s something else. Something better.”
Those playing days held a treasure chest of fond memories for Paul. One memory he repeated often referenced slugger teammate Schuver. “I’ve never seen anyone hit a softball so damn hard and far in my life. He hit a couple that are still going. They might find them somewhere near Meriden.”
Paul wrote thousands of stories, columns and editorials and along the way earned a bucket full of accolades from the newspaper industry.
I simply can’t say enough about my old friend, who we all will miss.
Paul loved his music and often would use song lyrics to illustrate a thought.
I end with this Jackson Browne lyric from “Rock Me On the Water”
Oh people, look among you
It’s there your hope must lie
There’s a sea bird above you
Gliding in one place like Jesus in the sky
We all must do the best we can
And then hang on to that Gospel plow
When my life is over, I’m going to stand before the Father
But the sisters of the sun are going to rock me on the water now
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