Free P.S. by Studs Terkel Page B

themselves—the American Broadcasting Company won every award in the books—Peabodies and et ceteras—for its coverage of the 1952 convention. Its most celebrated recipients were John Daly and Martin Agronsky, the commentators. Know who really won it for ABC, though he was, of course, accorded no such recognition? Vince. He was truly “the power behind the t’rone.”
    An explanation is in order. Red Q decided to put Vince on the ABC payroll for the express purpose of easing the way for the network’s visiting firemen, whose faces and voices were so familiar on the TV screen, but who knew from zero about the city they were visiting. Vince knew, not in spades, perhaps, but in blue. He knew every cop who stood guard at the amphitheater, the convention’s arena. What’s more to the point, they all knew him.
    So it was Vince who advised the officer at the press gate or mass media gate, or whatever it was called: “Watch me for the high sign. If I shake my head, don’t let ’em in. Got it?”

    “Got it, Vince. Whatever you say.”
    It came to pass that H. V. Kaltenborn, NBC’s most renowned pundit, accompanied by his producer and assorted gofers, was barreling toward the gate in an NBC special limousine. As is the wont of such Eastern hotshots working the benighted hinterlands, the air was one of towering confidence and, by its very nature, of cool contempt toward the natives. A card was flashed, en passant. But the Red Sea did not part. The cop said, “Just a minute.”
    “We’re NBC,” somebody said, clarion clear.
    “I said just a minute.”
    The officer turned away. He was peering, it appeared, at somebody several yards distant. Somebody short, squat, and squinty-eyed. He waited for a sign. After what seemed an appropriate passage of time, the mysterious figure slowly, and with an air of dolor, shook its head.
    “Sorry,” murmured the man in uniform. “Can’t get in.”
    “Are you crazy?” A caterwaul in Manhattan nasal. “We’re the National Broadcasting Company! And that’s H. V. Kaltenborn back there!”
    “I don’t care if it’s Gabby Hartnett. Ya can’t get in.”
    “We must ! He’s got an important interview with Senator Taft’s campaign manager. Can’t you read our credentials? N—B—C!”
    “I can read. Move to one side, please.”
    Another limo was pulling in. Again, the indolent, languorous flash of a card.
    “Just a minute.”
    “Just a minute? We’re CBS !”
    The gentleman in blue turned away. Again, he peered toward the short, squat, squinty-eyed body several yards distant. After what seemed an appropriate passage of time, the
mysterious figure slowly, and with an air of dolor, shook its head.
    “Sorry. Ya can’t get in.”
    “Are you crazy?” Another caterwaul—this one in Scarsdale nasal.
    “We’re the Columbia Broadcasting System . Do you know who’s sitting back there? Ed Murrow and Eric Sevareid !”
    “I don’t care if it’s Luke Appling and Art Shires. Ya can’t get in.”
    “We must ! We’ve got an important interview with Eisenhower’s campaign manager. Can’t you read our credentials? C—B—S !”
    “I can read. Move to one side, please.”
    Another important-looking car was pulling in. Again, a card flashed. The policeman turned away. Once more, he looked for guidance. This time, the short, squat, squinty-eyed man of mystery nodded. Determinedly, quickly.
    “Okay, sir. Sorry for the delay.”
    The car whizzed by.
    Thus it was that ABC scooped its two rivals, again and again and again, during that remarkable convention of 1952. And it was duly honored with plaques and plenty of adulatory ink. It is not that John Daly and Martin Agronsky deserved these tributes less, but that Vincent De Paul Garrity deserved them more.
    There’s the story of Taft conceding the nomination to Ike, via ABC. As Vince passed it on to me, it went something like this:
    Taft is staying at the Congress Hotel. Or is it the Blackstone? Vince and an engineer, fully