A look back at some of Stan Hochman's favorite columns

FOR HIS 50th anniversary at the paper, we sat down for a long lunch and I did what I enjoyed doing for as long as I knew him: asking Stan questions and listening to Stan tell stories. The words that follow were his. The pleasure, for more than a half-century, was ours.

- Rich Hofmann

There I am in Augusta, Ga. I'd just gotten out of the Army. They're going to play the first integrated game in the state of Georgia, the Augusta Tigers against Jacksonville. Henry Aaron is playing second base for Jacksonville. Horace Garner is playing rightfield. The game begins, first inning, Aaron hits a home run to dead center - silence in the ballpark. Jacksonville goes out into the field and Horace Garner is ducking. From the press box, I can't tell why he's flinching. Then, I realize - they're throwing stones at the rightfielder.

The manager calls his team off the field, they go into the safety of the dugout, the managers and umpires meet at home plate and decide what to do. They transfer Garner from rightfield to leftfield because the Negro bleachers are in leftfield. They continue the game and I write a story. Here's this Yankee from New York and I call the people who threw the stones "yahoos." It was the softest word I could think of. I wrote how Aaron ignored the fuss to play the kind of game that would get him Rookie of the Year - and he winds up Rookie of the Year in the Sally League.

And Henry and I always had that because I was there that night.

We're getting ready for Eagles-Green Bay, the championship game, 1960, and I'm in the office and Merchant says, "See what you can get from Lombardi." I said, "Vince Lombardi?" He said, "Yeah, who else?" I said, "Vince Lombardi doesn't know who I am." He said, "You'll identify yourself as the Philadelphia Daily News, here's the name of the PR guy, tell him you need a few minutes with Vince."

I'm the good soldier. I called the PR guy and asked. He said, "Let me check," and then he comes back and says, "Here's Vince." He's on the phone with me. I'm stuttering and fumfering, but I get the basics. I ask him how a guy from New York could find happiness in Green Bay and he gives me good stuff, how the fans own the team, invested emotionally and with their pocketbooks. I say, "Coach, there's been a lot written about this, but can you give me your philosophy of coaching?" Now, he's dealing with a guy, a rookiePhiladelphia Daily News reporter, and he says, "Discipline with love." Three words, sums it up. I can't believe I'm getting this. He says he might really chew out a guy at practice, but afterward he makes sure to go by the guy's locker and rumple his hair. What little I had read about Lombardi, he was a fascist, a total tyrant. Now I get this.

What are the odds you could get that today? The week of a Super Bowl game, one-on-one? That's the way we operated back then. Get on the phone and see if you can get Lombardi.

Having such a supportive, understanding wife has made all the difference for me. Here's how I met her. It's autumn of 1959, and Bill Shea, the New York attorney is talking about organizing a third major league, the Continental League, because baseball won't give his backers a franchise to replace either the Giants or Dodgers. Gloria is doing public relations for the Greenfield hotels, which include the Bellevue-Stratford. The Public Relations Association invites Shea to speak at a lunch at the Bellevue. I go, looking for an offseason baseball column, and she delays the start of the luncheon so I can have some one-on-one time with Shea. I go back and write a column in which I do not mention the name of the hotel, nor do I mention the name of the group he spoke to. She is furious.

Three weeks later, she is running the Army-Navy pregame party. I am going to cover the game, so I go to the party. I see her, tap her on the hip, and ask, "Do you remember me?" I get a 27-minute lecture on the ethics of journalism. I am dazzled. I ask her out. She's busy. I ask her again, we go out on a date that costs a week's salary. A year later, we're married, at the Bellevue.

Many years later, we spot Shea, across the room in a restaurant near Madison Square Garden, before a big fight. I encourage Gloria to go tell Shea the part he played in our lives. Two minutes into her monologue, he holds his hands in the traditional timeout gesture and says, "Are you happy?" She says, "Yes," and he's relieved and says, "Go on, tell me the rest of the story." And years later, when Gloria is inducted into the public relations hall of fame, I stand up, and say, "Maybe she was right.''

I told Dick Vermeil I wanted to spend a week and see what it's like on the inside - meetings, everything. He had to be able to trust me not to use anything that would affect the game against the Steelers. He agreed right away. He said, "Be there at 7 on Monday morning."

There's traffic on the Penrose Avenue Bridge. I get there, he's looking at his watch. It's 7:03. He says, "I asked you to be here at 7." I said, "Coach, there was unexpected traffic." He said, "I expect you to be here at 7. The rest of the week, I'd like you to be on time.'' I was.

I've got a game ball. It's inscribed to "honorary assistant coach.'' And they win the game, and they win it with a play they put in that week. It felt good to be trusted and to be able to have the stamina to be able to endure a long day and still write the 2,500-word stories at night.

You know when it became satisfying? When the Inquirer sent about five people on the same mission about a year ago and they came up half-empty.