The young reporter sat nervously on the edge of his seat, palms sweating. He hoped he was telling the newspaper owner how grateful he was for the chance to write with steady voice.
The old man listened, nodded, and spun his chair to look out the large window. He pointed outside with a shaking hand.
Father McGivney stood memorialized in bronze, arm raised overhead, blessing the city. “I call him ‘Fair Catch,'” he said. “Whatever you do here, be fair, and you’ll be fine. Maybe win us a Pulitzer.”
Now the reporter did wipe his hands. No pressure. None whatsoever.
