Madam Speaker, I rise today to honor Timothy Russert by submitting for the record a tribute to him by the Buffalo, New York native, William O'Shaughnessy on June 16, 2008. ``A Death in the Family'' was broadcast on WVOX and WVIP in New…
Madam Speaker, I rise today to honor Timothy Russert by submitting for the record a tribute to him by the Buffalo, New York native, William O'Shaughnessy on June 16, 2008. ``A Death in the Family'' was broadcast on WVOX and WVIP in New York.
A Death in the Family
And although we were in the care and keeping of the German
Jesuits some ten years apart, Russert and I both got whacked
upside the head by the same worn old leather prayer book
belonging to the Reverend John
Sturm, SJ., who took most seriously his title and high
estate: Prefect of Discipline.
Father John was built like a fireplug. And although an
equal opportunity disciplinarian, he made Timmy Russert his
favorite charge almost from the minute he first encountered
the personable Irish youngster from South Buffalo with the
bright eyes and easy smile. That was back in the 60's and
they have been friends ever since. Canisius has turned out
federal judges named Crotty and Arcara, political power
brokers like Joe Crangle, big car dealers, stellar athletes
including a few Holy Cross and Notre Dame quarterbacks, and
doctors and lawyers of great renown. The Jesuits spotted
Russert's beguiling potential early on. Even then they knew.
He would go back to Buffalo over the years to see his
father and during summers better than this one Tim Russert
would sit at Cole's bar in the Elmwood section to talk sports
over a beer and a ``beef on a weck,'' Buffalo's legendary
version of roast beef, a steamship round of which was
personally carved by the bartender and then piled on a
Kimmelweck roll covered with salt to be dipped in Heinz
Ketchup. The music in the air on those nights was provided by
ancient tapes of Fred Klestine's old radio programs from the
50's and 60's which survive to this day at Cole's.
They would order another Simon Pure beer or a Carling's ale
and talk about the rich girls who went to ``The Mount,'' a
boarding school, and about Johnny Barnes, the old Canisius
High football coach and sometimes about Cornelius
MacGillicudy, a favorite teacher who owned a bar in the
Parkside section over near Delaware Park.
He never lost touch with the Jesuits. And just a few weeks
ago, Father Sturm, now in his 90's, sent out invitations to a
scholarship luncheon in his own honor with the obligatory
picture of his protege Tim Russert on the cover.
Before his dazzling work on television which made him
famous, Tim labored in the service of the two brightest minds
in public life during our time: Daniel Patrick Moynihan and
the estimable Mario M. Cuomo.
Someone said yesterday on television: ``He wasn't exactly a
pretty boy.'' With his cheeks and jowls, Russert was the
complete antithesis of all the hyper, vacuous ``talking
heads'' and all the bimbos--male as well as female--who sit
each day in those anchor chairs praying the teleprompter
doesn't fail lest they be forced to utter something more
profound than ``absolutely!''
Only Chris Matthews was his equal in terms of depth and
intelligence. And maybe Jon Meacham or Lawrence O'Donnell or
Peggy Noonan. George Stephanopoulos can hold his own in front
of a camera (and in front of George Will). And classy Deborah
Norville has a brain. While among the youngsters coming up--
William ``Billy'' Bush and Chris Cuomo are bursting with
intelligence and promise. Ditto Bill Geist's kid Willy. And
David Gregory and Tucker Carlson are easy to take. Barbara
Walters and Diane Sawyer are class acts in any season.
We've always liked Bob Scheiffer and Judy Woodruff. And how
can you not like Mike Barnicle and Joe Scarborough (but not
the girl with him, the one with the famous father, who talks
over everybody). And I hope Larry King, like Paul Harvey on
the radio, goes on forever. Plus I still take pleasure in our
infrequent sightings of Rather and Brokaw.
Russert, however, operated on a level far beyond most of
them. And he didn't need high tech production values or fancy
overhead lighting in an ultra-modern studio to enhance and
amplify his unique genius. He was to network news what Mario
Cuomo is to public discourse. And as the great Cuomo himself
reminded us, ``Tim never forgot where he came from and he
never let us forget it either . . . and we loved him for
it.''
He would summer on Nantucket and go to parties at Sally
Quinn's in Washington. But Russert never denied his roots in
Buffalo. There was a realness about him, a genuineness, on
and off the air.
A few summers ago, Russert was the main speaker at an
important conference of the New York State Broadcasters
Association up at Bolton Landing on Lake George. After his
talk he was persuaded by our mutual friend Joe Reilly, the
head of the broadcasters in the Empire State, to linger and
give out the Association's Awards for Excellence . . . even
as an NBC plane waited on the tarmac at the nearby Glens
Falls airport to rush him back to Washington.
There were many awards and citations in every category. But
Russert was his usual generous self and so he stayed late
into the night as the awards presentations wore on. And when
it was announced that your own WVOX had won the designation
for ``Best Editorials in New York State'' (which we clearly
did not deserve), Russert arched his eyebrows and the Irish
eyes twinkled as my son David and I advanced to the front of
the ballroom to receive our award.
As we posed for the cameras and the flashbulbs popped, Tim
asked, sotto voce, ``How's Mario? . . . how's Nancy? . . .
how are the kids? . . . how's the station?'' And now as my
mind drifts back on this weekend after he died, I wonder if I
remembered to inquire about his own welfare? I hope so, but I
doubt it, given that heady moment in the spotlights. But he
remembered.
Russert then thoughtfully pulled away my son David for a
shot with just the two of them . . . and said, again on the
QT, while still smiling for the cameras, ``How the hell did
your old man win this damn thing . . . it must have been by
shear guile! Or did Cuomo write it for him?'' As the two of
them cracked up with laughter, no one in the audience of more
than 500 had a clue what they were chuckling about.
James O'Shea, who owns The West Street Grill, a high class
saloon in Litchfield, Connecticut (he much prefers the
designation ``fine dining establishment'') called while I was
thinking about all this. According to O'Shea, ``Russert
possessed the genius of the Irish. Just say he was Irish.
People will know what that means. He was Irish!'' As O'Shea
provides libation and sustenance for the likes of Philip
Roth, Rex Reed, Jim Hoge, Bill vandenHeuvel, Rose Styron,
George Clooney, Peter Duchin and Brooke Hayward . . . I will
bow to his wisdom. Russert did indeed have the genius of the
Irish.
Nancy and I would see him around town of an evening, when
he would come up from Washington to do some business at the
NBC Universal mother ship at Rockefeller Center or if one of
us had to emcee a dinner. And no matter how late the hour or
how tired and rumpled he appeared, it was always the same:
``How are the kids? . . . how are the stations doing? . . .
how's the gov?''
NBC delayed the news of his passing and actually got
scooped by the New York Post and the Times until someone from
their shop was retrieved to go and inform his wife Maureen
Orth, their son Luke, and his beloved father Big Russ. But
who, I wonder, had to knock on the door of the old priest in
the Jesuit retirement house on Washington Street up in
Buffalo to tell Father John Sturm, S.J. Timmy Russert was
gone?
I always thought Russert would have made a wonderful
politician himself or a great teacher. Or even a priest. And
with his sudden, untimely departure at 58, he probably taught
us one more lesson learned from the old Jesuits: ``You know
not the hour . . . or the moment.''
The newsman-journalist known as Tim Russert has been
mourned by millions and eulogized in all the journals and
periodicals in the land. But the most exquisite tribute, and
probably the one he would have liked the most came from
Michelle Spuck, a waitress at Bantam Pizza in the Litchfield
hills, who told a customer over the weekend, ``I'm so sad
about this . . . I never met him . . . but I knew him.''
He died in front of a microphone.
This is Bill O'Shaughnessy.