A certain junior high reporter takes a risk
and lands the scoop of a lifetime.
“It isn’t enough to be a good writer,” Clarence Sligar
routinely told his third period journalism class of 8th and 9th
graders. “A top notch reporter must also be determined, persistent and curious.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Sligar didn’t mention getting a story
sometimes required nerve. The willingness to take chances. And spunk.
Those lessons would be learned February 13, 1964.
For weeks we’d heard the Fab Four would be coming to Miami to
appear on the Ed Sullivan Show. And
for weeks, the Miami Springs Junior High newspaper staff was buzzing with ideas
about how and where to try for an interview. With limited transportation
options, the nearby airport seemed our best chance.
Exuding confidence and pride, Mr. Sligar went to the
principal to ask that his team be allowed to leave school early that day. The
plan was set: as star reporter, it would be my task to engage the Beatles in an
interview when they arrived at Miami International.
Armed with permission slips from our parents and a
construction paper PRESS badge, our school photographer Kenny and I set out on
assignment. After a classmate’s Mom dropped us off at the airport terminal, we
wove our way through groups of hapless passengers, throngs of reporters and
over 7,000 fans.
Twenty minutes of inspired maneuvers delivered us through the
swollen queues of Beatle admirers at the end of a carpeted corridor. A frazzled
guard at the VIP gate glanced curiously at the PRESS badges pinned to our
shirts, then unhooked the chain for us to pass. In the distance a logjam of
frustrated teenagers hissed and booed as we left the concourse.
The cover of the Beatle interview issue |
Mercifully, a man with a foghorn announced that National
Airlines flight #11 from New York had landed.
To confirm the arrival, my companion and I navigated crab-like through
the crowd. Within minutes, the Beatle’s jet was less than fifty yards from
where we stood.
Ordinary passengers deplaned to the hoots and cheers of the
massive welcoming committee. To prolong the agony, several unknowns paused at
the top of the steps to wave and throw kisses. Someone emerged in a Carnaby
Street suit and pageboy wig. The restless crowd was not fooled or amused.
At last a moptop appeared in the doorway sending the entire
concourse reeling with delirium. The
throng lunged forward as the four Beatles descended the silver stairway. Police
meshed arm-in-arm and shoved back. Girls on the roof screeched and fell to their
knees in ecstasy. Behind us the first of more than twelve windows and doors
shattered.
Beatlemania had
arrived.
The principal's office fielded calls for interviews with me |
A straggling Beatle pulled his legs into the car and slammed
the door. I was too late. Tears of fear and disappointment pricked the backs of
my eyes. The police I’d just outrun were
now only steps away.
In despair, I grabbed the door handle and knocked furiously
on the glass. Suddenly, the window slid down. Eyeing my PRESS badge, John
Lennon leaned over and banished my pursuers with a wave of his hand.
The police stepped away as I pulled out my list of
questions. “How do you like
America?” I promptly forgot the answer
then stumbled over my next inquiry. John answered patiently; Paul and Ringo
jumped in with silly remarks and giggles. It was difficult to determine who was
having the most memorable experience.
On cue, the limousine started to move and I trotted along
still clutching the door handle. Before long, police barricades crumbled and
the limo pulled away. John blew me a kiss. The window slid shut. The interview
was over.
An Australian art gallery featured the Beatles in the US. Imagine! |
Years later it occurred to me that I couldn’t bear the thought
of facing my beloved journalism teacher empty-handed.
Back on the tarmac, a group of admirers surrounded me and
asked for my autograph. At thirteen, I’d hit the big time.
When the limousine was nothing more than a speck on the
horizon, fans and reporters wandered away. Turning to take one last look, I
whispered John I love you.
I hope he heard me.