There was a going-away party for a writer who was leaving the Dodgers beat and moving to a paper in another part of the state. The tables were arranged in a U formation, the departing writer sat at the outside base of the U and others were sitting around, inside and outside of the U. There was plenty of alcohol. The "program" included some roast-style speeches and Mort had some phony telegrams to read. He came around behind the guest of honor and climbed up onto the back of his chair, being supported by guys on either side. After a couple of minutes, Mort decided to try to jump over the table into the middle of the U. He came up short, and his foot crashed into a glass, jamming it into the back of the departing writer's wrist. He was taken to the emergency hospital. He also had to begin his new job at another paper with a huge cast on his arm and being unable to write.
Another time, a few of us were having dinner on the patio of a restaurant in the Mount Adams district in Cincinnati. Mort lit up a cigarette. I said, "Mort, what the hell are you doing? You don't ****ing smoke." So he threw the lit cigarette at me. No harm done, this time.
Like I said above, he cleaned up his act and found religion. He was excellent at his job.
During wilder times, Mort and Bob Cox, another fantastic NFL beat writer from the Daily Breeze, shared an apartment in Redondo Beach that was party central. Cox died 3 months ago.
RIP, Mort ... and Coxie.