RIP Matt McHale

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During my formative years in this business, when my angst and self-doubt were never far behind, Matt always made me feel worthy. I clung to that for a long time. Class act, that guy.
 
Obviously I didn't know the gentleman but by the posts here and on the other thread, was highly respected in the biz.

RIP.
 
RamonaShelburne said:
Thought you all might enjoy this:

http://www.insidesocal.com/tomhoffarth/archives/2008/07/my-friend-matty.html
Click to expand...

Thanks for this, Ramona.

Leave it to the underrated Hoffarth to distill Matt's legacy to its essence.
 
Here are details for funeral of Matt McHale

Visiting Hours on Thursday, July 17th
6 p.m. to 8 p.m.

Magner Funeral Home
12 Mott Avenue
Norwalk, CT 06850
www.magnerfuneralhome.com
203-866-5553

Service, Friday, July 18th
10 a.m.
St. Jerome’s Catholic Church
23 Half Mile Rd.
Norwalk, CT 06851
203-847-5349

Cards can be sent to

Arianne McHale
15 Wakerobin Road
Norwalk CT, 06851

If you are coming from out of town, and have questions, or need transportation, please email Scott Newman at [email protected] or call at 732-501-8805.
 
I arrived at the OCR long after Matt had moved to the Daily News, yet seeing him regularly at Kings games and sometimes at Dodger games, allowed us to become friends. I never heard him utter a negative remark about anybody and admired his gentle and friendly demeanor.

Thanks for your friendship, Matt.
 
I will miss the guy who showed me where Eagle Rock was, and who laughed at me when I once offered to carry his godawfully heavy shoulder bag.

Matt was on staff at the Star-News when I took over as sports editor in 1987. I'd taken the job sight-unseen, moving from Rochester, N.Y., and never having set foot in L.A./Pasadena. He couldn't believe anybody would move cross-country based on a phone interview and offered to take me to lunch. He gently gave me the lay of the land. Wish I'd listened better.

He was getting out of his car to come into the office one evening and fumbling with his shoulder bag and some loose press guides in the front seat. "Lemme carry that bag," I said, and he shot me that sideways glance and crooked smile that I'll always remember. One of the best you-gotta-be-sh*ttin'-me looks in history. Classic.
 
Thanks, everyone, for the nice words.
We all loved Matt and I want everyone to know how much he loved all of you.
Truly.
Matt and I met at the Star News in the early-1980s, when the paper was trying to produce the ALL SPORTS daily. If anything good came out of that experience, it was the special friendship between Matt and myself, a friendship that only grew stronger, despite the miles between us.
I saw a lot of me in Matt when we met -- the tail of his shirt hanging out, the three-day growth, and the wheels in his head always spinning.
He tagged along to Lakers games and invited me to Dodgers games. I even got him out to see a couple of soccer games. He wasn't just a guest in our home, he became part of the family, embracing our two ballet dancers and soccer-playing son.
At my going away from the Daily News in 2002, Matt presented me with two gifts -- a Vin Scully autographed baseball and an NHL all-star jersey he said he got from Peter Forsberg. The jersey, he said, was for my wife, who is Swedish.
When we said our goodbyes, Matt was crying, but he and I had cried before, quite a few times because we shared some of the same sensitivities. Heck, we even over leads one of us would write.
When he went his way and I went mine, we always stayed in contact. A phone message here, an e-mail there, a little note. Nothing could keep us apart, and nothing will keep us apart, even now.
Matt was one of very few people I would allow to call me Michael. He liked the name. I never called him Matty or Matthew ... just Matt.
We shared a few stories during that good bye and a few days later he sent me another note. Today, I took out that note, and dozens of others, and noticed they all ended the same way, "Love, Matt."
Love you, Matt.

Mike Morrow
[email protected]
 
I know I'm late writing this, but Matt was used to me being late, he waited for me in enough press boxes during our several years together on the Dodger beat, playfully giving me crap, but always complimenting the effort, the most wonderful traveling partner in my career.

Everyone who has read this thread for the last three days knows about Matt as as an incredible sensitive, brilliantly thoughtful journalist. They know about Matt as a modern-day Oscar Madison, careening through life with one hand firmly on the pulse of whatever beat he covered, and the other hand patting his back pocket in search of his wallet. You know how a writer occasionally looks or dresses like the athletes in the sport he or she covers? Matt looked like the FIELDS he covered, bits of litter here, a little dust there, drama coming out his rolled-up sleeves, surprises falling from his untucked shirt, a special beauty and wonder in all of it, a living, breathing community treasure.

One story that defines him for me. Matt was the best pure story journalist that I've ever met, he could think angles and figure out perspective better than anyone, and I was so proud the day that I was finally able to hep him obtain an interview with the L.A. Times for a job as one of our sports story editors.

Typical of Matt, he aced the interview, you couldn't help but love and respect him immediately, and he was quickly offered the job, his dream position.

But, also typical of Matt, he turned it down, saying that he had to spend more time back east taking care of his ailing father.

In my ambitious stupidity, I was stunned. I remember saying, Matty, what if you never get another chance at this job? Matt said, Billy, what if I never get another chance to take care of my father??

Matt McHale was more than my friend and colleague, he was my teacher, and his legacy will live in lots of us forever.

Bill Plaschke
 
Bill: That's a wonderful, heartfelt post. Thanks for sharing.

RIP, Matt...
 
Bill Plaschke said:
I know I'm late writing this, but Matt was used to me being late, he waited for me in enough press boxes during our several years together on the Dodger beat, playfully giving me crap, but always complimenting the effort, the most wonderful traveling partner in my career.

Everyone who has read this thread for the last three days knows about Matt as as an incredible sensitive, brilliantly thoughtful journalist. They know about Matt as a modern-day Oscar Madison, careening through life with one hand firmly on the pulse of whatever beat he covered, and the other hand patting his back pocket in search of his wallet. You know how a writer occasionally looks or dresses like the athletes in the sport he or she covers? Matt looked like the FIELDS he covered, bits of litter here, a little dust there, drama coming out his rolled-up sleeves, surprises falling from his untucked shirt, a special beauty and wonder in all of it, a living, breathing community treasure.

One story that defines him for me. Matt was the best pure story journalist that I've ever met, he could think angles and figure out perspective better than anyone, and I was so proud the day that I was finally able to hep him obtain an interview with the L.A. Times for a job as one of our sports story editors.

Typical of Matt, he aced the interview, you couldn't help but love and respect him immediately, and he was quickly offered the job, his dream position.

But, also typical of Matt, he turned it down, saying that he had to spend more time back east taking care of his ailing father.

In my ambitious stupidity, I was stunned. I remember saying, Matty, what if you never get another chance at this job? Matt said, Billy, what if I never get another chance to take care of my father??

Matt McHale was more than my friend and colleague, he was my teacher, and his legacy will live in lots of us forever.

Bill Plaschke
Click to expand...

*******, that's a helluva line. "Looked like the FIELDS he covered." That just cracked me up and made me cry, simultaneously.

Thanks for sharing, Bill.
 
There's nothing I can add to all the nice things said about Matt except to say that every one of them was true. I'm so sad to hear this news. Matt served as my telephone shrink a number of times in recent years. No matter how often or rarely you spoke with him, you always felt like he was one of your best friends. If only the world had more people like him ...
 
I wasn't able to make it to Connecticut, but got word from a friend of Matt's that the plan for his funeral today was for the pall bearers to release a shirt tail as they walk Matt to the grave. Then, instead of flowers on the casket...baseball cards.
 
I only worked with Matt on one story, yet I type this with tears in my eyes.

Last August, I wrote a freelance story for the DN that Matt took a personal stake in. It started as a solid, 25-30 inch feature about a U.S. soldier who dropped soccer balls from his helicopter to Afghani children. Matt, and Gene Warnick, took it and ran with it. Turned it into a 100-inch feature and worked with me through the entire process.

Here I am, standing at McCarran Airport for my first big job interview, and I get a call from Matt.
"Jon, we had our budget meeting today, and city is all over it. They want it for A-1."
I'm jumping up and down at the airport, pumping my fist, causing a scene, expecting Matt to have some bitterness over the story being plucked from sports. I didn't know Matt. I should've given him more credit.
I could hear him smiling through the phone. He seemed genuinely happy, and proud, that the story would get such play. For me. A 23-year-old kid who'd never worked a day for him before.
The story ended up great, because of his help. I'd never attempted such a big effort , but he and Gene made me believe I could do it.

I wish I could've worked with him more. Seen that passion for sports. Felt that love of journalism.

Heard that smile.
 
Apologies for the lateness of this note, but I was looking for something and finally found it. I met Matt 25 years ago in Pasadena and was blown away by how much he wanted to be part of the business. Matt had been doing jobs like moving furniture outside New York, but as he later wrote, “For someone raised on Dylan Thomas and Phil Rizzuto, life had to be more.”

He moved to Southern California, where he was eventually working the agate page in Pasadena and doing the occasional short story. He was hungry for more and always wanted candid feedback on his writing. After putting the paper to bed we’d go over his stories line by line, word by word, and he took a class at one of the local schools, always trying to get better. It’s no surprise that he became such a mentor to so many. Matt treasured people and writing.

Growing up he’d developed a huge admiration for Red Smith, and he was always telling his dad he wanted to write Red a note saying how much he enjoyed his columns. Matt recalled walking in one day, and his dad looked up and said, “You know that letter you wanted to send to Red Smith?”

“Yeah?” Matt said

“Too late,” his dad said before telling him of Red’s passing.

That might have been the prod Matt needed to get going. The Star-News also produced All Sports (nice idea, bad business plan), and when it died in 1983, Matt had a piece in the final edition. He started by quoting William Hazlitt (“To be young is to be immortal”), then added his twist: “The English essayist couldn’t go to his left, but his words left an apt description of the sporting life.” It was fun reading that piece again. “All Sports allowed you to be good and allowed you to be bad,” Matt wrote. “Most of all, it allowed you to get better.”

Not long ago, a mutual friend arranged a dinner for the next time we would all be in the area, but we never got the opportunity. Just another reminder that when it comes to people who are important to you, don’t wait.
 
Mike: Another wonderful story. Thanks for sharing.

Damn, I wish I had had the pleasure...
 
another poster on another thread that the eulogy from matt mchale's funeral would be a nice addition to the matt mchale thread -- so here it is >>>




I don’t frighten easily.
When I was an investigative television producer, and messed with judges, police, or a councilman, I got a few death threats.
Never bothered me.
I don’t worry about dying, losing a job, or the IRS.
What I’m doing now, though, I’ll admit, scares the bleep out of me.
I now have to take a few minutes, and utter some words that’ll somehow capture the essence of what Matt McHale meant to me, my family, his friends here in Connecticut, and back in California, and to this world.
I’ve tossed and turned, and sweated a lot, for the past few days. Thousands of stories ran around in my brain. Then I wore out the delete key on my computer … much like the many nights I spent with Matt watching him sweat over every word he banged out.

And then somehow … as I was driving Wednesday with my youngest daughter, Alex, on the way out to breakfast -- Alex did it for me

She had spent some time on the Internet the night before, looking over her mom’s shoulder at all the stories about Matt and she just blurted out …

Dad, Bianca’s Godfather Matt, was a pretty famous guy, wasn’t he? Yes, I said.
Man, he was lucky, she said. I mean, it was a shame he went in so little years, like 50 … but what a great life he had … he’s very lucky.

I stopped for a moment, it sounded like a line from the Sopranos--Matt, Bianca’s godfather, was a pretty famous guy, wasn’t he?

Matt never wanted to be -- and always will be -- a pretty famous guy.

There’s no doubt that he’s the only guy in history, who dressed worse than Oscar Madison, last drove a 1991 Acura with 400,000 miles on it … the car of the year -- even though that was 17 years ago

and ended up with four full different obits, and 50 tributes -- on the World Wide Web.

I’ll never forget Matt’s last few hours ... There’s no doubt that God, or at least, Bud Selig, for the one of few times in history, had a plan …

I got a call from his girlfriend Beth, at my office in New York, who told me Matt had another heart attack … I raced out of my office on to Lexington Avenue to catch a train from Grand Central

As I walked out into a city of 9 million people, I kept passing many of Matt’s closest friends, baseball writers Jon Heyman, Danny Knobler, Jerry Crasnick

It just so happened that the All Star Game was in town, and many of those guys were walking down Lex to catch the bus to Yankee Stadium -- as I strolled by -- I told them, Matt had another heart attack -- they winced

Just before the train was about to leave, I got the news from Sal, his closest friend -- Matt was dead. I got off, and walked around Grand Central Station, in a daze, and passed the Oyster Bar--one of Matt’s favorite places--and the site of our last lunch

A few hours later, I googled Matt on my blackberry -- the articles and e-mails were already up

My friend Matty
Sportswriter with Golden Heart leaves too soon
Oscar Madison in the flesh
Good Guy Goes Too Soon

I’m thinking -- Not bad for a guy who was so bad with computers -- he struggled just to log in

And even if god gives him a laptop -- my biggest fear -- is that Matt won’t be able to read any of his accolades -- because, there’s no doubt, he’s lost the piece of paper with his password

As anyone who came across Matt, soon found out, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t lose, misplace, or forget -- didn’t matter whether it was his drivers license, boarding pass, or his unique telephone contact list, a 20-page printout -- accompanied by some other numbers scribbled on scraps of paper, napkins with gravy or spaghetti sauce stains, or restaurant placemats

There wasn’t an event he couldn’t be late for, … an anniversary, wedding, game, or a flight. Two hours late, three hours … didn’t matter

Forgive me, but I believe today, is the first time I’ve seen Matt on-time. His pallbearers, here in the church, have produced a modern-day miracle

And for those of who came across Matt’s finances, I don’t think there’s a late fee that he hasn’t paid -- every time you turned around, his phone was turned off, or his electricity was shut off. He could have wallpapered his apartment 10 times over with late notices.

He never seemed to pay anything on time. He was always scurrying to the bank to wire money, to someone, to some company. I’d have to ask Sal or Beth but I believe he spent more money on wiring fees than all the illegals in Connecticut.

And it drove us mad -- let me see, his best friend Sal, is a financial adviser, I’m a so-called expert in personal finance, and his dear girlfriend, Beth, is a CPA.

But when Matt left us, he had no 401k, bills he hadn’t paid since the 1970’s, and was paying $5 a day to store -- a 1980 Volkswagen -- that hadn’t moved since the Carter administration.

He drove us all mad. Missed doctor appointments. Ignoring his diabetes. High blood pressure. Weight problems. Giving money to others when he didn’t have any.

But even with all of this, there wasn’t a person who came across Matt, that didn’t love him, revere him, or have an all-out cry when he passed. It’s hard to believe he’s gone …

For the past 20 years, he was part brother, part father, part shrink and the best friend a guy could ever have.

He was more of a character than Colombo--as much a saint as Mother Theresa, and as selfless as any soldier taking a bullet to protect his platoon.

In an era where people seem to care more about corian than character, Matt was a throwback, in life, and in his job, someone who took the time to listen to everyone, and cared more about others than himself.

While I was one of the few to know how sick and strapped he was during his last few years, even before he got back home -- Matt never once complained, got bitter, or focused on himself

Then again, he never thought of himself.

I’ll never forget the last real conversation I had with him-he had gone into the hospital in Connecticut, and called to let me know that he had to go on dialysis. So, I asked for how long? He said. ``The rest of my life, I think, but it’s not that bad.’’ A few months earlier, my wife and I had lent him some money. ``But don’t you worry, I’ll get you a check out soon.’’

I said, Matt, are you nuts? We don’t care about that.

I do, he said, ``that’s important to me.’’

We never talked again--the heart attack and stroke taking too much out of him--so I never had the chance to tell him, how much I loved him, cherished him, or that I just wanted to help him.

I met Matt in 1988 as a baseball writer covering the Los Angeles Dodgers. Matt loved baseball and the business like no other person I’ve seen. He followed sportswriters, like Yankees and Mets fans follow their favorite teams.

He knew the writers tendencies better than anyone--who was breaking stories, who wrote better, and who had more information. He was a great storyteller, and one of the best pure writers, and idea generators, on baseball.

His writing and insight in 1988 when the Dodgers won the World Series was perhaps the best year of baseball writing I’ve ever seen.

He was respected as anyone on the beat because he knew the game, and treated everyone the same, whether they cleaned the locker room or led the team in home runs or ERA.

But for me, he’ll be best remembered for his work with younger journalists. Unlike Matt, who loved being a baseball writer--to me, it was just like another job--a way to make a living--however I have a gift for reporting and getting information.

Matt knew that, and he took advantage of it--to help others. He’d often call me late at night, and say the same thing--Scotty, I know you never liked our game, but I need your help with …

Little did I know how many people Matt helped. While famous people such as former Dodgers general manager Fred Claire, and Angels manager Mike Scioscia poured their hearts out in Matt’s obituary, more important to me, and Matt, too, were the tens of reporters and editors who mentioned Matt as their mentor.

In putting this together I had my fill of tears--however I’m going to admit that I have mixed emotions.

Matt took a buyout from his job in Los Angeles and returned home to Connecticut, where he probably would have been on permanent disability

He was so sick, with the diabetes, foot problems, eyesight, even before he suffered the stroke and the heart attack, that his close friend Mark Langill and I often worried what kind of life Matt would have --

The print newspaper world, the world he loved, is dying -- and many of Matt’s friends have lost or will lose their jobs--and be forced into another line of work …

Going through that, would be far worse for Matt, than the diabetes, heart attacks or strokes.

That’s why I told my daughter Alex, that half of me wished he had lived longer--but the other half of me said he’s in a better place now.

But I do know that if you or I have half the heart or touch half of the people that Matt did, during his time--there’s no doubt our lives--like Matt’s--would be an unabashed success.

Thank you, and I thank God for giving Matt enough time to be a friend, a mentor, a mensch, and an inspiration to everyone.

May he be late, disheveled, and a pillar of the community -- and if they charge anything to get into heaven -- here’s hoping they’ll let Matt call Sal to wire him the money.
 
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