Editor’s note: The people referenced in this story politely requested that they not be publicly identified.
I was the high school sports editor at The Star-Ledger in the fall of 2001. I worked the night shift, going in at 6 p.m., overseeing the presentation of coverage of hundreds of games a day, working until at least 2 a.m.
I was still asleep when the first tower was hit on 9/11.
When our oldest son came home early from pre-school — on a morning when every school was suddenly closing — it was unclear what my workday would look like. There would be no games that day.
Then my boss called.
***
A good friend of mine at the paper couldn’t locate his wife, who worked at the World Trade Center complex. Like everything else that morning, no one knew what that meant. And with cell phones still in their infancy — and most service down anyway — he had no way to reach her.
I recall my boss saying something like this:
“He’s pacing around his house, going crazy because he hasn’t heard from (his wife),” he started. “Here’s what I need you to do today: Find a reason to call him every hour. And if it becomes necessary for you to go over there, go. Don’t think about what’s going on here. This is more important.”
The request didn’t surprise me. This was the same boss who once ordered me to go see one of our reporters in the hospital after they had emergency surgery.
“Most important thing you’ll do this month,” he said then.
And on this day, since the sports world was preparing to shut down, he had time to again think of others while the news department scrambled into action.
***
It was hard to find something to talk about other than, “Have you heard from your wife?”
But I did, dutifully calling my friend every hour or so.
It was early afternoon when my friend finally said he had heard from his wife — and heard about her experience.
She had made it to the World Trade Center and was on the foot bridge connecting both towers when the first plane struck. She made her way onto one of the unscheduled ferry rides that were bringing people back to New Jersey.
Once across the river, she took an NJ Transit train to a station close to her home. From there, she called her husband from a stranger’s cell phone that miraculously had service.
It was more than four hours after the attack.
***
I knew I had to go to the office.
But before I went, I made a contingency plan with my wife — the only time in my career I’ve ever done that. If the world blew up and we needed to evacuate, she would take our three kids to the parking garage next to the Crayola Factory, where we had just visited that weekend. I would meet her there … whenever it was possible to do so.
When I arrived at the office in Newark that afternoon, I learned two things:
1. We were putting out an afternoon edition for the first time in Star-Ledger history.
2. My boss had been pulled out of sports to organize it.
He didn’t mention that part when he called me that morning. Didn’t mention that he was stepping away from one of the most important days of his professional career out of concern for an employee who wasn’t even in our department.
***
I’ve spoken often about being in The Star-Ledger newsroom on 9/11. But the story always starts when I’m leaving my house to go in.
To me, that day will always be the apex of the paper’s significance in the state — and for those of us working there. It was also a watershed moment for our industry.
Like all of my colleagues in Newark, I went to work not knowing what the next hours would bring. (We had certainly heard the reports that the Prudential building, a few blocks from us, was on a list of targets.)
But there was a job to do. Not just in Newark and throughout the state, but also in New York City. The reporters and photographers were war-time correspondents that day, willingly racing into New York at a time when so many were trying to find their way out.
They had the respect of every editor in the building.
We put out that afternoon paper — selling it on street corners around the state. Everyone was willing to pay for news that day; many gave us tips as a “Thank you.”
It was during an era when The Star-Ledger was engrained in the fabric of New Jersey. There was a love affair. Sadly, those days are gone.
***
My friends hold that day very close; it impacts them to this day.
On the 20th anniversary, I asked them if they wanted to share this story. They declined, saying simply that the day isn’t about them, especially considering how many people lost loved ones or have had health issues since.
My boss shares their sentiment.
“Nothing about that day is about me,” he says.
He’s right. No one wants to be celebrated for their efforts on the darkest day in New Jersey history.
But there’s still an unmistakable truth: Everyone who lived through that day can recall simple acts of kindness. Acts that show there is good in times of unspeakable evil.
That’s worth remembering, too.
