Meeting my childhood hero at last

Ever so often, life gives you magic.

That’s what happened to me when I met an important childhood hero.

Reg Murphy, one of the most esteemed newspaper men of the last half century, grew up in my hometown of Gainesville. Dreaming of being a journalist one day, I avidly followed his career. At the impressive age of 34, he became the editor of the influential Atlanta Constitution. Importantly, he had been the protege of the legendary editor Ralph McGill, who nurtured Murphy to become his successor.

When hoodlums kidnapped him in 1974 and held him for a king’s ransom of $700,000, I, just a kid, was riveted to the news reports. The ransom was paid and Murphy was found safe in the trunk of the car. I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t want anything happening to my hero.

To my sadness, Murphy left Atlanta for the top job at the San Francisco Examiner. Still, I continued to follow his career as he became publisher and CEO of the Baltimore Sun, president of the United States Golf Association and then president and CEO of the prestigious National Geographic. He was an inspiration to me.

I reasoned that if he could find such journalistic success coming from my small hometown, I could find it, too. In Mrs. Lovett’s seventh grade composition class, I wrote an essay on the person I most wanted to meet – Reg Murphy.

I got an A on the paper but never got the chance to meet him.

All kids have heroes. Some are athletes, astronauts, rock stars or presidents. For me, tellingly, it was a writer and journalist. See, from the age of 6, I knew I wanted to chase the stories and the adventures that went with them. So, of course, my childhood inspiration was an esteemed newsman.

Then I got what author and former Good Morning, America producer Squire Rushnell calls a “God wink,” otherwise known as a divine coincidence.

Before speaking at a luncheon on St. Simons Island, I was waiting at a side door for a friend when a lovely woman came in. A compliment from me on her hair – hair is part of the essence of Southern womanhood – began a casual conversation.

“I love your column,” she said. “My husband and I both enjoy it so much.”

Then the woman named Diana commented, “My husband is from your hometown.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Reg Murphy.”

My eyes bugged out. My mouth dropped. I was speechless. Diana now says that she didn’t know what to think of the look on my face. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “My hero, Reg Murphy? He reads my column?”

It couldn’t be.

I blinked and cleared my throat. “Reg Murphy as in Atlanta-Constitution-Got-Kidnapped-National-Geographic-Reg-Murphy?”

She smiled. “That’s right.”

Thanks to Diana, I got to meet my childhood hero and now I call the man who inspired me as a child to follow the newspaper business something more than a hero.

I call him a friend.

Sometimes life is just plain magical.