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By Bob Dyer
Beacon Journal columnist
POSTED: 07:56 p.m. EDT, Mar 29, 2009
I was livid.
It was a Saturday night, and all of my friends were partying on the other side of campus.
I had thought I was only a minute or two from joining them. But now my stupid boss was telling me I had to perform yet another task, a task I was sure could wait until Monday.
After graduating the previous year, I was an intern in the public-relations office at the College of Wooster, earning the princely sum of $4,000 for nine months of hard work. I was nearly fed up. It was morning, noon and night, weekdays and weekends.
I took photos and wrote stories about students and professors for campus publications, for students' hometown newspapers and for the local paper, the Wooster Daily Record.
Sports coverage was a big part of it, not only writing stories but also putting together media guides and game programs and keeping statistics.
My boss was the aptly named Ernie Infield.
Ernie died Saturday at the age of 89. He was a good man, and I will miss him.
Ernie Infield was a workaholic and a perfectionist at a time in my life when I was anything but. Not too many years after I escaped his clutches, I realized he was anything but a ''stupid'' boss. He was exactly what I needed at that time. He cared about me as a person. And nobody — before or since — taught me more about the craft of writing.
Ernest S. Infield didn't even have a college degree, but he could write circles around English professors. And unlike a lot of bosses responsible for cleaning up the work of inexperienced writers, he didn't just fix things; he sat you down and told you what he was fixing and why.
A track meet was a ''dual'' meet, not a ''duel'' meet — unless the coaches had introduced some type of high-stakes event of which he was unaware.
Someone scored ''more than'' 1,000 points in his basketball career, not ''over'' 1,000 points.
Try not to start a sentence with, ''There were . . . '' because that lifeless phrase makes the eyes glaze over. Give it some action, some drive.
To the college kids who worked under him, Ernie seemed more than a bit eccentric. He had a flat-top haircut and a military bearing when the popularity of both were at an all-time low. His passions were bird hunting and collecting baseball memorabilia.
And although his writing was technically superb, it could be incredibly corny, especially when he was coming up with walk-off lines for his ''Ramblin' Round the Infield'' column, a Daily Record fixture that began before I was born and continued long after I left town.
Ernie knew he was corny. In fact, he was proud of it. What counted, to him, was that his words were memorable.
Ernie's tutoring went far beyond writing. His primary mission, in retrospect, was teaching his charges how to function in the world of work.
He told us to shave every day, to dress decently and to show up on time.
He told us never to paper-clip something important to something else; always use a stapler, because stapled items are far less likely to become separated. He said he learned that lesson the hard way during his days as a successful sales manager, a career he left when a major heart attack signaled him to slow down.
Most of all, the taskmaster attempted to imbue young derelicts like me with a strong work ethic.
''If you're coasting,'' he was fond of saying, ''you're going downhill.''
Ernie Infield never coasted. He never took short cuts. And because of that, literally scores of young people who came through his office were less inclined to, either.
He was a lifelong organizer and innovator. As a Marine in the Pacific during World War II, he formed a regimental baseball league and wound up playing with and against such big-leaguers as Joe DiMaggio, Joe Gordon and Schoolboy Rowe.
Back home in Wayne County, he helped create an independent basketball league and start a local Hot Stove League
Arriving at the college in 1968, he formed a basketball booster group called the Downtown Rebounders, pulling together town and gown during an era when a lot of towns and a lot of gowns were at each other's throats.
He kept innovating long after his 1977 retirement, creating the Hank Critchfield Award, which he personally presented each year to the best defensive football player in the North Coast Athletic Conference. He named it after a 1927 Wooster graduate who founded a high-profile law firm.
Ernie knew all of the big shots, both in and out of sports. He was networking long before the term was coined, and his tentacles ran all over town and often far beyond.
Those connections helped his students land jobs in any number of fields. And when they did, they were prepared.
But Ernie . . . I mean really. Did you die on a Saturday just so I'd have to write this on a Sunday?
Aw, that's OK. I probably needed a refresher course.
Thank you, Ernie. Thanks for caring enough to make me mad.
Bob Dyer can be reached at 330-996-3580 or bdyer@thebeaconjournal.com.
I was livid.
It was a Saturday night, and all of my friends were partying on the other side of campus.
I had thought I was only a minute or two from joining them. But now my stupid boss was telling me I had to perform yet another task, a task I was sure could wait until Monday.
After graduating the previous year, I was an intern in the public-relations office at the College of Wooster, earning the princely sum of $4,000 for nine months of hard work. I was nearly fed up. It was morning, noon and night, weekdays and weekends.
I took photos and wrote stories about students and professors for campus publications, for students' hometown newspapers and for the local paper, the Wooster Daily Record.
Sports coverage was a big part of it, not only writing stories but also putting together media guides and game programs and keeping statistics.
My boss was the aptly named Ernie Infield.
Ernie died Saturday at the age of 89. He was a good man, and I will miss him.
Ernie Infield was a workaholic and a perfectionist at a time in my life when I was anything but. Not too many years after I escaped his clutches, I realized he was anything but a ''stupid'' boss. He was exactly what I needed at that time. He cared about me as a person. And nobody — before or since — taught me more about the craft of writing.
Ernest S. Infield didn't even have a college degree, but he could write circles around English professors. And unlike a lot of bosses responsible for cleaning up the work of inexperienced writers, he didn't just fix things; he sat you down and told you what he was fixing and why.
A track meet was a ''dual'' meet, not a ''duel'' meet — unless the coaches had introduced some type of high-stakes event of which he was unaware.
Someone scored ''more than'' 1,000 points in his basketball career, not ''over'' 1,000 points.
Try not to start a sentence with, ''There were . . . '' because that lifeless phrase makes the eyes glaze over. Give it some action, some drive.
To the college kids who worked under him, Ernie seemed more than a bit eccentric. He had a flat-top haircut and a military bearing when the popularity of both were at an all-time low. His passions were bird hunting and collecting baseball memorabilia.
And although his writing was technically superb, it could be incredibly corny, especially when he was coming up with walk-off lines for his ''Ramblin' Round the Infield'' column, a Daily Record fixture that began before I was born and continued long after I left town.
Ernie knew he was corny. In fact, he was proud of it. What counted, to him, was that his words were memorable.
Ernie's tutoring went far beyond writing. His primary mission, in retrospect, was teaching his charges how to function in the world of work.
He told us to shave every day, to dress decently and to show up on time.
He told us never to paper-clip something important to something else; always use a stapler, because stapled items are far less likely to become separated. He said he learned that lesson the hard way during his days as a successful sales manager, a career he left when a major heart attack signaled him to slow down.
Most of all, the taskmaster attempted to imbue young derelicts like me with a strong work ethic.
''If you're coasting,'' he was fond of saying, ''you're going downhill.''
Ernie Infield never coasted. He never took short cuts. And because of that, literally scores of young people who came through his office were less inclined to, either.
He was a lifelong organizer and innovator. As a Marine in the Pacific during World War II, he formed a regimental baseball league and wound up playing with and against such big-leaguers as Joe DiMaggio, Joe Gordon and Schoolboy Rowe.
Back home in Wayne County, he helped create an independent basketball league and start a local Hot Stove League
Arriving at the college in 1968, he formed a basketball booster group called the Downtown Rebounders, pulling together town and gown during an era when a lot of towns and a lot of gowns were at each other's throats.
He kept innovating long after his 1977 retirement, creating the Hank Critchfield Award, which he personally presented each year to the best defensive football player in the North Coast Athletic Conference. He named it after a 1927 Wooster graduate who founded a high-profile law firm.
Ernie knew all of the big shots, both in and out of sports. He was networking long before the term was coined, and his tentacles ran all over town and often far beyond.
Those connections helped his students land jobs in any number of fields. And when they did, they were prepared.
But Ernie . . . I mean really. Did you die on a Saturday just so I'd have to write this on a Sunday?
Aw, that's OK. I probably needed a refresher course.
Thank you, Ernie. Thanks for caring enough to make me mad.
Bob Dyer can be reached at 330-996-3580 or bdyer@thebeaconjournal.com.
Comments
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Posted 09:33 PM, 03/29/2009
Really a great column. The lost art of details and correct writing and having a mentor care about you. Great life lessons and nice ending. Let's put out a big -30- for Ernie.
Posted 07:13 AM, 03/30/2009
@Dyer - Great column!
However... reading this: And although his writing was technically superb, it could be incredibly corny, especially when he was coming up with walk-off lines for his ''Ramblin' Round the Infield'' column, a Daily Record fixture that began before I was born and continued long after I left town. Made me realize where the Dyer Streets column originates... another column that can be incredibly corny
Akron, , OH
Posted 07:58 AM, 03/30/2009
Hopefully Dyer can pass the torch with the same respect and commitment that Ernie (without the degree) embraced you with.
Tip the hat to Ernie and his student!!
Akron, Oh
Posted 08:20 AM, 03/30/2009
Ernie created a tremendous legacy & obviously had a positive impact.
I believe that each of us has had such a mentor a some point in out lives & if we would take what that mentor taught us & "pay it forward" others could be positively impacted.
Well done Ernie & well done Bob! And yeah Bob, he probably did die on Saturday evening on purpose & he's laughing @ you right now.
Akron, OH
Posted 11:22 AM, 03/30/2009
A very nice epitaph Dyer.
Akron, OH
Posted 12:00 PM, 03/30/2009
Mose Hole would be proud, Bobble.
Whatever happened to Major Hoople's pigskin predictions?
Cleveland, oh
Posted 03:50 PM, 03/31/2009
Thank you Mr. Dyer for the nice article on Ernie Infield. Mr. Infield was a wonderful man who gave of himself without expectation of return. As a four year member of the College of Wooster baseball in the '80s I have so many fond memories of Mr. Infield and his tireless support of our team and all of its members. Mr. Infield was eccentric and the master of the corny one liners. While exasperating at times, those traits only insured further edearment from all that knew him. Rest in peace Ernie. Your legacy at the College of Wooster will never pass.
