The distance on a baseball diamond between the pitcher’s mound and homeplate is 60 feet, six inches. From that vantage point, the pitcher can determine the number of fingers displayed by the catcher for a fastball, curve ball, slider, etc. Ideally, the pitcher will then throw the ball within centimeters of his target. It is no big deal. Unless, of course, the pitcher misses the target and a batter sends the ball sailing over the fence.

Having cited this example of distance, I find it incredible that news reporters are whining about the U.S. Coast Guard and BP establishing restrictions that bar them from approaching within 60 feet of active cleanup operations and other activities related to the Gulf Coast oil spill.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/06/bp-media-clampdown-journa_n_636317.html

Maybe news organizations have assigned near-sighted news people to cover the catastrophe. Or legally blind reporters, who hope the damage can be traced in Braille. Or just maybe the people covering the oil spill need something to bitch about besides the unfolding disaster. Whining is, after all a characteristic of folks in the news business. Certainly, I did enough in 30 years as a reporter/muckraker.

In the past, much of my media bashing has focused on the timidity of the news media. I expressed dismay after learning that reporters obeyed unofficial orders issued by self-important underlings not to approach certain public areas. In my lifetime as journalist, I used an obscene two word phrase when jerks tried to block my access to areas that were clearly public. Not once was I arrested, although I would have welcomed the opportunity to be dragged away in handcuffs. Deep down, I had a yearning to be a journalism martyr. Indeed, in those rare instances when my name appeared in newspapers for taking up some cause, I played the duplicious role of outraged newsman while secretly smiling to myself as I clipped the articles from the papers to show colleagues. It made me feel important. 

Anyway, a restricted 60 foot perimeter seems reasonable, That is presuming that the rule is flexible. In our journalistic arrogance, those of us in the media have always believed that we are above rules and regulations established for lesser beings. As a result, unreasonable expectations on the part of journalists have often brought about tighter restrictions in covering news events.

My career overlapped court decisions that tightened laws dealing with trespassing. Admittedly, I was sometimes a violator of the privacy of people. Many of my early exposés involved gathering undercover video in restaurants, businesses and oher places.  Much of the invasive filming was in Miami where I was staked out in a snoop van painted the same colors as a Southern Bell telephone truck. But teh van camera only reached as far as the doorways of locations. As I write in Odyssey of a Dereilict Gunslinger (I have to plug the book), I bragged in a long ago TV Guide article about orchestrating an undercover filming expedition inside a Miami Beach restaurant to capture pictures of mobster Meyer Lansky meeting with associates.

Getting pictures inside was a problem since my face regularly appeared on Channel Seven. Worse, Lansky and I had several previous encounters. So we recruited a new member to the spy team. Mercifully, the young producer will remain nameless. No need to embarrass him at this late date. But he was terrified of being caught, tortured and killed.

After assuaging his fears, we convinced the producer to dress as a telephone repairman and undertake a mission to get snapshots with a miniature camera concealed in a cigarette pack. Technology had not yet developed tiny video cameras that can be hidden in lapels.

On the appointed day, our nervous spy got out of the van without being pushed. Although a non-smoker, he paused to light up outside the restaurant. In a greatly exaggerated motion, he inhaled deeply and began coughing to near collapse. My photographer and I laughed so hard in the spy van that I feared the movement of the vehicle would attract the attention of passers-by.

Catching his breath, our undercover snooper staggered inside and found a table as far away from other diners as possible. Naturally, Lansky and friends also wanted to sit far away from the crowd. As luck would have it, they chose a table adjacent to the producer. It’s a wonder he didn’t keel over with a coronary. But he sucked it up and snapped off a roll of black and white film. The photographs were important in establishing links between Lansky, a group of bookies and Miami public officials.

Although the pictures were a significant part of my story, video we shot outside the restuarant from our van was equally, if not more important. Prior to going inside, Lansky encountered and embraced a racetrack owner, who had publicly denied on many occasions knowing the so-called “wizard of organized crime.” In fact, he had provided the state racing commission with an affidavit denying he knew the mobster. Our video caught the two men engrossed in a long, animated conversation. It resulted in the racetrack owner having to relinquish his pari-mutuel wagering license.

The restaurant adventure—part of a Peabody-award winning series—was one of my last inside filming efforts. Not long afterwards, the courts made trespassing on private property scarier than defamation and libel lawsuits. So my unsolicited advice to reporters is to know what is public and what is private while covering the oil spill. And if somebody makes an unreasonable effort to block access to public areas, don’t whine about it. Use my two-word response.

We need a few journalism martyrs on the Gulf Coast.

My memoir, Odyssey of a Derelict Gunslinger, is available at amazon.com and independent bookstores. It offers much more than $19.99 worth of laughs. The book is an account of my illustrious (I choose the adjectives) career.