A Hole In My Sunday

Every Sunday morning, come hell or high water, I watch Meet the Press. It's a ritual for me, along with my coffee and cereal. Doesn't matter if I've partied like a rock star the night before, doesn't matter if I'm hung over, doesn't matter if my houseguest or sleep-over friend is bored by politics. We're watching Meet the Press. It's like a vitamin. It gets my week started right.

For the past 17 years, MTP was hosted by Tim Russert, a proud Irish Catholic from Buffalo, New York who, before beginning a career in journalism, served as Chief of Staff to former New York Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan and worked for former New York Governor Mario Cuomo. Russert had this big, bulbous head -- it looked like a potato on steroids -- and these happy blue eyes that got squinty when he questioned his guests. And his guests ran the gamut of political bigwigs: Hillary Clinton, John McCain, Barack Obama, John Edwards, George Bush, Bill Clinton, Dick Cheney, and every Senator you can think of. His favorite tactic -- and a favorite of mine to watch -- was to cross-examine his guests like a prosecutor, get their answer, and then show them 10 newsclips or videoclips of them saying the exact opposite. And they'd hem and they'd haw and have to explain the inconsistency with their typical bullshit spin. It was beautiful.

I also liked Russert because he wasn't all business. He was a huge sports fan and shamelessly used a few seconds of national television each week to give a shout out to his favorite teams. Rare was the broadcast that he didn't end with a silly rah rah to the Buffalo Bills, Buffalo Sabres, or Boston College Eagles. All objectivity and seriousness went out the window and in came his partisan self. How many of us would like to have that kind of forum to stick it to opposing fans? Finally, I admired that Tim was a family man who took fatherhood seriously. A few years ago he wrote an autobiography, Big Russ and Me, which he dedicated to his father. He wrote another book called Wisdom of Our Fathers, which collected letters from people who wrote to him in response to his previous book.

On Friday (the 13th), while taping voice overs for today's Meet the Press, Russert collapsed in the studio and died of a heart attack. It's eerie and yet fitting that this happened just after Russert returned from a vacation celebrating the graduation of his son, Luke, from Boston College, and that he died two days before Father's Day.

A few weeks ago, I was watching MTP and thought to myself "Damn, this guy is really young. He's going to be doing this for a long time. He might even go down as one of the great journalists of our time." Well, I was wrong about the first thought, but I think I'll be right about the second. What was remarkable about Tim Russert was how fair and well-liked he was across the political spectrum, notwithstanding his Democratic background and his tough questions. Tributes came from President Bush and even Rush Limbaugh, who's no softee when it comes to Democrats. It really is a shocking loss. He was only 58.

Russert's death has me, once again, pondering the brevity of life and the randomness of death. How is it that an old coot like John McLaughlin, who must be 126 years old by now (I swear the man's a vampire, God bless him) can live to a ripe old age and a vibrant and active man like Tim Russert can't make it to 60 years old? Genetics, DNA, health, eating habits, call it whatever you want. But I think we all signed a contract with term limits before we were born. One that will not be exceeded, no matter how many V-8s we drink or how many visits to the gym we make. Of course, maybe the fact that we eat garbage and sit on our ass all day and have genetic predispositions to certain diseases helps ensure that we'll fulfill our part of the contract. Who knows?

What I do know is, if you've got something you want to do, something you want to say to someone, do it now. You may never get the chance otherwise. And there's a hole in my Sunday. Meet the Press goes on, but it won't ever be the same.