RODGER BAILLIE somehow managed to pull off the well-nigh impossible accomplishment of being liked by everyone in the often brutal, treacherous world of sports reporting in newspapers.
Editorial floors were once likened to “a bear pit” by my former Daily Record ally Anna Smith, the journal’s intrepid chief news reporter at the time and now award-winning author of unsurpassable crime novels.
My one-time team-mate could have added “a nest of vipers”.
It was never easy to solicit a compliment from your peers or the opposition in the days when there was a cut-throat – and often ruthlessly unethical – battle at the newsstands.
Duplicity in the inky trade appeared to be encouraged by those less talented, the unfortunate individuals consumed with envy to the extent backstabbing became an art form.
You had to be extraordinary to rise above the daily squabble.
Rodger Baillie was extraordinary.
His editorial bosses cherished him, colleagues adored him, rivals grudgingly admired him, the football fraternity revered him. And everyone respected him.
Clearly, Rodger was a one-off, a genuine good guy whose utter professionalism was an inspiration to many.
It’s embedded in my memory bank the first time I met this wonderful chap. Rodger, one of the most dapper of the booted-and-suited brigade, approached me and introduced himself.
There was no need, I was already well aware of his sports editor status at the Sunday Mirror, the publication housed in the imposing, red sandstone fortress of Kemsley House at 67 Hope Street in Glasgow. The multi-storeyed building was home to other Mirror Group journals such as the Daily Record, Sunday Mail and Daily Mirror.
Jack Adams, the head honcho at the Record, effected the introduction after pointing Rodger in my direction.
“How would you like to take care of the Sunday Mirror sports desk on a Saturday?” asked Rodger, without preamble.
He explained the duties I would be required to undertake. He would be out of the office every Saturday on his matchday travels and he needed someone to look after the desk to make sure the newspaper didn’t miss a breaking story elsewhere.
With the confidence of youth, I accepted the post.
A MAN OF HIS WORD…Rodger Baillie with the instruments of his trade over the many years. Image courtesy The Scottish Sun.
That meeting took place in July 1968 with a new football season about to make its debut. The previous year, I had left school at the age of fifteen without a solitary qualification.
Through some hard work and a lot of good fortune, I had somehow got onto the Record sports desk as a sub-editor a week or so before my sixteenth birthday. I was a fully paid-up member of the National Union of Journalists – and I’ve got the Lifetime Membership scroll to prove it.
It was only recently I learned Rodger had also left school at fifteen in 1955 to take a copy boy post at the now-defunct Glasgow Evening Times before crossing the city to take a similar role at the Record. From there, he launched his sportswriting career that was to enthral us all and inform so many readers.
Back in the halcyon days of the summer of 1968, with flower power in full bloom in San Francisco, there were no such things as mobile phones or computers allowing instant access to information from every corner of the universe. Rodger could have been in Aberdeen, he might as well have been on Jupiter.
I would receive a call from a press box somewhere in the country around 2.30pm on Saturday with Rodger checking in.
My shift started at 10am. Rodger would alert me to what may have been happening elsewhere and to keep a particular watch on a situation which may develop as the day wore on.
I recollect we did not haggle over a fee for my undertakings. I was paid the handsome sum of one guinea (£1 and one shilling in old money, £1.5pence today). A veritable fortune to someone who had started work as the Daily Record’s dogsbody for £4 per week (£3.50p after tax!) on May 22 1967.
From that introduction until last month, I was blessed to be able to call this fine human being a friend.
Where to start with Rodger’s achievements on the literary front? He covered Scotland in the World Cup Finals of 1974 in West Germany, 1978 Argentina, 1982 Spain, 1986 Mexico and 1990 Italy.
Rodger was the only journalist invited into the dressing room in the immediate aftermath of Celtic making history by becoming the first British club to win the European Cup when they defeated Inter Milan 2-1 in Lisbon on May 25 1967.
To balance that, he was given exclusive access to Rangers when they lifted the Cup-Winners’ Cup by beating Moscow Dynamo 3-2 in Barcelona five years later.
As well as a landslide of back-page exclusives, he was also the author of over twenty titles of ‘Playing For Celtic’, a must-have Christmas annual for the followers of the Hoops.
Fortunately, we became full-time colleagues at the Daily Record for a while when he left the Sunday Mirror in the eighties before moving to the Scottish Sun in the mid-nineties as chief sports writer until his retirement in 2005.
Actually, Rodger never retired. His love of football and passion for his profession never waned. He continued to work as a freelancer, writing colourful pieces for the Sunday Times, News of the World and The Sun.
He filed his final match report at the age of 80.
At long last, Rodger had time to spend a Saturday afternoon with wife Rosemary, with whom he was blessed with daughter Louise and sons Andrew and Michael. Unsurprisingly, all three went into journalism.
In later years, the family moved from Newton Mearns to Fenwick and I caught up with him at some point last year. I had been informed Rodger had suffered a health scare and, after a decent amount of time, I put in a call.
I could just imagine that cherubic schoolboy smile that never deserted his youthful features. He reassured me there was nothing to get concerned about.
I told him I would phone him at another time to arrange a lunch. He said that would be ideal.
Alas, that meeting never took place. He passed away at the age of 84 on August 26. My wife Gerda, who also had the privilege of working alongside Rodger, and I attended a final farewell to a much-loved gentleman at Mearns Kirk on Monday.
It goes without saying the place was packed. There were a lot of smiles among the eulogies for a remarkable person, may he rest in peace.
Until we meet again, old chum, please remember, the first one’s on me.
