The Phoenix Index

Gosh, What a Storm!
By ROBERT M. RATCLIFFE
A STORM BLEW through the Atlanta Daily WORLD this week-end. It is an annual occasion. It comes in a great huff, almost blowing the building apart for ten or twelve weeks, and then fades out with very little ceremony.
It doesn't sneak upon anybody. It gives fair warning.
First warning always comes from the sports department.
When the sports ed. goes down town and buys a new traveling bag and starts writing letters to various colleges, notifying college officials of his desire to drop around and witness homecoming games, you then know the annual storm is en route.
Another warning is when the men and women of the other departments of the paper start yelling for passes to the outstanding games of the year.
It is an annual headache for members of the editorial department-and the lady on the switchboard. They suffer most.
The editorial boys are ready this year. They've already bought a supply of aspirin tablets and other "soothers" for this annual windstorm.
One of the ladies of the switchboard drinks on the average of six "cokes" an hour and eats up a box of aspirins during the three hours she sits at the desk Saturday afternoons telling football-hungry fans who won and who lost.
And after 9 p. m., the switchboard ladies are gone, and all the outside calls come to the news desk. And they keep coming in until about 1 a. m. That's when the editors start sweating and cussing. But, it's all in the job. The public comes first, always.
The sports editor, the man who should be in the office to weather most of the storm, is usually out of town somewhere in North Carolina or Louisiana. He's there on a good mission. He's reporting the big game for the paper, which is something of a task. But after his story is on the wire, he enjoys himself. And you can't blame him for that or, can you?
Well, the storm is here. The phones were jumping off their hooks Saturday. Crowds poured in to glimpse the scoreboard and argue. Editors scratched their heads and puffed tobacco smoke toward the ceiling, wishing for a quiet moment in which to do a little work. The poor switchboard girl, in her sweetest voice, talked back into the telephone. Wires poured in from the news service, announcing results of games. There were pictures to be developed and cuts made.
And that deadline to make.
But, the storm blows through only once during the year.
And it usually comes at a time when things are dull around the office. So, I guess we can live through it another football season. Good ole football.