Albert Dickens Made Sports Staffs Go. And Brightened Lives

Longtime Chicago Sun-Times staffer, 82, was what newspapers are all about.

In yet another sign that this is the end of an era, Chicago newspapering lost a link to its marvelous past last week with the passing of Albert Dickens at 82.

Officially, Albert was an editorial assistant in the sports department at the Sun-Times and its sister paper, the Daily News, for 49-plus years.

The truth, though, is that Albert was the straw that stirred the drink. The executive officer, the glue guy. For all of us who were on the road, Albert took care of business. He handled our important phone calls, untangled our all-important expense accounts, checked in our stories. Took care of credentials, packages, you name it.

Sometimes the calls from Albert would be routine.

``Herb, Jim Delany is calling for you,’’ Albert would say when the Big Ten commissioner inadvertently returned my call to the Sun-Times office number instead of my home office.

Other times, a call from Albert was like Christmas morning. Once, after I wrote an op-ed column about beer, Jack Glunz, a local distributor, sent over a couple of cases—a case of fine European pilsners and a case of Schlitz. I did not know Mr. Glunz, but he evidently agreed with my call for giant breweries and micro-breweries to pay more attention to fine pilsners. The beer was accompanied by beer glasses, a beer pail. coasters and assorted beer trinkets.

Albert called, very excited. Like me, Albert appreciated beer. Fearing that as America turned to the right, it might reinstitute Prohibition, I had become a home brewer. (That wasn’t really the motivation, but it sounds better than merely liking beer enough to try and make it.) Albert was so appreciative when I would bring him a six-pack of my home brew.

I told Albert I couldn’t get to the office for a while.

``That’s OK,’’ Albert said. ``I’ve stored the beer in a safe place.’’

When I finally got to the office, he took me to a store room, removed a wall of boxes and pulled out the cache of beer.

``Do you like any of these beers?’’ I said.

``They all look good,’’ he said.

``Let’s have a draft. NFL style. Not Old Style,’’ I said.

So we divvied up the beer and the other stuff. I took the pail. He took the glasses. And so on.

It reminded me of back in the day, when I was on the copy desk. At Christmas, Irv Kupcinet would bring over vast numbers of top-shelf liquor, gifts that he couldn’t possibly drink himself. I don’t know what he drank. I don’t even know if he drank.

Do you know that slogan? If Binny’s doesn’t have it, it’s probably not worth drinking. The same would apply to the bottles Kup received as holiday gifts.

Those were the characters who populated newspaper offices in those days. Albert Dickens might have been anonymous to the outside world. But he was very much one of the people who made newspapers a gift to the world.

Albert Dickens was from Iowa. A man from Iowa who shared my love of downhill skiing. Who did a fishing getaway for two weeks every summer to a place he'd bought in South Dakota.  Not having the patience for fishing, I was impressed. 

Albert’s longtime partner, James Cubas, was an exceptional master tailor. Which partially explains why Albert always dressed exceptionally well. He always wore a coat and tie that fit him well. Colors were right. Everything matched.

He was like the opposite of a sportswriter in appearance.

Albert kept working at the paper until he had a stroke 14 months ago. He was his 80s. He didn’t write or edit. But he made writing and editing happen. He loved being a newspaperman.

When James Cubas died in 2016, we went to the visitation at a Northwest Side funeral home. Albert was so appreciative. Introduced Liz and I to everybody there. We talked about getting together. Never did. Lives got busy. I feel bad about that.

But I know Albert would understand. Albert was that kind of person. Most of all, he was a great friend, a reassuring voice. When you were in Winnipeg or Iowa City and there was an office coup or a mysterious resignation or a fist fight, and you needed to know office-gossip details, Albert was your man.

He always had a great sense of humor. He and the late Eddie Gold, a writer/editor best known for his trivia column and sports-memorabilia shop, put on what amounted to a show in the office.

``Hey, Albert,’’ Eddie would say. ``Gimme two pronouns.’’

``Who? Me?’’ Albert would answer.

They had so many routines. There was a really good one about shouting ``Fire!’’ in a crowded theater. I wish I could remember them.

In the ‘70s, my friend and former colleague Brian Hewitt was waiting for a call from Charlton Heston, who had agreed to do an interview in connection with a tennis tournament that would be held in Chicago.

As part of his duties, Albert answered the sports phones. On that day, he came over to Brian chuckling. ``Some guy who said he was Charlton Heston just called for you. Don’t worry. I got rid of him.’’

When Brian explained that that really was Charlton Heston, Albert was crestfallen. Profusely apologetic. Hewitt got a hold of his contact, though, and finally did his interview with Mr. Heston, who got a good laugh out of the incident.

Albert did, too. Eventually.

``I hung up on Moses,’’ he would say.

Rest in peace, Albert. God bless you.

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If you like sports history with an extra bit of drama, please check out my 1908 Cubs novel, The Run Don’t Count. Excerpts and other information at facebook/therundontcount. It’s available in paperback and Kindle at Amazon.com.