A real Texas newsman

For my entire journalism career, Mike Cochran was the newsman I yearned to be.

So when the Fort Worth Chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists chose Cochran as this year’s recipient of its Open Doors Award, the keystone of its annual First Amendment Awards and Scholarship Banquet, I knew I had to be there.

When I entered the banquet hall at Arlington’s Sheraton Hotel, I immediately spotted Cochran, surrounded by old friends and other admirers. I hadn’t seen him in four decades, but he looked no different – well, perhaps a bit grayer and a tad more bent and worn, as befits a man of 81. But his eyes still twinkled and the humor with which he viewed the world was still keen and bright.

Cochran already was a legend when I arrived in the Journalism Department at North Texas State University in the fall of 1971.

By far the J-department’s most famous and accomplished graduate, Cochran had made his name covering the JFK assassination, the UT Tower shooting, the space program and for writing hundreds of other masterly crafted, brilliantly reported stories as the Associated Press’ top reporter in Texas.

He was the epitome of the charming, hard-drinking, charismatic reporter, as comfortable among a group of West Texas oil-field roughnecks as he was among the monied swells at Fort Worth’s Colonial Country Club.

He loved North Texas and maintained close connections with the J-department and chairman C.E. “Pop” Shuford, who he considered a mentor and friend. And because Cochran was mainly based in the AP’s Fort Worth bureau, NT J-students saw him regularly. Simply put, we adored him.

When I was hired by the Lubbock Avalanche Journal right out of college, I saw a lot of Cochran in the A-J newsroom and at newspaper parties around town. Whenever news people gathered to drink and carouse, Cochran was not far away.

I remember one party at a rundown apartment complex tucked away in an obscure Lubbock neighborhood. I had a helluva time finding the place and was a little worried about making my way home after a bellyful of beer.

At one point, a group of us were outside, catching a breath of dry, West Texas air, when around the corner appeared Cochran, his face aglow and his arms full of booze.

“I finally found you bastards,” he puffed as we pounded his back and welcomed him, literally, with open arms.

When I left hours later, he was still holding court, wreathed in smoke and surrounded by laughter, a drink in one hand and the other sweeping the air to illustrate yet another yarn.

I didn’t expect Cochran to remember me when I approached him last night in Arlington. After all, we had been passing acquaintances at best all those years ago.

When he didn’t, he hastened to explain.

“My memory is so bad that I need this badge just to remember my own name,” he said, fingering the paper label on his lapel.

I told him that he had been the paragon during my time at North Texas, and I said I had followed his career closely. “Whenever I came across a Mike Cochran byline,” I said, “I dropped everything and read it. I knew something good was coming, and I was never disappointed.”

Cochran, like many accomplished people I’ve met over the years, is a modest and self-effacing man. He was a little embarrassed by the praise.

“Well, if I was known for anything at the AP, I was famous for my expense accounts,” he said with a grin.

 Cochran retired from the AP in 1999 after a 39-year career in which he covered every major story in Texas, including all three of Fort Worth millionaire Cullen Davis’ murder trials. He wrote books and worked for a few years as a senior writer for the Fort Worth Star Telegram before finally hanging up his spurs in 2004 to enjoy a well-deserved retirement.

Earlier this year, he was inducted into the Texas Newspaper Foundation Hall of Fame. And about damned time, too.

Not surprisingly, the Kennedy assassination is the story that stands out sharpest during his long and illustrious career. Last night, he added a few juicy details to the incident that gained him a footnote in the history books – his role as a pallbearer at assassin Lee Harvey Oswald’s burial.

The funeral home had to ask reporters covering the stark ceremony to bear the casket because no one else wanted any part in toting the despised Oswald to his final resting place.

Famed Star-Telegram writer Jerry Flemmons had turned to his friend and said. “Well, Cochran, if we’re going cover this funeral, it looks like we’re going have to bury the sonuvabitch ourselves.”

Cochran had been reluctant. “I told them no,” he recalled. “Hell, no.”

But when his rival from United Press International offered to take his place, Cochran, an AP man to the core, reconsidered.

“I told them that I had changed my mind, and that I’d do it,” he said. “I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’m not stupid.”

In looking back over his career, Cochran recalled how it all began, during his final days at what was then known as North Texas State College.

In the spring of 1958, Cochran was weeks away from graduation when he was offered a job at an Oklahoma oil company making $150 a week, a lofty wage in 1958.

Overjoyed, he rushed to Pop Shuford’s office to deliver the good news.

“Pop, I’ve got a job!” he told his mentor. “I’m going to be a PR man making $150 a week!”

With a knowing smile, Shuford replied, “No, you’re not. I’ve got you a job at the Denton Record Chronicle. You begin next week. You’ll be making $1 a day until you graduate, and then you’ll get $90 a week.”

A flabbergasted Cochran said, “What? Why should I take a job making $90 a week, when I can go to Oklahoma and make $150?”

“Trust me,” Shuford said. “One day you’ll thank me.”

When Shuford died, Cochran asked permission to write a story about his famous teacher. He closed that story in the same way he ended his acceptance speech last night.

Cochran told the SPJ audience his journalism career had reaped benefits beyond his wildest expectations. He had met people, seen things and accomplished things he couldn’t have imagined as he stood crestfallen that day in Pop Shuford’s office. Looking back now, he could think of only one thing to add.

“Thanks, Pop.”