As soon as I read the lead to his obituary in the Cumberland Times-News, I suspected Ted Troxell had written it himself, because it was concisely and perfectly stated and evoked a genuine sense of pride in some of us who are one in the same and who helped fight the good fight in this business right along by Ted’s side:
“Edward ‘Ted’ Troxell, 83,” the lead read, “passed away Tuesday, Nov. 17, 2020. Ted was a proud Cumberland native and a sportswriter by trade.”
Perfect. Beautiful. And Ted Troxell to the core.
God, how we loved Teddy Ballgame, or Ballgame, or Wheatley, or “T” Texas Troxell, or T.F. Troxell, or just Troxell, or Gene Wilder, or whatever it was the person talking to him had decided to call him that day. Ted had many names to answer to, you see, including “why Ted Troxell, you no-good red-headed son of a bitch,” which was coined by former Times-News switchboard operator, the great Lois Schaidt, on the occasion of her discovery that she had been the butt of a Ted Troxell prank, which, of course, included Ted using one of his famous imitations to get one over on Lois.
Ted, you see, could push the envelope sometimes (okay, he could piss you off), and Lois was the type of person who didn’t hesitate to express her honest and extreme displeasure with something and anybody whenever she had found she had been had.
I called Ted “Teddy Ballgame” and “T.F. Troxell” because he, like the great Jim Day, was a big Ted Williams fan. Ted himself shortened that to “Ballgame,” which is the way he always signed his birthday cards to me (oh, yes, always a card, and often a good book, from Ted on your birthday).
The great J. Suter Kegg called Ted “Wheatley” because, as I was told, it was Ted’s middle name. The great Roy Lester, when he coached football and taught at Allegany High School, where and when Ted was a student, called him “T” Texas Troxell in honor of the country singer of the time, “T” Texas Tyler, who was known as The Man with a Million Friends.
A lot of great ones have come through Cumberland and Ted knew them all, and was, in fact, one of them himself. He was Cumberland’s own Man with a Million Friends. He knew everybody and, for the most part, he loved them all. Or most of them. He was, after all, as Lois so astutely pointed out, a redhead, which is to say he could be temperamental, as some talented performers are apt to be. And make no mistake about it, Ted was a talent. And, oh yes, he was a performer. He was always on.
He was a precise reporter with the ability to flare it appropriately for the feature stories he loved to write about the people he met. Yet on deadline he was all business and gave you every detail in a concise, crisp style of matter-of-fact reporting. In fact, whenever Ted would overshoot an allotted newshole on deadline (as we all did), former sports editor Steve Luse always complained, “Troxell’s stories are impossible to cut (edit), because he puts in too many facts.” Meaning, in a not-meant-to-be-a-compliment way, there was no unnecessary fat or verbiage in Ted’s copy. He was too good of a reporter for that.
I met Ted on my first day at the Times-News in March of 1984 and he promptly called me Alex P. Keaton because, fresh in from the D.C. Metro area and still just 24 years of age, I had made the mistake of showing up for my first day wearing a power tie, Members Only jacket, pinstriped business shirt with the sleeves cuffed mid-forearm, carrying a briefcase. It wasn’t, I soon learned, the way to dress for work at the Times-News without having to hear about it all day and all night long.
The humor in the newsroom was real and it was free-flowing, and Ted Troxell, as one might expect, was one of its ringleaders. Yet Ted took his job and the responsibility of being a reporter very seriously, and he expected you to do the same as well.
He was the most intense typist I have ever seen. While Jim Day was a concert pianist on the keyboard and could make even a standard typewriter sing (particularly with a hangover), Ted was a hunt and peck typist and he virtually attacked his keyboard with his index fingers to the point that you could hear him slamming the keyboard of even a newfangled word processor as you walked up the 21 steps into Times-News editorial.
They were grand days to be a newspaper person. The place was so alive with two daily print editions to get on the street. You could cut the excitement in the air with a knife and then step away from it for the night over a case of beer that had been purchased across the street at the Galen Bar as we put the paper to bed for another day.
Ted Troxell helped make my love for being a reporter much stronger. He was a taskmaster and a mentor for me. He demanded I take my job, my responsibility and my talent (his word) seriously, yet he was always willing to let the good times roll with you once our task had been completed.
Ted’s temperament led to his having two stints at the newspaper, but he actually left his second go-round about a month earlier than he had planned to so it would create an opening on the staff for a youngster by the name of Mike Mathews, who had just graduated from James Madison University.
That is the kind of guy Ted was. He could get in your way sometimes because he had some thin skin, could be a close talker, and had the loudest and most obnoxious laugh that could be heard from city blocks away (known simply as the Troxell Laugh), but he was the consummate professional who helped make possible the 35-plus years Mathews and I spent having the time of our lives writing about sports for our hometown newspaper.
Teddy Ballgame was quite the talent – writer, newspaper reporter, magazine feature writer, broadcaster, stand-up comedian, master of ceremonies, stage actor, hospital public relations guy, sports book expert, tennis player, runner, traveler. He was a great friend and was like an older brother, who loved his friends, his hometown, his work, his life, his first wife Bonnie, who remained his best friend, his twin daughters Jane and Jean and his grandson Brendan with every fiber of his being.
And, brother, every fiber of that beautiful and robust being was always on bright wherever and whenever you saw Ted, or talked to Ted. Or heard him laugh.
Yes, a lot of greats have come through Cumberland, Maryland and Ted Troxell knew them all. Ted Troxell was one of those greats. He was a proud Cumberland native and a sportswriter by trade.
I shall miss him a great deal.
Mike Burke has been writing and covering sports since 1981. Write to him at [email protected], or [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter at @MikeBurkeMDT and @JackYdk. Listen to him, Matt Gilmore and Lydia Savramis on their “You Don’t Know Jack” podcast. Follow “You Don’t Know Jack” on Facebook as well.