Farewell to Glenn Dickey, a friend and feisty sports columnist

He could have disparaged a lesser San Francisco icon, such as the Golden Gate Bridge, but Glenn Dickey went after the man himself, Willie Mays. It was controversial, obviously courageous, and quite rewarding. 

That was back in the early 1970s. The sports columnist job had come open at the San Francisco Chronicle, where Glenn worked as a beat and feature writer, as did I, and he knew that by getting attention as he was able to do with that loaded topic, he had a good chance of landing that position. Which he did, and held it for more than 30 years. 

Dickey, who died last week, two months from his 90th birthday, had become as famous—or infamous if you choose—as any Bay Area journalist this side of Herb Caen. 

Maybe it was our weather or our approach to the world of fun and games, but San Francisco sports writers rarely got nasty in print, such as those in New York, Boston, or Philadelphia.

We had the reputation of being soft, kind, rather than harsh. 

For a few years, in the early 1960s, the Chronicle brought in a testy gentleman named Charles McCabe, labeled the “fearless spectator,” who didn’t like sports and liked Giants owner Horace Stoneham, even less.

Otherwise, stories about the Giants and 49ers, Cal and Stanford were basically devoid of opinion and, for the most part, emotion.

The Chronicle sports staff at the time could be described as veteran, with three exceptions: Dickey, a gentleman named Al Moss, and yours truly. We were in our thirties, occasionally spent days playing golf, and spent every evening working the desk, answering phones, writing headlines, and wondering what was in the future.  

Glenn and I became close enough friends. He asked me to be his best man at his wedding in 1967, which took place during a rainy Chinese New Year. It was a good omen. 

Al was the high school specialist, Glenn was selected to cover the Raiders, and I ended up as the golf writer. Great memories and good times. 

The years have flown by. It seems like yesterday, Glenn, Al, and I were looking for golf balls in the rough at Lincoln Park and chiding each other for our inability to perform like Ben Hogan or Arnold Palmer.

This story cannot avoid a personal reflection; this is a note to Nancy Dickey, Glenn’s wife of more than 55 years. She was always charming and helpful. 

What she thought of her husband’s feisty story about Willie Mays was for the rest of us never to know. She was proud of her husband’s work, as she should have been.

She’ll miss Glenn, as will so many others, including me. Farewell.