O'Donnell: Another Bob Frisk staple was the 'Imaginary Door' memo

THE EARLY MORNINGS belonged to Bob Frisk.

It was the only part of his workday when he could be assured of reasonable degrees of solitude and focus.

During the decades when The Daily Herald was headquartered in its classic building at 217 West Campbell in downtown Arlington Heights, that was his time.

His "think" time.

Not long after he joined Paddock Publications in 1958, he had a corner desk on the second floor.

Then it was a nooked desk on the east side of the first floor.

And finally, a corner desk on the other side of the first floor.

Every morning between Monday and Thursday, he'd arrive no later than roughly 7 a.m.

If - against all odds - a sports colleague was already in place, it was understood:

Opening exchanges were to be brief.

That was because of the predictable torrent of staff, phone calls and assorted incoming that would begin to bombard the man no later than 8:30 a.m.

Interruptions like the call from the father who felt his son had been shorted 7 yards rushing vs. Glenbard North the Saturday before.

The mail room person who had just gone to a Cubs game.

The media poltroon who was waiting on a phone call from Dick Enberg - or Dick Gonski.

Eventually, it tested the patience of even a gentleman like "B.F."

So, circa 1983, he issued his "Imaginary Door Memo" to sports staff.

It happened when he had the desk in the nook.

The quotes won't be verbatim, but it went something like:

"Please understand --- I thoroughly enjoy getting to talk with each and every one of you.

"I enjoy listening to your updates. I revel in your successes. I appreciate the story ideas you generate!!!

"But with our ever-expanding responsibilities as a full-service daily, my work days are also much more intense.

"I simply don't have enough time every day to talk to everyone who stops by my desk.

"So, unless I've asked you to come by, or there is an extremely pressing matter that must be discussed, can we please imagine that a door exists around my corner of the department?"

Keith Reinhard - the flanneled baffler who Frisk loved like a brother - immediately dubbed it, "'B.F.'s I.D. (Imaginary Door) Memo.'"

The sports media ace waited a respectful week or two until he broke that early-morning cone of silence one day, looked over toward the solitary Frisk and said:

"You know B.F., the 'I.D. Memo' could've sparked a great episode of 'Newhart.' "

Frisk, to his everlasting credit, covered his lips with a softened right fist and chuckled, his cheeks rising and reddening.

His point had been made.

THE SOFTNESS OF HIS STERNNESS was so typical of the extraordinary man's grace and manner.

His core was of a different era, of a time when media civility prevailed and the thirst for new knowledges could never be quenched.

He lived the life he wanted.

He was blessed with a family he cherished.

He hired so many of the people he wanted, and in some cases, was better to them than they were to themselves.

He made "local focus" big-league.

He was a star in his own happy orbit.

His only unfulfilled hope, particularly after the sports department bounded from six people to more than 20, was that everyone get along.

His respect and affinity for the Paddock family was deep and enduring.

He embraced and enhanced the visionary expansion of such lauded professionals as Dan Baumann and Doug Ray.

For 50 years, he wrote with a fairness and feel worthy of a Chip Hilton novel.

His calling cards were a genius for friendship and an unshakable belief in the value of positive experience through high school sports.

As a journalist, with his talent, intellect and passion, he could have played at any level he wanted.

MANY DEADLINES AGO, an acolyte left the Daily Herald amid a maze of complexities.

A few months later, that rogue sat in a walnut conference room in midtown Manhattan, alone with Frank Deford, arguably the greatest American sports writer of the 20th century.

Deford had major financing to begin The National, the sports daily that was intended to revolutionize the way games were covered in America.

He was steadily calling in startup troops from the Chicago and Los Angeles bureaus to allow them to "feel the new culture."

His roster was filled with talent and pedigrees that skewed toward the Ivy League and publications like Sports Illustrated, Esquire and even Playboy.

The rakish Deford sat in brief, casual conversations with each of the new field hands.

To The Daily Herald alum, he opened by saying:

"You've got some good stuff. You must have really enjoyed your time at that regional."

In a blink, from 900 miles away, the spirit of Bob Frisk was in the room at 15 West 52nd St.

"Frank," the recruit replied, "If you could chat with the fellow I worked for, even for only 10 minutes, you'd understand why.

"You would thoroughly ... understand ... why."

• Jim O'Donnell's Sports & Media column appears Thursday and Sunday. Reach him at jimodonnelldh@yahoo.com.