The Star-Ledger stops the presses
FIRST PERSON

The Star-Ledger stops the presses

What its closing means to our correspondent — who worked there nearly 40 years

The Star-Ledger nightside staff circa 2002 in its newest newsroom, the third since Jon Lazarus joined the paper in 1967. Silver-haired Jon is in the back row, the second full face from the right.
The Star-Ledger nightside staff circa 2002 in its newest newsroom, the third since Jon Lazarus joined the paper in 1967. Silver-haired Jon is in the back row, the second full face from the right.

I was saddened but not surprised when I learned recently that the Star-Ledger, New Jersey’s largest and most influential newspaper for decades, was folding its print edition in February.

Saddened because I plied my craft as an editor in its newsroom for nearly 40 years, but not surprised because all the symptoms and warning signs had been evident for some time. Yet The Star-Ledger is not an isolated case but only the latest casualty in the economic and cultural siege confronting the once-thriving newspaper industry nationwide.

And the irony is that I didn’t learn of the Ledger’s fate by reading its front page, but rather through emails from former colleagues and a piece in the New York Times that I scanned on my smartphone at the gym. In the end, I — a faithful newspaper reader for most of my 82 years — had crossed the digital divide with millions of others and now buy the “hard” copy of The Star-Ledger only on Sundays, at $5 an issue. And not for much longer.

Closings, consolidations, and downsizing of newspapers, magazines, and periodicals — daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly — all items you held in your hand, flipped through, or creased in half — are occurring at alarming speed. According to the State of Local News report by Northwestern University, 3,200 print newspapers have vanished in the last 20 years and more are expected to disappear at the rate of two a week.

The rise and dominance of social media and leaps in technology and AI upended what Johannes Guttenberg launched in the 15th century with movable type and Benjamin Franklin brought to fruition in the 18th through the penny press and the post office, allowing mass dissemination of newspapers, periodicals, and partisan pamphleteering.

Delivering information and molding opinion continued basically unchanged for generations. Pre-Boomers like me grew up watching parents and grandparents faithfully pore over publications that best suited their political leanings, entertainment preferences, favorite sports teams, or thirst for precinct-level reporting. And they could choose from tabloids or broadsheets written in English, Yiddish, Italian — whatever their immigrant language.

Television’s dramatic postwar arrival ushered in the beginning of the newspaper disconnect, and the ascendance of GenZ has only hastened the process. Yes, that means my grandchildren. They’ve rarely experienced the tactile sensation of holding a paper, smudging their fingers with ink, folding or flipping pages, or propping sections against a cereal box. They are bright college grads, engaged, and informed, deriving the bulk of their information from electronic media.

When a newspaper dies, even if its digital version survives, as will The Star-Ledger’s, the loss falls heavily on older subscribers, many of whom aren’t computer savvy, don’t own a smartphone or iPad, or won’t attempt the transition. They seem consigned to what my former colleague Guy Sterling calls a perpetual news desert.

The Star-Ledger’s decision actually reverberates well beyond a single paper. Parent company New Jersey Advance Media also is ending production of the Times of Trenton, the South Jersey Times, the Easton Express-Times and the Hunterdon County Democrat, since all were printed at the Star-Ledger plant in Montville.

Assistant metropolitan editors Lenny Fisher, left, and Rick Everett work the phones in the Star-Ledger newsroom in the late 1980s. Metropolitan editor Chick Harrison is in the background.

An additional casualty is the Jersey Journal, also printed in Montville, which will fold after 156 years. Cutbacks and buyouts had reduced its editorial staff to nine. Now, densely populated, hyperpolitical Hudson County faces the prospect of being without a scrappy municipal watchdog as it approaches a critical series of mayoral and municipal elections in the new year.

Of course, none of this depressing reality was on my radar when I confidently arrived for a job interview in October 1967 with The Star-Ledger’s editor, Mort Pye, about an opening on the copy desk. The term legendary is bandied about a lot in newsrooms, but Mort qualified for the adjective in every respect.

Creative, quirky, indefatigable, truly sui generis, and, most importantly, possessing a vision and mission for the paper, Mort was in the midst of a staff expansion and especially liked to lure talent from the rival Newark News, where I worked and which was considered the state’s paper of record at the time while the Ledger had a reputation for crime, sports, and fluffier fare.

The reality, however, was quite different. The News lived off past laurels, a PM sheet often delivered after TV reported market closings, staunchly Republican in a Democratic state, and saddled with an outdated physical plant. I toiled there first as a bureau reporter in Elizabeth and then as a copy editor at the Old Gray Lady’s Market Street headquarters. One forever memory is that of moving copy on the Newark riots as they raged outside.

For some time I sensed the paper’s best days were behind it, and it proved good sensing on my part. The News at that point trailed the Ledger in circulation and advertising and would fold five years later, in 1972. Ironically enough, it was printed on Star-Ledger presses during its final throes.

I made an appointment to see Mort, and since Newark remained one of the few competing newspaper towns, I walked over from the News to the new Ledger building on University Avenue. After chatting briefly, Mort hired me on a handshake and promised that I would receive a raise after three months if I passed a probationary period.

It would be my third job since graduating from Rutgers with a journalism degree in 1964 (fourth if you count being a sports stringer for the West Orange Chronicle during high school). Following college, I was hired by the Record of Hackensack and honed my cub reporting chops until I left for active duty with the Army Reserves. After six months, I briefly returned to the paper before shifting to the News for several years and then the Ledger. My plan was to build a resume and try out for the New York Times. (I eventually did, but failed to make the cut)

Instead, I remained at the Ledger for nearly 40 years and was fortunate enough to enjoy and contribute to its most productive era, first as a copy editor, then as copy desk chief, and finally as news editor and night managing editor. The success and acceptance of the paper, the trust it enjoyed with readers, and my personal advancement were the happy result of Mort Pye’s decisive and often unconventional leadership.

(Forgive me if I’m waxing too nostalgic and letting the mists of memory cloud the harsh and sometimes cynical realities of getting out a daily newspaper. Yes, as an impressionable teen, I was influenced by the brash 1930s newspaper movies. But, romanticism aside, I always regarded the business as my proper calling and a noble vocation.)

Mort Pye was the guiding force and conscience behind The Star-Ledger.

Mort believed The Star-Ledger’s mission was to redefine and elevate the identity (or brand, as they like to say today) of New Jersey. Until then, the state had been treated and portrayed as a hinterland and stepchild by the dailies in New York and Philadelphia, notorious for oil refineries, brusque residents, unhinged motorists, political corruption, and Mafia jokes.

Mort went all in with this philosophy, and it was stamped on everything from our front-page credo — “The Newspaper for New Jersey” — to the opening of bureaus throughout the rapidly developing northern, central, and western parts of the state. Inside the newsroom, the region was referred to with pride as Ledgerland. Our coverage provided subscribers with a deep daily dive from their house to the courthouse to the statehouse and everything in between.

Readers overwhelmingly embraced Mort’s approach. Daily circulation peaked at nearly 500,000 in the 1980s while Sunday readership soared past 700,000, with the Ledger consistently ranking 12th or 13th on the list of the nation’s 20 largest dailies. At its height, the paper delivered seven zoned versions every day, splitting Essex editions into urban/suburban subsets.

The staff paid considerable attention to State House activities. Mort often doubled the Trenton bureau’s staff of six reporters and a photographer during legislative sessions. Coverage of the Senate and Assembly and governor’s office ran to the encyclopedic. Bills were monitored not just for their immediate impact, but for later development as investigative pieces.

Reporters tracked and wrote about significant legislation as it made its way from committee to the Assembly and Senate floor and on to the governor for signature, revision, or veto. For years, I edited and designed our Action in Trenton section, which often ran from four to six pages twice a week and contained more information than the reader needed. But it also served as a meta-record of what made New Jersey function or what required fixing.

Politicians both feared and respected the paper’s scrutiny of their deeds or misdeeds in a state that had an abundance of both and still does. An endorsement from The Star-Ledger carried considerable weight during campaign season, and its blessing could be decisive in putting over a pol’s pet project. A steady stream of officials and candidates made the pilgrimage to the newsroom, hoping to impress the editorial board.

Mort initiated or expanded beats covering courts at all levels, the legal profession, environmental protection, education, and cultural activities. The bylines of reporters Herb Jaffe, Gordon Bishop, Robert Braun, and Kathy Barret Carter became household names. And the Ledger played pivotal roles in bringing the Giants from New York to the Meadowlands, getting NJPAC built in downtown Newark, and pushing through the long-delayed completion of Route 280, which wags dubbed the “Pyeway.”

Complex issues such as thorough and efficient school funding, no-fault insurance, and right-to-die protections were presented to the readership with context and clarity. Mort upgraded the financial and features sections to reflect the state’s preeminent status as both a pharmaceutical leader and growing presence in the pop and cultural worlds, with emphasis on emerging African American and Latino arts.

The Star-Ledger also assigned two reporters to the Newhouse News Service in Washington. Their stories, originating in Congress, the White House, or governmental agencies, focused on decisions or legislation that would impact the state. Short of war, nothing trumped the Jersey angle. This may have seemed a bit provincial, but it proved to be creative provincialism.

The Star-Ledger night staff in 1982 during their last evening in the old newsroom before moving to larger quarters. News editor Jon Lazarus, with striped sleeves and black-and-silver hair and beard, sits at the desk in the foreground. Colleagues include, from left, Rob O’Connor, Frank Franzonia, Rick Everett, Dick Merelo, Mitch Seidel and Bill Hering. John Bunevich sits in the copy desk slot. Steve Herz, Jon Jurich, Mike Flynn, former Jewish Standard/New Jersey Jewish News proofreader Charlie Zusman z’l, and Walter Dorney are in the background.

And the paper’s sports section grew even more robust as hockey, basketball, and soccer teams chose New Jersey for their home turf. Columnist Jerry Izenberg and Yankees beat reporter Moss Klein developed legions of fans. High school and emerging women’s sports received blanket coverage. Extensive box scores and agate left no statistics unlisted. Deadlines were routinely adjusted to accommodate critical games.

When Mort retired in 1995 due to declining health, a chunk of the newspaper’s DNA went with him. No longer would I receive the nightly telephone calls after the bulldog (first) edition had been rushed to his house in South Orange for inspection. He might want to change a headline, reposition a story, or ask for insertion of a six-point rule to create more white space. Only once in all the years I worked with him did he pronounce himself completely satisfied with the product.

And when he left, so did much of the family feeling that had lifted and bonded the newsroom and the bureaus he created. Mort’s paternalistic streak was nowhere more evident than during holiday season when he handed out bonus envelopes to more than 200 editorial staffers, telling each one in his high-pitched voice that they were “doing a helluva job,” or “thanks for helping make it a great year,” and meaning it.

I soldiered on for the next decade under a new leadership team and witnessed the paper go through a final staffing binge. Besides being dismissive of Ledger culture, many of these hires were from out of state and unfamiliar with the folkways and byways of New Jersey. A larger newsroom was built (it even had a test kitchen), and while the product improved its design, graphics, and writing, and won two Pulitzer Prizes in the process, it surrendered much of its unique character and spirit as “The Newspaper for New Jersey.” Our motto would eventually disappear from Page 1.

The 1990s also saw the beginnings of a vertiginous drop in retail and classified advertising at the Ledger and other papers, along with the migration of readers to digital. Management introduced a series of draconian cost-saving measures, but the trends were irreversible. Buyouts began to be offered in earnest, and I took mine in 2006, just shy of turning 64.

When I joined the Ledger in 1967, the block-long press room boasted new state-of-the-art equipment. The presses rolled nightly at 11:35, preceded by the blare of alarms and the rumble of giant R. Hoe rotary units working up to speed, which reached 72,000 papers an hour at maximum. The building would vibrate, producing both a wonderful sensation and a sense of satisfaction. All our efforts were now on their way to the public, with a few typos sprinkled in to keep readers on their toes.

Circulation and advertising growth during the Pye era spurred the opening of a second printing plant in Piscataway, and then a third in Montville, which replaced the Newark operation’s by-then outdated equipment. When the economic landscape continued to deteriorate, the Piscataway plant closed. And in just weeks, Montville’s high-speed color offset presses will go silent.

No virtual online version of the Star-Ledger can replace what will be lost And, yes, I will take it personally.

Jonathan E. Lazarus of West Orange continues his post-Star-Ledger journalism pursuits as a copy editor for the Jewish Standard and New Jersey Jewish News.

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