Meet Emmett Watson: A Reluctant Autobiography

May 28

The Seattle Post-Intelligencer | Front Page | Monday, January 30, 1950

Published in The Seattle Post-Intelligencer, January 30, 1950

Be the request for a synopsis of my life, up to and including this morning, the following is offered as a short summary, with almost no regrets.

As a small child, I was born hard by the Duwamish mud flats on November 22, 1918 and immediately struggled through a phase of diaperism into a stage known roughly as adolescence. My family has been of no help in compiling details of this latter stage, possibly because they want to forget the whole thing.

My school years were marked by a trail of broken and defeated English teachers and one high school principal who developed a nervous “tick” as the result of our association. The last I heard he was under the care of a psychiatrist. Prognosis: doubtful.

About 1934 I began an assault on professional baseball which fell somewhat short of beating Mickey Cochrane out of a job. My failure in baseball can be traced to two deep mysteries of the game—the fastball and the curve ball.

I stayed with the Seattle Rainiers long enough to learn the bunt-sign and drink two cups of coffee. Bill Skiff, the manager, released me in 1943.

“Kid,” he said, “you have a great future. Offhand, I cannot imagine where it might be, but I am sure you have a great future. Drop back and see us sometime.”

In the realm of higher education, I attended the University of Washington, taking such subjects as literature, psychology, history, anthropology, economics, sociology, philosophy and Bulgarian folk dancing. I flunked every physical education course I ever took.

I got into the newspaper business because of its lavish salaries. After a brief apprenticeship at the old Seattle Star, I was raised to a cool $28 a week. That kind of money doesn’t grow on bushes.

But enough of all this. The “I” key on this typewriter is getter over-worked.

Shake hands with a guy who is happy to be here.