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It was thrillingly intimidating to become a news reporter in the era of Christie Blatchford.
I had never met her, back in 2002, when the National Post news desk assigned me, a callow intern, to go downtown to report on a murder trial, because the real reporter, Blatch, had another story to chase. The victim was one of the many children Christie never met in life, but for whose memory she fought on the printed page with an eloquent and loving fury. All of Toronto knew this was her story, but for just one day, it was mine.
All I knew about Blatchford was the newsroom gossip. It was terrifying. There was no tag-teaming on her murder trials. Her face was on the Saturday front page. People whispered she had a “no edit” clause in her contract. They joked, also in whispers, that there is no “I” in “team,” but there are two “I”s in “Christie.”
So there I was, a rookie subbing for a legend, doomed to mess it up somehow. All I hoped for was a quiet day of minor evidence before I could slip out unnoticed. But then the courtroom door opened and in came Blatch, not like she owned the place, just to quickly check in on her trial with a respectful nod to the bench and, once we met, a kind word of encouragement to me. Looking back, it feels like a blessing. Even in a murder trial, she put people at ease.