Thousands of Bylines to His Name, and One That’s Not

It was the day after Christmas in 1991, and as a young journalist, I received quite a gift: my first byline in The New York Times.

There was one — and only one — downside: They misspelled my name.

I use “they” because as I leave The Times’s Sports desk this month to become a full-time author, I still don’t know who got it wrong or how the mix-up happened. That is because I never asked for a correction. At 26, I had just fulfilled a childhood dream and was new in the freelance reporting rotation. Rightly or wrongly, I had no desire to make waves or do anything other than write more Times articles.

Thirty-two years later, the mishap seems, above all, amusing. There was no changing the misspelling, anyway. There was no online version to fix; The Times did not launch its website until 1996. There was no way to update a page after it printed. Had The Times published a correction, it would not have changed the fact that my surname was spelled “Clary” instead of “Clarey” in the Dec. 26, 1991, newspaper.

The error, I should note, did not stop my proud parents from sending copies of the article to a fair share of their Christmas card list. Though I remember feeling a certain sense of disappointment — akin to getting an indelible smudge on a pair of shoes, fresh out of the box — I also saw the incident as a reminder that nobody was perfect in my chosen profession. Certainly not me, and not even The Times.

It will humble you, this business, and that is surely a good thing. Today, the scoop might be yours, but tomorrow, it will be your competitor’s. Stop hustling for long, and you will pay the price. Start relying on memory instead of double-checking the facts, and you will soon screw up.

There were many nights when I was startled out of sleep by my subconscious, which had somehow registered that a fact was wrong in an article I had filed a few hours earlier; that Roger Federer actually won his first Wimbledon in 2003, not 2002. (Maybe I did not ask for a correction that December, but I’ve had my own share of corrections over the years.)

Yet however flawed we, and journalism, may be, this churning, round-the-clock quest to get things right remains a worthy endeavor, especially when a powerful person does not want us to look into those things.

It can also be, if you’ll allow me a moment of complete candor, a hell of a lot of fun.

In 1991, I took a big chance: I left a solid staff job at The San Diego Union and moved to Paris to marry a Frenchwoman. I had very little in the bank, no matter the exchange rate, and spoke the kind of French that only an American mother could love.

My hope was to write about international sports. There were a few what-have-we-done moments as I searched for freelance work, but it was above all a heady time. We were in love and starting anew; I was conjugating verbs and riding my bike around Paris, rolling by the Eiffel Tower and, in an age without quite so many rules, riding circles around the glass pyramid of the Louvre at midnight.

It was a late night, too, when the phone in our apartment rang. I was surprised to find Bill Brink from The Times’s Sports desk on the other end of the line. He asked, in a hushed voice (I swear it was hushed), if I might be able to get to Germany on short notice to report an article on Paul and Isabelle Duchesnay, a brother-sister team of ice dancers poised to be one of the biggest draws of the upcoming Winter Olympics in Albertville, France.

(Unbeknownst to me, Barry Lorge, my former boss in San Diego, had sent a letter about my move to Neil Amdur, then The Times’s Sports editor.)

I don’t recall exactly what I said on the phone, but I do remember shouting “Yeeeeessssss!” in a thoroughly undignified fashion after I hung up.

Off I went. I took the night train to Oberstdorf, Germany, reporter’s notebooks, ballpoint pens and a micro-cassette recorder in tow. There was not much sleep to be had in the sleeper car, but no matter. As with many a fulfilling journey, the anticipation was every bit as sweet as the trip itself.

I spent a day with the Duchesnays, learning about their choreography and the Olympic pressure. I filed the article, and in a few days it was published, “By Christopher Clary” sitting under the headline.

I have filed several thousand more articles over the past 30-plus years — under the right name. I have written about soccer from Cameroon, badminton from Indonesia, skiing from Switzerland, yachting from New Zealand, golf from Scotland and bullfighting from Spain. I have covered 14 Olympic Games, 10 Ryder Cups, nine world track and field championships, six soccer World Cups, five America’s Cups, one Masters and a whole lot of tennis tournaments. As I leave The Times, I am grateful not only for the passport stamps, but also for the people who have crossed my path in so many places, including The Times’s newsroom.

As a parting gift, and in the true spirit of our daily quest to get things right, perhaps the time has finally come to correct that first byline.