An Unprompted Tribute to the Publishers of Ingram’s

Early this month I received an email from an editor at Ingram’s under the server headline, “Ouch!” Given that the nation’s economic engine was heading rapidly from Hot Springs to Ice Station Zebra, I feared the worst. 

I had been working with the current publishers of Ingram’s, Joe and Michelle Sweeny, for more than 20 years. The last two issues, however, may be the most memorable. They will one day serve as a study in contradictions, the perfect time capsule of life in Kansas City circa 2020. 

The headline of the February edition reads, “We Did It!” There was no doubt about what we did. After a 50-year drought, the Kansas City Chiefs won the Super Bowl. The photo on the cover of Ingram’s showed hundreds of thousands of excited Kansas Citians jammed together cheek-to-jowl in front of Union Station.  

We may never see another photo like that again. Don’t get me wrong. The Chiefs will win another Super Bowl, probably soon. I imagine a lot sooner than we’ll see a crowd of strangers standing cheek-to-jowl. 

Allow me a brief Chiefs digression: Two summers ago, I was having brunch on the outdoor deck of a restaurant in an obscure western New York state resort town called Bemus Point, population 354. 

About halfway through my meal, three middle-aged couples were shown to their seats near the entrance of the deck. One fellow wore a Kansas City Chiefs hat, a truly unusual sight in this part of the world, especially in the pre-Mahomes era.  

Smart-ass than I am, I stopped by their table on my way out and said to the fellow with the hat, “So are you from Kansas City or do you just like people to think you are?” 

 A burly fellow sitting next to the man with the hat said to me, “Oh, are you from Kansas City?” When I answered in the affirmative, he asked whether I followed the Chiefs. I explained as I would to a guy, say, from Uzbekistan that in a small-market metro such as Kansas City everyone followed the Chiefs. 

My inquisitor then asked if I knew Steve DeBerg. DeBerg I remembered as the Chiefs starting quarterback for the first few seasons of the generally successful Marty Schottenheimer era. “Sure,” I answered. 

I obviously didn’t remember DeBerg all that well. The burly fellow pointed to the man with the Chiefs hat and said with a wry smile, “Meet Steve DeBerg.” 

“Oh, of course!” I said, taking off my sunglasses and wiping them as though they had somehow accounted for my failure to recognize DeBerg.  The burly fellow, a former 49er, has likely told this story a few times himself. I hope I never hear his version. 

The point is that in a small market metro like Kansas City, everyone does follow the Chiefs. Despite the state line, everyone does pull for the same teams and more or less in the same direction. Whether a Kansan or a Missourian, everyone is a Kansas Citian.  

Were Kansas City to honor its boosters the way it does its sports team, I would nominate the Sweeneys for MVP. Watching them from a safe distance these 22-some years—I office elsewhere—I have seen that, for enthusiasm and energy, the Sweeneys have no peers, Joe especially. 

 With each crisis we have faced as a city or a region—Sept. 11, Katrina, the Greensburg and Joplin tornados, COVID-19—Joe is the first guy out of the chute organizing a collective response.  

Cynics would have you believe that entrepreneurs get philanthropic only to promote their own interests. Watching the Sweeneys in action, I can’t buy that. For selfless, boosterish energy, the Sweeney whirlwind is pure Force 5.  

Speaking of whirlwinds, Joe was organizing tornado relief in Joplin before Dorothy’s cow had settled back to earth. As usual, I was one of those ordinary citizens who go along for the ride, in this case literally. A year after the tornado, Joe organized a 50 Missourians gathering in Joplin put charted a bus full of local dignitaries to drive from KC for the first annual commemoration in May 2012. 

Given the traffic, our bus parked a few blocks away from the site of the ceremonies. I remember walking towards the action and joining a bunch of other people walking in the same direction.  

I had not been walking more than a block when bystanders started applauding and handing me water bottles. What great spirit, I thought. Then I realized I had just crossed the finish line of the memorial 5K walk. I was Joplin’s own unwitting Rosie Ruiz. 

Joplin did, in fact, show great spirit. The folks in small Midwestern cities have a way of responding to crises that the denizens of coastal megalopolises do not. We we’ll see this borne out in
future months when the madness subsides. 

The March Ingram’s headline captured some of that madness, “COVID-19 and the 2020 Crash.” This gets me back to the “Ouch.” I knew our Heroes in Healthcare breakfast, a labor of love for the Sweeneys, would be seriously delayed. That was a shame. 

Instead of having a speaker at the breakfast—our Patch Adams experience cured us of ever having another-. I interview all of our honorees. The format works well, and for an hour or so, I delude myself into thinking that I missed my real calling as a TV game show host.  

As to the “Ouch,” I feared worse than the cancellation of that event. I feared the cancellation of Ingram’s. Only God and Joe’s primary-care physician know how the Sweeneys have managed to make a go of a print magazine in an era when print was not only supposed to be dead, but cremated. 

But here’s what the “Ouch” message said, “I forgot to ask you about BTL for April. Any idea how quickly you might be able to turn it around? We’re targeting on-press by end of next week. Thanks.” 

Long live Ingram’s, and God bless the Sweeneys.