But these awards pale in comparison to a feat rarely accomplished in the fickle world of television broadcasting: He has held the same job for the last 37 years. And the Mayborn School of Journalism awarded Hansen a Distinguished Professional Achievement Award in 2018. He has earned a Peabody Award for Distinguished Journalism, and a Dupont Columbia University Silver Baton, the broadcast equivalent to the Pulitzer Prize. He’s received the Radio and Television Digital News Foundation’s Lifetime Achievement Award, a prize reserved for luminaries like Tom Brokaw and Andy Rooney. “My confidence comes from the fact that I know, nobody dies.”įor a guy who’s been fired from eight of the 11 jobs he’s held, Hansen has done quite well for himself. “I’m just talking sports or commentaries,” he says. He finds comfort in being good at a job where, unlike the rest of the news broadcast, he doesn’t report on mass shootings or economic collapse or pandemic death tolls. People will experience suffering, illness, death - that’s important. His trademark confidence and willingness to speak his mind stems, in part, from his success, but also from something he says he learned years ago: that in the full spectrum of life, sports don’t really matter. This is 15 times the followers of any other sports broadcaster in the area. Hansen is the most popular sports broadcaster in the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex with 70,000 followers on Facebook alone. It dawns on me that he doesn’t feel above the rules like so many people of prominence – he just cares about people – a fact that enables him to connect with millions of fans - myself included. “Basically, what they’re saying is they don’t want you to have any human contact for the next year,” Hansen growls, shaking his head. Abruptly, he jumps up and moves our comfy chairs into the hallway, like only a beloved celebrity can do. Frustrated, Hansen’s response is not aimed at the dutiful Joyce but at the draconian rules she has to enforce. “Oh, really?” he says, more sarcastic than surprised. With that, I follow Hansen into the foyer where we settle into our yellow velvet chairs to begin the interview.īut after only 10 minutes, security guard Joyce pops out of the studio again to inform Hansen that we can’t even be in the foyer. We become familiar, and even flout the current strict social distancing guidelines. His great bear of a greeting reverberates as he towers over me.Īnd just like that, I relax. Ambling towards me, his form fills the space as I feel I am shrinking. She abruptly opens the door for me to enter the building, and with a whoosh, Hansen’s presence and familiar booming voice spill out with the HEPA-filtered air though he is still across the room. Apparently convinced of my legitimacy, she makes a phone call to get him.Īs we stand waiting, Joyce keeps watch for Hansen, and I start feeling the pressure of interviewing a local television legend and my childhood hero. After I explain why I am there and show her an email from Hansen, Joyce unstiffens, the firmness melting from her voice. Although I do notice that in her dedication to duty, security guard Joyce herself is not observing the new social distancing guidelines. This is the beginning of America’s mass COVID-19 shelter-in-place mandate, which explains why Joyce the security guard, a slim middle-aged woman, trots out and, eyes glued on me suspiciously, tells me to leave – immediately. But I stand face pressed against the glass, peering in for sportscaster Dale Hansen, who I am there to interview this March afternoon. Unbeknownst to me, you’re not supposed to get too close to the window. The WFAA news studio, located on a prominate corner of Victory Park, has panoramic glass walls, allowing the public to stand outside and watch live newscasts produced inside.
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