Remembering Kathy Phillips
IT NEVER DAWNED ON ME until later what the animal crackers were about.
Kathy Slattery Phillips"Slats" to those of us who knew her—kept a huge jar of them on her desk in Alumni Gym. Each day on their way to or from practice a steady trickle of hungry athletes would stop to scoop up a handful and swap a quick bit of banter with Slats.
It was all about the banter. Slats formed lasting relationships with generations of Dartmouth athletes over those animal crackers.
Officially, she was the Colleges sports information director. But it was only after she died unexpectedly in November of a brain aneurysm—at55, well before her time—that everyone realized the title barely described all she did for the place. Not much went out of the athletic department during the past 30 years without her stamp on it. At the time of her death she had covered 305 straight Dartmouth football games and most of the mens basketball games, too. She went from September through March each year barely taking a day off. And in a business where mistakes happen, I can't remember her making one.
This is not to deify her. She could be grouchy and short-tempered. If you wrote something she didn't likeas any self-respecting journalist must do from time to time—she'd snarl at you for days. She was fiercely protective of her athletes.
To work for her was to know what the term "tough love" meant. She was brutal on her interns, assigning them nicknames like "numbnuts" or "idiot" or things less flattering (and less printable). The first draft of anything handed to her was guaranteed to come back dripping with red ink.
But at a college without a journalism program, she helped young writers like me on our way, nurturing our careers, cheering our successes. She was nothing if not loyal.
She was also fun. And funny. A football road trip with Slats felt like an adventure. She loaded all comers into a rented van—during my time, it was a white minivan with an oversized prow that earned it the name "the cowcatcher." The ride was dedicated to the jocular arts of ball-busting, rehashing old stories and, of course, the obligatory ice cream pit stop: Slats knew the location of every Friendly s restaurant on the Eastern seaboard.
I don't know if Slats ever intended to become an institution at Dartmouth College. But by the time of her death that's what she had become-as evidenced by the 600 people at her memorial service, including her husband of just two years and two young stepchildren. I can't think of what that corner of Alumni Gym will be like without Slats sitting there. But it will be missing a lot more than just animal crackers.
