Newall: What I wish I'd told The Boss

Snaking my way through the line at the Free Library, just feet away from meeting one of my idols, I had to be honest with myself: I owe my whole career - my whole life, really - to Bruce.

Literally.

Not because I love Springsteen's music.

(Of course, I do.)

Not because I can sing his pretty much every line of discography backward and forward, with a few exceptions.

(We can all survive without "Queen of the Supermarket.")

But because my first job in journalism, my first fraught foray into the written word, was at Backstreets Magazine, the world's No. 1, fan-rocking, news-dropping, set-list-listing, concert-clocking fanzine dedicated to all things Boss.

[Read more: Springsteen at the Free Library: What do you say to the Boss?]

It was a three-room operation above Murphy's bar in Washington D.C.

I was associate editor, second in command - which may sound impressive, but then I'd have to tell you that the magazine had only two employees.

I was in charge of merchandise, from the Bruce concert Ts to the books on Bruce to the Greetings from Asbury Park beach towels (a clear fan favorite). That may also sound impressive, but then I'd have to tell you that all I did was heft it all up three flights of stairs and then box and ship it to expectant Bruce fans across the globe.

It was a period of unparalleled professional happiness.

I was 22 years old and fresh out of college, tending bar at night. My brother had spotted the job listing in the back of a newspaper. It was back in 2000, when people still found jobs that way.

I wore a tie to the interview. The editor, Christopher Phillips, and I sat on stools among the stacks of Bruce bootlegs and back issues. He offered $8 per hour. We shook on $10. I would have done it for free.

In my year or so there I wrote two articles. I pictured Bruce kicking back in Jersey, paging through his latest issue of Backstreets, reading my words, and thinking aloud, "Man, this guy gets me."

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This was before the social media exploded, so when fans really needed to talk some Bruce with someone, they'd call the office. Fans called from as far as Norway. I remember recognizing voices of callers from my neighborhood back in Brooklyn - "Tommy? Tommy Brogan, is that you?" - who had no idea I was working at the Bruce mag.

Then, there were the pilgrims, the devout fans who arrived unannounced, like solemn travelers to a holy place, just wanting to have a look around. I'd let them stay as long as they wished.

To me, besides the pure joy of it, Springsteen's music was always about the lie-awake-at-night-fear of not finding the thing that's going to make you, you. So, yes, it was about getting out.

But, for me, at that time, in that room above the Irish bar, amid the bootlegs and the back issues, it was also about just making it through the day.

One of my older brothers, himself a musician, had died a few months before I came to work there. The grief was fresh and raw. To beat it back on those days when it came crashing down, I would grab a bootleg I hadn't heard before, or a back issue I hadn't read. Maybe the phone would ring. Or some pilgrims would arrive. It all got me through the day.

[Read more: 10 fan moments from Bruce Springsteen's visit to the Philly Free Library]

Bruce himself never came. At the time, he didn't have the closest relationship with his fanzine. He has since granted Backstreets some thoughtful interviews.

My time there served me well. When I arrived in Philly a few years later, applying for a job at a weekly newspaper, my writing resume was bare except for Backstreets. But the editor interviewing me was a fan. He hired me on the spot. Thanks, Bruce.

I wanted to tell the man himself all this last week at the library, when he was in town to sign his new autobiography, entitled what else but Born to Run.

I rehearsed and rehearsed what I wanted to say.

When it was my time to shake Bruce's hand, I thanked him for his music and mumbled in my nervousness. About Backstreets. About how it got me all my jobs since. He laughed, graciously, likely, of course, having no earthly idea what I was talking about.

He said, "All right, man."

That was fine for me.

mnewall@phillynews.com

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