Peter Jackson Biography
Peter Jackson is a journalist and was the correspondent in charge of the Associated Press bureau in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, from 1996 to 2016. He previously worked in the AP bureau in Augusta, Maine, from 1978 to 1996, serving most of that period as the correspondent.
Peter Jackson Age
Peter Jackson Family
There is no information about his family or early life but will be updated as soon as it is clear.
Additionally, he attended the Penn State University, where he attained a B.A. in English, in 1976.
Peter Jackson Wife
He is married to Renee Jackson and together they have a child Erin Nicole (Ferry)
Peter Jackson Career
Jackson covered eight gubernatorial campaigns (1978, 1982, 1986, 1990 and 1994 in Maine, and 1998, 2002, 2006, 2010 and 2014 in Pennsylvania). He helped cover national political conventions in San Francisco in 1984, Philadelphia in 2000 and Boston in 2004.
In 2005, he was named one of “Pennsylvania’s Most Influential Reporters” by the Pennsylvania political news website Politics PA. In 2006, he edited a series of stories about Pennsylvania’s state pension system that generated significant statewide interest. He was named Pennsylvania AP Staffer of the Year in 2007.
Jackson retired in 2016 after 38 years with AP.
Peter Jackson (journalist) Net Worth
He is a journalist who is diligent about his work. This also serves as his primary source of income. His net worth is still under review but will be updated as soon as its clear.
Peter Jackson Retires Daily Mail Rugby Correspondent
A true legend signs off: After six World Cups and nearly 450 Tests, Sportsmail’s Peter Jackson says farewell
PETER JACKSON has retired as Daily Mail Rugby Correspondent, 35 years after reporting his first international for this newspaper — Wales v New Zealand at Cardiff Arms Park. Here, by way of farewell, he reflects on the great players he has seen and picks a dream team from his decades of covering the sport…
One morning in October 1956, during the Suez Canal crisis and the Hungarian revolution, the headmaster of Foyle College summoned a nervous 13-year-old boy to his study.
The world may have been teetering towards Armageddon but a more prosaic matter had to be thrashed out, and the fearsome Mr JS Connolly was never one to beat about the bush.
‘Jackson,’ he said, sounding less than thrilled to learn that one of his pupils had made a juvenile attempt at sports writing in that day’s Derry Standard on the city’s football team. ‘A few words of advice. Do not waste your time on the hired gladiators of soccer. Concentrate on rugger and you won’t go far wrong — but woe betide you, boy, if I find a grammatical error. Write about the school 1st XV until such time as you are considered good enough to be selected, if that ever happens.’
When it did, some four years later against the mighty Campbell College of Belfast, fate played the dirtiest of tricks, lining me up at flyhalf against an opposite number who would win universal acceptance as the finest back found in the British Isles during the amateur era — the imperious Mike Gibson.
Sometimes even the darkest cloud has the faintest trace of a silver lining. Within months of the Gibson experience, I had taken the hint and set off on the first stage of
a circuitous journey to the promised land of reporting the good, the bad and the ugly of rugby football in these columns throughout all six World Cups, five Lions tours and almost 450 Tests.
Reducing a cast of thousands of capped players to 15 is an almost impossible task when applied to a period spanning the election of six ritish Prime Ministers and seven
American presidents. Great is undeniably the most overworked and misused word in the sporting lexicon, despite its simple definition in the Oxford dictionary as someone ‘of extraordinary powers, having unusual merit, very admirable’.
Whatever the sport, a player aspiring to greatness has to pass many tests. The most severe of those is the test of time. That the game has undergone the most revolutionary change of all, from amateur to professional, makes a devilishly difficult exercise all the more so. Yet there is merit in the argument that the true greats
would have flourished in any era.
Picking the very best in each position requires the patience of Job and the wisdom of Solomon. The Old Testament references bear a striking relevance in respect of a
New Zealander, with a Welsh surname, whose unyielding refusal to compromise his religious principles could be put forward as one reason why the All Blacks are rapidly
approaching the 18th anniversary of the day they lost the World Cup.
Michael Jones offers a suitably Biblical quotation to justify the paradox of the God-fearing churchgoer putting the fear of God into opponents by laying a fair few of
them out with the legitimately anaesthetising effects of his tackle.
‘The good book does say that it is better to give than to receive,’ said Jones, chuckling. ‘I knew if I made my mark defensively, the rest of my game would fall into place.’
More often than not, the opposition would fall out of place. Jones had it all, the speed and nous to be the definitive openside, the power and crunching presence to be just as effective on the blindside. His capacity for winning ball at the tail of the line-out made him the most complete back row in the game. That is some claim, considering
the giants who bestrode that area of the game before, during and after his time.
Great players do not have to be great human beings but it helps. Jones also fulfilled the ‘extraordinary powers’ bit about greatness by observing his ‘never on Sunday’
rule, no matter how big the match —and they do not come much bigger than World Cup semi-finals.
Jones sat out three Sabbath semis in a row, against Wales at Brisbane in 1987, Australia at Dublin in 1991 and England at Cape Town in 1995.
‘I was brought up by my mother to honour Sunday as the Lord’s day,’ he said from his native Auckland on the eve of the All Blacks’ defeat in Durban last weekend. ‘We
went to church, there was no organised sport and that has stayed with me ever since. I have Christian mates who play on Sunday but mine have always been a bit different.’
A man of lesser moral courage would have compromised his principles when a fading All Black team lost the World Cup without him at Lansdowne Road all those years ago. ‘If I remember correctly, I did have a brief conversation with some of the senior players but once I made it clear that I had strong convictions it was dropped pretty quickly,’ said Jones.
‘Your heart is torn because you are so close to your mates. There were times when I was coming apart on the inside. All your mates were going to war and you weren’t
going to be in the trenches with them. I used to dread Sunday games but, in my heart of hearts, I knew I was doing the right thing. I never questioned my decision. I have always had an inner peace.’
Jones was never in it for personal glory. He sacrificed at least 11 caps for his beliefs and the proliferation of Sunday Tests forced the All Blacks to leave him at home for the
1995 World Cup in South Africa because the schedule meant he would miss the quarter-final and the semi seven days later.
Freakish force: Jonah Lomu changed the shape of the game with his style of play
Had the Kiwis, then indubitably the best side in the world, taken the calculated gamble of saving ‘The Iceman’ for the final against the Springboks, the course of rugby history might well have taken a different turn. Three winning World Cup finals, instead of one, would not have flattered him.
And so for the rest of the team, based on two conditions — that every player is at the top of his game and that at least one comes from each of the six decades from the second half of the 20th century to the start of the 21st. The images are indelible: of Serge Blanco, the magician who somehow managed to go 40 minutes without a
cigarette, forever juggling the ball at high speed in the sunshine of the Parc des Princes and always scoring in the corner. JPR Williams, the one-man Panzer division.
David Campese, the goose-steeping genius and archetypal Aussie sledger. Jonah Lomu ploughing through England in the 1995 World Cup semi-final. Gareth Edwards,
caked in the Arms Park mud after a superhuman try against Scotland.
Jackie Kyle, a boyhood hero who illuminated the austere Fifties and of whom his fellow Lion, the legendary Bleddyn Williams who wrote about the game for more than 30 years, once told me: ‘You know, I’ve seen all the great outside- halves and Jack was unquestionably the greatest of them all.’
He can count on a winningplatform from as colossal a pack of forwards as has ever been assembled, bursting with indomitable spirit and enough ferocity to do without the hardest of front-row cases, Alfred Roques.
When the French became tired of the Boks punching them in the face during Les Bleus’ famous series win in South Africa in 1958, the captain, Lucien Mias, took Roques aside and told him: ‘Time, Alfred, to unleash the dogs of war.’
Time for me to be taken away and put in a straitjacket, which will please one reader who emailed recently under the nom de plume True Blue Rugby Supporter, saying: ‘You really are a disgrace and the sooner the Daily Mail get rid of you, the better.’
Time to call a truce in the relentless pursuit of news and to hope that the sport sees it has become too muscle-bound for its own good.
Time, perhaps, to dust down a copy of the contract which Lomu never quite got round to signing for Bristol 10 years ago and remember the fun which made even the bad days good. Time to watch the game for the game’s sake, to bask on bleak winter days in the warmth of having had the privilege, dear reader, of trying to keep you informed
while competing against so many outstanding rivals who have long since become valued friends. They think it’s all over. It is now . . .
Adopted from: www.dailymail.co.uk