Submitted by Nancy Eaton, CCP, CRR, FAPR, RDR

The following appeared on Boston.com:
Headline: Court reporter keeps his eyes on the prizes
Date: October 22, 2006

Court reporter keeps his eyes on the prizes
By Keith O'Brien, Globe Correspondent | October 22, 2006

Ed Varallo couldn't help himself. He knew what he was risking, and still
this summer he did it. Varallo, a legend among court reporters for
winning the national speed championship five times in three decades,decided he couldn't walk away. He had to enter one last time.

More than a few people had urged him not to do this. The Boston court
reporter was simply risking too much: his name, his ego, his record. It
wasn't just that Varallo had bested his fellow court reporters five
times; it was how he did it.

He won three speed contests in a row from 1974 to 1976, then retired
only to return to competition in 1986 and in 1996, and win each time. It
was almost like he could win the contest at will, whenever he wanted.
The fact that anyone else won was merely a result of the Grafton
resident's not entering the contest, his record suggested. And,
accordingly, Varallo's legend grew.

He was, in short, the Michael Jordan of court reporters. Not just a
legend but a sort of god. And now that god -- bald and, at 60, older
than he liked to admit -- refused to go away. In August, in New York
City, he entered the speed contest 10 years after his la st victory .

What happened shocked almost everyone , including reigning champ Mark
Kislingbury .

``I was the young guy. I was last year's champion. He was 60 , and he
didn't know if he could do it. He told me that," says Kislingbury , a
Houston court reporter who won the speed contest in 2001, 2002, and
2005. ``But, by golly, he won , and I'd say he won handily."

The National Court Reporters Association held its first speed contest in
1909. The entrants all wrote shorthand in pen, racing to keep up with
dictation to prove not only who was the fastest but the most accurate at
transcription.

In the two decades that followed, the contest was eliminated twice as
the industry grappled with the demise of shorthand writers and the dawn
of a new era: the stenotypist. They were armed with special machines,
equipped with 22 odd-shaped keys, and when the contest resumed in 1952,
not a single contestant took dictation by hand.

It was all about the stenograph now -- a machine that allowed court
reporters to record everything phonetically, sound by sound, syllable by
syllable -- and few teenagers knew more about it in the 1960s than
Varallo.

He was born in Philadelphia and raised in New Jersey, the son and nephew
of court reporters. He became interested in the trade, Varallo recalls,
because he didn't want to go to college. But he soon discovered that the
job wasn't just a cop-out for him. He actually liked it.

``This skill is far more analogous to playing concert piano than typing
shorthand," he says. ``It's more of an art than it is anything else, and
the art to it is endlessly fascinating -- to me, anyway."

Better yet, he was good at it. And three years after he went to work for
his uncle in 1964, Varallo entered his first speed contest. The contests
aren't for everyone. For starters, to enter one must be a registered
merit reporter, capable of typi ng up to 260 words a minute, for five
minutes, while making few mistakes.

Today, according to the court reporters association, only about 2,200 of
its 26,000 members meet the requirement, and only about 30 of those
enter the annual speed contest.

``It's like preparing for a marathon," says Varallo. ``You take a couple
of months to prepare for a speed contest , and it's hard work."

In the contest, competitors must transcribe three five-minute dictations
read at 220, 230, and finally 280 words a minute -- almost five words
per second. At that speed, it's not like conversation anymore. It's like
a hailstorm of words, and the court reporters must scramble to catch
them in midair.

``This is the cream of the cream," says Linda Farmer , a partner at
Farmer Arsenault Brock LLC, the court reporting firm where Varallo works
downtown. ``It's winning the Olympics. It's the Olympics of court
reporting. It is a very big deal."

V arallo, young and ambitious, wanted in. He entered in 1967 and finished
sixth, and for five of the next six years he toyed with victory,
finishing as high as second place in 1971 and 1973.

Then came Varallo's three-peat. From 1974 to 1976, no one could touch
him. He became a legend. Court reporting students learned his name in
school. Alan Brock , the founder of the court reporting firm where
Varallo would later work, says Varallo became famous.

``He had won the speed contest three years in a row against some of the
all-time great reporters in those years, and being able to do that
automatically makes you a god in the world of court reporting," says
Brock, who himself won the speed title in 2003. ``Winning once is great.
But winning three times in a row is stupendous."

Varallo wasn't done, though. Fueled by boredom and a desire to stay
sharp, he won again in 1986 and 1996. Because a decade had passed since
his last victory, peop le expected him to return this year. But this time
it was different. Now, it seemed, Varallo had much to lose by entering,
especially against a returning champ like Kislingbury, and many urged
him to walk away.

``The risk was that I wouldn't do well," says Varallo. ``It's the same
risk many guys at the top of their fields take by staying around too
long. You can compare it to an athlete who hangs around and tries to do
what he used to do but can't. It's sad."

Varallo didn't want to be that guy. But he didn't want to walk away,
either. All summer, after long days in depositions, he took the train
home to his wife and stepchildren in Grafton and practiced all night,
transcribing at high speeds.

He channeled sound: calm, focused, fingers rolling across keys. He knew
he would have to be almost perfect to beat Kislingbury. And he was. When
the final scores were tallied, Varallo had made 20 errors, for a score
of 99.43 percent. Kis lingbury had made 44, for a score of 98.83.

It was a veritable blowout.

``The audience went wild," recalls Brock. ``All his friends and friendly
competitors were all jumping up and down, shouting. But so was the whole
audience. They gave him a long standing ovation. It was quite an
exciting thing for everybody. Even people who didn't know him."

Speeches were given. The moment recorded. Varallo, who received nothing
but a glass trophy for all of his work, hoisted it above his head. He
then announced he was retiring from the speed contest , and he promises
this time it's for good.

``I'm not going to try it again at 70," he says. ``I'm old enough to
know when to quit."