Frederick Gillespie Mann passed away on February 13, 2026. He was 75. Alzheimer’s disease took him, the same disease that had taken his mother years earlier.
Fred hired me in 1995. I was a college freshman at Temple University, a young immigrant from India with no network and no one in this country to guide me. He was the General Manager of Philly.com, the website for the Philadelphia Inquirer and the Philadelphia Daily News. He gave me the chance that started everything. And then he gave me something even more important than a chance: he gave me himself. His door was always open, his phone always answered, his advice always honest. For almost thirty years, through every chapter of my career and my life, Fred was there.
I have been trying to write this since I heard the news, and I keep stopping. There is too much to say and no arrangement of words that feels adequate. But Fred was a journalist, and journalists believe in the power of the written word, so I will try to honor him the best I can.
“Find great talent, nurture it, let it bloom and then try to keep it — that was my strategy.” — Fred Mann
The Hiring
Fred needed someone to build things for the web. It was 1995, and the web was new, and newspaper companies were trying to figure out what to do with it. Philly.com was a startup inside a large organization. They sat in an open office. Fred was the general manager. He was looking for a programmer.
I was that programmer. A college kid. An immigrant still learning how America worked. I had technical skills and some work experience from jobs at Temple University and Unisys, but no network, limited understanding of how corporate America functioned, and no one in the country who could guide me through it.
Fred changed all of that. He did not give me small tasks to see if I could handle them. From the first week, he gave me real problems. Problems that mattered to the business. I did everything from physically moving servers and fixing people’s computers to writing software and product and technology strategy. And then Fred did something I have since learned is rare: he trusted me with real responsibility, backed me when I needed it, and made me better by challenging me and investing in my growth. He championed my work to everyone around him with a generosity that no PR person could have matched. He said wonderful things about me to people across the company, and he did it not because he had to, but because he genuinely believed in me.
When the publisher of the Philadelphia Inquirer started calling me in to discuss online publishing ideas, Fred could have been threatened. Instead, he saw it as validation of his own judgment. He once wrote: “Another boss might have been threatened. But I had enough sense to see that Rajiv could help me grow my business both tactically and strategically.”
That kind of self-awareness in a leader is uncommon. The willingness to let a 20-year-old college kid sit in meetings with the publisher of a major newspaper because the kid had something to contribute — that takes genuine confidence and generosity.
What Fred Built
The world Fred operated in was new, and he was one of the people who built it. He was a founding board member of the Online News Association. He created and ran Philly.com, one of the first newspaper websites in the United States. He was a true pioneer of online journalism. He later became Vice President of National Programming at Knight Ridder Digital, overseeing 28 newspaper websites across the country. People across Knight Ridder loved and respected Fred.
Fred’s background was in journalism, not technology. He was a leader who understood that the future of journalism would be shaped by technology, and who had the wisdom to hire people who could build what he could envision. His career before Philly.com was rooted in journalism: features editor and Sunday magazine editor at the Inquirer, where he edited and wrote for two Pulitzer Prize-winning projects. National editor and opinion editor at the Hartford Courant, where he created a syndicated West Coast news service used by a dozen major newspapers. Press secretary for Connecticut Senator Lowell P. Weicker Jr. Freelance writer for Time magazine. And before all of that, after graduating from Stanford, he opened a bakery with friends in Connecticut, because Fred was the kind of person who followed his curiosity wherever it led.
His obituary in the Philadelphia Inquirer described him as “retired vice president of communications at the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, former vice president of national programming at Knight Ridder Digital and assistant managing editor at The Inquirer, freelance reporter, mentor to many, onetime baker, and longtime pickup baseball player.” That last detail — the pickup baseball — is so perfectly Fred. He was never only his job title.
The Immigration Office
One memory stands above the others. When I needed to get my green card, Fred came with me to the immigration office in Philadelphia. He stood in line with me. For hours.
He did not have to do that. It was not part of his job. It was not something anyone asked him to do. He just came.
While we waited in that long, slow line, he told me about his family. His father, Delbert Mann, had won the Academy Award for Best Director for the film Marty in 1955 — the first director ever to win an Oscar for his debut feature. His father had been a B-24 bomber pilot in World War II before that, flying 35 missions over Europe. Fred grew up in Beverly Hills, went to Beverly Hills High School, then to Stanford.
And here he was, standing in an immigration line in Philadelphia with a kid from India, helping him become a permanent resident. His family had been in America for generations — they had even fought on both sides of the Civil War, he told me. And he was using his time to make sure a young immigrant could stay in the country and build a career.
I have thought about that image many times over the years. It tells you everything you need to know about who Fred Mann was.
He was the son of an Academy Award-winning director and a World War II pilot, and he chose to spend his time standing in an immigration line with a college kid from India.
More Than a Boss
Fred was my boss for more than five years and a mentor for decades after that. But he was also something more than that, something harder to name. He was family.
I used to call Fred about everything. Not just work. Everything. I called him for advice about dating. I called him when I needed help with home repairs at my house in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. I once drove to his house in Wayne to ask him about how to install a light bulb a certain way. I would sometimes just show up at his door to talk. He never made me feel like I was imposing. He was always patient, always present, always glad to see me.
I hosted Philly.com holiday get-togethers at my home, and Fred would be there along with much of the team. Fred and Nicole hosted them at their home in Wayne too, and I was always there. Nicole was a big part of what made that home feel like a place you belonged. Those were the crazy, exciting startup days, as Fred later called them. We were building one of the first newspaper websites in America, in an open office, working nights and evenings because we loved the work, figuring it out as we went.
There was a time, early in my career, when I was upset about something and wanted to quit. Not because I had another job lined up. I was just young and frustrated and ready to walk away from everything. Fred talked me out of it. He sat with me and listened. He did not dismiss what I was feeling. He helped me see past the moment, past the frustration, to the career and the life that was waiting on the other side of that bad day. I am so deeply grateful he did. If Fred had not been there that day, if he had not cared enough to spend the time, the career I have today might never have happened. Everything I have built since traces back, in part, to a conversation where Fred Mann kept a frustrated kid from making the worst decision of his life.
Five Years of Building
In those five years under Fred, I went from a software developer to a senior engineer to a manager to a director to a director for the northeast United States. Fred nominated me for the Knight Ridder Excellence Award for Technology Innovation twice — first as an individual contributor at age 24, and then with my Cofax team. Both awards exist because Fred created the environment where the work was possible. He gave me the problems to solve, the room to solve them, and then made sure the right people knew what I had built.
During those years, I built an ad system for the newspaper’s website. I wrote tools and shared them with the Perl community. I found a security hole in Microsoft Exchange that Microsoft patched within eleven days. I built Cofax, a content management system that we later open-sourced and deployed across Knight Ridder’s newspapers. Every one of those projects happened because Fred believed in a young programmer enough to hand him real problems with real stakes.
When the time came for me to leave Philadelphia for a bigger role at Knight Ridder’s headquarters in San Jose, Fred was the one who recommended me. He chose what was right for my career over what was convenient for his team. I wrote about that move — becoming a VP at 26, managing 35 people across two cities — and I credited Fred: “Fred Mann hired me as a college kid in 1995 and gave me room to grow for five years. He championed my work to leadership and recommended me for this role. I would not be here without him.”
Not every boss does what Fred did. Many bosses keep their best people close because losing them would be inconvenient. Fred looked at the arc of my career and made the call that served me, not himself. And even after I moved to San Jose, I could still count on him for advice and support. The mentorship did not end when the reporting relationship did.
The People He Shaped
I am not the only person whose life Fred changed. He hired great talent, he mentored that talent, and the people who worked for Fred went on to have remarkable careers. That says something about a leader. His colleagues at the Inquirer called him a “talent magnet” and “one of a kind.” Avery Rome, who succeeded him as editor of the Sunday magazine, said: “Fred was the best boss I ever had. Working for him was a team effort and a pleasure. He readily gave credit to other people and appreciated their input.” Dick Polman, a longtime friend and national political columnist, said: “He had great story instincts and could sell the stories to reporters.”
I got to know so many people through Fred. He connected me to colleagues, to mentors, to opportunities. Even years after we stopped working together, he was still talking about me to people I had never met.
When a former colleague, Anne Yoakam Ellsworth, wanted to find Fred in 2025, she googled him and found me. That is how deeply my name is connected to his. She found Fred’s mentee when she searched for Fred.
Gary Farrugia, the publisher of The Day newspaper in Connecticut, reached out to me in 2012 for help hiring a technology director. Gary and I had known each other from back when he was General Manager of KR Video, which was in the same Inquirer building as Philly.com. We had lost touch over the years, and it was Fred who reconnected us. Gary wrote: “Our mutual friend, Fred Mann, tells me you also married a wonderful woman.” Even when I had not spoken to Fred in months, he was out there, talking about me, proud of me, connecting me to people.
There is a story about Gary and Fred that captures something essential about who Fred was. I needed a sofa for my house in Ardmore, and I asked Fred for advice. Fred, being Fred, did not just give advice. He told me his good friend Gary had a sofa he was giving away because he had gotten a new one. Problem solved. I rented a U-Haul to go pick it up. On the way, I put the wrong fuel in the truck. The U-Haul started blowing smoke everywhere. I was a young guy who had never rented a truck before, standing on the side of the road with a smoking vehicle, and I had no idea what to do. Who did I call? Fred Mann. Of course I called Fred Mann. I called Fred for everything. And Fred helped me figure it out, because that is what Fred did. He helped you figure things out, whether the problem was your career trajectory or a smoking U-Haul on a Pennsylvania road. I got the sofa. I do not remember all the details of how we resolved the fuel situation, but I remember that Fred was there for me.
When I introduced Fred to Vinit Bharara and Paul Smurl for a reference as I was joining their startup in 2015, Fred replied: “I’m happy to talk to anyone about you, your work and those crazy, exciting start up days.”
After Knight Ridder
After I left Knight Ridder, Fred and I stayed in touch for decades. He followed my career, and I followed his. He left the Inquirer after 23 years to become Vice President of Communications at the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, where he worked until he retired in 2019.
He was proud of my career in a way that felt deeply personal to him. In 2014, when a colleague posted a photo of us at an event, Fred commented: “Very nice, pal. If I can take any credit for you and Dennis, that makes me very happy and proud.”
The word “pal” was pure Fred. He called me pal from the day I met him.
When I joined the Wall Street Journal as its first Chief Product and Technology Officer in 2017, Fred’s son Ted was already there as a reporter. I reached out to Ted, and we connected over our shared bond with Fred. I wrote to Ted: “As a young immigrant, I started my career in News, Media, and Technology working for your dad Fred Mann for five years. As a boss, mentor, and dear friend, Fred is hugely responsible for my career success. I love Fred: He has been like family to me.”
Ted wrote back something I will never forget: “I know that his decision to hire you and trust in your talent is something he thinks of as his own great fortune. He was just as lucky to meet you, and to now be able to take such pride in all you have achieved. He beams at the very mention of your name.”
“He beams at the very mention of your name.” — Ted Mann
I read that sentence in December 2017, sitting in my office at the Wall Street Journal, and I had to close my door.
That same month, I sent Fred a text message with a tweet I had written about him: “@anildash As a young computer programmer in Philly, @frederickmann hired me, bet on me, and guided me through the first 8 years of my career from software engineer to VP engineering.”
And then I wrote to him directly: “Fred, I don’t know if I have ever properly thanked you for the big role you have had in my life, and I don’t know if I actually can thank you enough. I will always be in your debt. You are a wonderful human being, an exemplary leader, and a blessing in my life.”
I meant every word. I still do. I wish I had said it more often. I wish I had said it sooner. I wish I had found a way to see him one more time before Alzheimer’s made that impossible.
The Last Messages
In April 2017, Fred sent me a text that was so characteristically him: “Hey, my friend. I’ve been thinking about you. I practically never get on Facebook but I get email notices from them of your exploits. You are all over the place! It is great to see. You have to meet my son Ted now that you are a WSJ guy. I am doing well. Still at RWJ. Hired Joe Costello recently! Let’s find a way to get together soon. F”
That was Fred. Following my career from a distance, proud, keeping track, always signing off with “F” or “pal” or “my friend.” He was not on social media. He did not need to be. He kept up with the people he cared about in his own way, at his own pace.
In November 2021, he sent what turned out to be his last message to me: “Thanks, Rajiv. And thanks for the new contact info. Let’s talk soon. Hope all is well with you, my friend.”
After that, silence. I kept trying to reach him. Text messages, phone calls. Nothing came back. In June 2024, I sent him a message: “Happy Father’s Day, Fred!” It was delivered but never read.
For months, and then years, I kept reaching out, hoping to hear his voice again. Finally, in March 2025, I reached out to his son Ted, who told me what I had been fearing. Fred’s Alzheimer’s had progressed significantly. “It’s a great solace to my siblings and me,” Ted wrote, “that he has people like you who care about him.”
The man who had always been there, who had always answered the phone, who had always opened his door, was no longer able to. Alzheimer’s had taken him from the conversations he loved, from the people who loved him, long before it took his life.
“Hope all is well with you, my friend.” — Fred’s last message to me, November 2021
His Father’s Legacy
Fred never talked much about his father’s Hollywood career, at least not to me, except during those hours in the immigration line. But knowing the context now, it adds a dimension to who Fred was.
Delbert Mann directed Marty in 1955, a film about a lonely butcher in the Bronx who finds love at a dance hall. It won four Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director. Delbert Mann was the first director to win an Oscar for his debut feature film — a record that stood for 45 years until Sam Mendes matched it with American Beauty. Before Hollywood, he had been a B-24 bomber pilot in the Eighth Air Force, flying 35 bombing missions over Europe. After Hollywood, he served as president of the Directors Guild of America.
Fred grew up in that household. His mother, Ann Caroline Gillespie, died of Alzheimer’s — the same disease that would take Fred decades later. His sister Barbara died in a car accident in 1976. Fred knew loss, and maybe that is part of why he was so generous with the people in his life.
Fred went to Stanford, not Hollywood. He chose journalism, not film. He built his career on the East Coast, not the West. He made his own path, and the path he made was about finding talented people and helping them build theirs.
What Fred Gave Me
I have been trying to make a list of what Fred taught me, and I realize the list is really a list of who I became because of him.
Fred taught me that the best leaders hire people they believe in and then invest in their growth. He did not mentor from a distance or through annual reviews. He did it by being available, by being patient, by fighting for his people behind closed doors, and by caring about the whole person, not just the employee.
Fred taught me that a great leader’s proudest accomplishment is the people they helped develop. Fred was never shy about this. In his recommendation letter, he wrote: “Find great talent, nurture it, let it bloom and then try to keep it — that was my strategy.” He meant it. He lived it.
Fred taught me that loyalty flows in both directions. He fought for my raises, my promotions, my green card paperwork. And when the time came for me to move on, he was the one who recommended me. He chose what was right for me over what was convenient for him.
Fred taught me that a boss can be a mentor and a friend and family all at once, without any of those roles diminishing the others. Fred was my boss. He was also the person I called when I did not know how to handle a situation at work or in life. He was the person who helped me figure out how to fix things in my first house. He was the person who talked a frustrated young man out of quitting a job that would become the foundation of his career. He was the person who, twenty years later, still followed my career and felt pride in what I had accomplished.
Every time I make a hire, I think about Fred. Did I give this person a real chance? Am I investing in their growth? Am I making sure the right people know about their work? Am I willing to let them go when a bigger opportunity comes, even if it costs me? Am I being the kind of leader Fred was to me?
What I Owe
I would not have had my career without Fred Mann. That is not modesty. It is a plain statement of cause and effect. He hired me. He believed in me. He developed me. He promoted me. He recommended me for the role that launched everything that came after. He talked me out of quitting when I was too young to know what I was about to throw away.
After Knight Ridder, I became CTO of The New York Times. Then the first Chief Product and Technology Officer of the Wall Street Journal. Then CPTO at Hearst Magazines. I have managed hundreds of people. I have been named a World Economic Forum Young Global Leader. None of that happens without a general manager at a newspaper website in Philadelphia who looked at a college kid from India and said: I think this one has something. Let me give him a chance.
Fred’s recommendation letter contains a line I have read more times than I can count: “I have made no hire more important or successful than that of Rajiv Pant.” And: “I count him as both my greatest hire and as a true friend.”
Fred, you were so much more than my greatest boss. You were the person who shaped the course of my life. You believed in me before I had earned it, and you kept believing in me long after I no longer needed you to. The feeling was always mutual.
Fred
I want to end with the small things, because the small things are what I remember most.
The way he called me “pal.” The way he signed his messages “F.” The way he followed my career from a distance, through Facebook notifications he barely understood, and felt pride in my accomplishments as if they were his own. The way he told his friends about me, every chance he got. The way he stood in that immigration line. The way he opened his door when I showed up unannounced at his house in Wayne, just needing to talk.
The birthday exchange in 2012, when I got his birthday wrong by three days and he wrote back: “Thanks, pal. The 28th. Hope all is well with you. Son Jason and his wife just had a second baby last week. That makes five grandchildren for us. (We’re not old, are we?!) Stay in touch. F”
“He died, but he’s still in my present tense.” — Peggy Seeger, quoted at Fred’s memorial
Fred Mann was my boss, my mentor, my guide to America, and my friend. He was the son of an Academy Award-winning director and a World War II pilot, and he chose to spend his time making other people’s careers possible. He was a journalist, a baker, a press secretary, a pickup baseball player, and the kind of person who stands in an immigration line with you because it is the right thing to do.
He believed in me first, when there was not much evidence to go on. He answered the phone every time I called. He made me who I am.
I owe him more than I know how to express. I will carry what he gave me for the rest of my life, and I will try to give it to others the way he gave it to me.
Thank you, Fred. For everything. For all of it.
Rest in peace, pal.
Frederick Gillespie Mann. November 28, 1950 — February 13, 2026. Stanford University. Beverly Hills High School. Survived by his wife Nicole, children Ted, Jason, Lindsay, Cassie, Hilary, Andy, and Brette, brothers David and Steven, and many grandchildren. Donations in his memory may be made to The Lenfest Institute for Journalism.