generally know what happened the night before. From televisionor online articles. Radio. Twitter. And the mamsy-pamsy blogs,” I said with a hint of a smile.
He nodded, somewhat reengaged but still appearing skeptical.
“So it’s less about actual, immediate coverage,” I continued, “and more about adding some level of analysis and insight. Exposing all the underlying emotions. The human element.”
He perked up slightly.
“Bottom line, it’s just a game, right? But it’s our job to show that it’s
not
just a game. It’s a metaphor for life. If sports don’t matter, then life doesn’t matter.”
“Yes,” he said emphatically. “That’s
exactly
it.”
I kept going, with more confidence. “It’s like those little human interest clips they show during the Olympics. They make you care about a random Russian luger like he was your brother … Because you know what? He
could
be your brother. He
is
your brother.”
“Yes.
Yes
,” Smiley said. “And who do you think does that well? Which reporters?”
I fought against the urge to say, “You, for one,” thinking that obsequious was the wrong route to take with Smiley. Instead, I rattled off a handful of the best sports reporters, a mix of contemporary writers and old-timers: George Plimpton, Roger Angell, Red Smith, John Feinstein, Robert Creamer, Frank Deford, Dan Jenkins, Buster Olney, Peter King, and Rick Reilly.
“You didn’t name one female writer,” he said.
“Okay. Mike Lupica,” I said, proud of my quick locker room retort.
He smirked as I said, “Sally Jenkins. She’s great. And Robin Herman.”
“Aren’t you too young to know Angell? Half those guys?” he asked.
“I spent my childhood reading that stuff. Old articles. And I collect
Sports Illustrated
s. When I was ten or eleven, Coach Carr gave me hundreds of issues when his wife cleaned out the attic. They make for great rainy day reading. Reliving the ‘rumble in the jungle’ or the ’eighty-six Mets–Sox series or the epic McEnroe–Borg rivalry.”
For the first time since we sat down, Smiley looked impressed. Notjust satisfied or curious but affirmatively impressed. I knew the look well. It was the look that guys at bars would give me right after I gave them my game day analysis and right before they’d jokingly say, “Will you marry me?”
“What pieces stand out for you?” Smiley asked, but this question felt different from the others. This one sounded like something he’d pose to his reporter buddies over beers, not to a chick he was begrudgingly interviewing as a favor to a legendary coach.
“Hmm. Let’s see,” I said, thinking. “Well, John Updike’s piece on Ted Williams, for one. Phenomenal.”
Smiley lit up as I continued, “Roger Angell’s piece on Steve Blass.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“Gay Talese’s ‘The Silent Season of a Hero’ … Although it’s hard not to be a genius when you’re writing about Joe DiMaggio … Norman Mailer’s story on Muhammad Ali. ‘Ego’—wasn’t that the perfect title? … And Frank Deford’s ‘Raised by Women to Conquer Men.’ ”
Smiley wrinkled his brow. “Which one was that?”
“The Jimmy Connors piece … And let’s see … my favorite football books … John Eisenberg’s
That First Season
…
Boys Will Be Boys
by Jeff Pearlman,” I said, referring to the book on the Dallas Cowboys of the nineties. “And Jack Cavanaugh’s
Giants Among Men.
That book makes me wish I had been alive in the fifties—and a Giants fan … and … probably my favorite,
Paper Lion.
George Plimpton’s a friggin’ genius.”
“You have good taste,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, as our food arrived, and I noted that I actually, finally, had an appetite. No matter what happened on the job front, I had proven to Frank Smiley that I was legit.
“Oh. One more thing,” Smiley said. His voice was casual, but I could see in his eyes that he was about to test me. “How do you feel about
He nodded, somewhat reengaged but still appearing skeptical.
“So it’s less about actual, immediate coverage,” I continued, “and more about adding some level of analysis and insight. Exposing all the underlying emotions. The human element.”
He perked up slightly.
“Bottom line, it’s just a game, right? But it’s our job to show that it’s
not
just a game. It’s a metaphor for life. If sports don’t matter, then life doesn’t matter.”
“Yes,” he said emphatically. “That’s
exactly
it.”
I kept going, with more confidence. “It’s like those little human interest clips they show during the Olympics. They make you care about a random Russian luger like he was your brother … Because you know what? He
could
be your brother. He
is
your brother.”
“Yes.
Yes
,” Smiley said. “And who do you think does that well? Which reporters?”
I fought against the urge to say, “You, for one,” thinking that obsequious was the wrong route to take with Smiley. Instead, I rattled off a handful of the best sports reporters, a mix of contemporary writers and old-timers: George Plimpton, Roger Angell, Red Smith, John Feinstein, Robert Creamer, Frank Deford, Dan Jenkins, Buster Olney, Peter King, and Rick Reilly.
“You didn’t name one female writer,” he said.
“Okay. Mike Lupica,” I said, proud of my quick locker room retort.
He smirked as I said, “Sally Jenkins. She’s great. And Robin Herman.”
“Aren’t you too young to know Angell? Half those guys?” he asked.
“I spent my childhood reading that stuff. Old articles. And I collect
Sports Illustrated
s. When I was ten or eleven, Coach Carr gave me hundreds of issues when his wife cleaned out the attic. They make for great rainy day reading. Reliving the ‘rumble in the jungle’ or the ’eighty-six Mets–Sox series or the epic McEnroe–Borg rivalry.”
For the first time since we sat down, Smiley looked impressed. Notjust satisfied or curious but affirmatively impressed. I knew the look well. It was the look that guys at bars would give me right after I gave them my game day analysis and right before they’d jokingly say, “Will you marry me?”
“What pieces stand out for you?” Smiley asked, but this question felt different from the others. This one sounded like something he’d pose to his reporter buddies over beers, not to a chick he was begrudgingly interviewing as a favor to a legendary coach.
“Hmm. Let’s see,” I said, thinking. “Well, John Updike’s piece on Ted Williams, for one. Phenomenal.”
Smiley lit up as I continued, “Roger Angell’s piece on Steve Blass.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“Gay Talese’s ‘The Silent Season of a Hero’ … Although it’s hard not to be a genius when you’re writing about Joe DiMaggio … Norman Mailer’s story on Muhammad Ali. ‘Ego’—wasn’t that the perfect title? … And Frank Deford’s ‘Raised by Women to Conquer Men.’ ”
Smiley wrinkled his brow. “Which one was that?”
“The Jimmy Connors piece … And let’s see … my favorite football books … John Eisenberg’s
That First Season
…
Boys Will Be Boys
by Jeff Pearlman,” I said, referring to the book on the Dallas Cowboys of the nineties. “And Jack Cavanaugh’s
Giants Among Men.
That book makes me wish I had been alive in the fifties—and a Giants fan … and … probably my favorite,
Paper Lion.
George Plimpton’s a friggin’ genius.”
“You have good taste,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, as our food arrived, and I noted that I actually, finally, had an appetite. No matter what happened on the job front, I had proven to Frank Smiley that I was legit.
“Oh. One more thing,” Smiley said. His voice was casual, but I could see in his eyes that he was about to test me. “How do you feel about
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