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The above photo of me at work was taken at a 1999 high school football game between Tempe and Phoenix Arcadia, where I believe I acquired a nasty virus that confined me to my apartment for days and necessitated an emergency-room visit.
My health insurance provider refused to cover the $2,000 bill, one of the occupational hazards of almost two decades in the newspaper business. Ultimately, though, it was worth it.
As the years passed, sports journalism took me to much better places. And there have been plenty of postcard moments for me at the Tribune, where I started in 1995 as a copy editor.
My first visit to New York was for the 2001 World Series. Walking around the city that was back on its feet again, I was struck by the absolute hugeness of everything. While on Oahu for the 2006 Hawaii Bowl, a visit to Pearl Harbor was one of the more gripping experiences in my life -- you can smell the oil that still seeps from the sunken USS Arizona -- even though I do not know any of the 2,350 people who perished there.
I have not been to every facility in professional sports, but I cannot imagine a press-box view more gorgeous than at PNC Park in Pittsburgh [2], where I have covered two Diamondbacks-Pirates series. And I have been in every Pac-10 football stadium, though my opinion on where they rank [3] has been subject to second-guessing [4].
And wherever I went, I tried my best to take readers with me, whether it was inside a boisterous Ohio State football locker room to receive an invitation to the 2003 Fiesta Bowl to play for the national championship; a somber New York Yankees clubhouse after Game 7 of the ’01 Series; or an operating room as a high school volleyball player underwent knee ligament-replacement surgery.
Since 2005, my eyes and ears have been focused almost exclusively on Arizona State University athletics. That run is ending, as I am one of 142 Tribune employees whose final day on the job is Saturday. Barring breaking news, the Insight Bowl on Wednesday will be my last assignment for the newspaper.
I will miss the players, coaches, administrators and media-relations staff that made each day interesting and fun.
I will miss serving college sports fans, who soak up information almost as fervently as hardcore baseball seamheads.
I will miss the restaurants. Sportswriters, of course, love good restaurants. Among my favorites: Salty’s on Columbia [5] in Portland, Ore.; Buckhead Diner [6] in Atlanta, Charlie Gitto’s [7] in St. Louis, Aunt Kizzy’s Back Porch [8] in Marina del Rey, Calif., and El Charro Cafe [9] in Tucson.
I will miss being part of a profession that, while it has faults, is noble. The decline of newspapers in this country should alarm anyone that values a diverse marketplace of information. With each passing year, there are fewer outlets that can devote time and resources to being a watchdog, following trails wherever they lead and telling stories that need to be told.
Most of all, I will miss the thrill and satisfaction of a job well done, which is as strong now as when I broke into daily newspapers by doing freelance high school sports stories for the now-defunct Phoenix Gazette in the early 1990s. To me, the byline above my story symbolizes a responsibility, a challenge to never take a single assignment half-heartedly. And when you saw my byline in the Tribune, whether you agreed with what I wrote or not, you got the best I had that day.
My resume is not one of the thicker ones around. But I have covered everything I got into this business to cover: Major League Baseball, including a World Series and All-Star Game; the NFL, including a Super Bowl; college football, including eight Fiesta Bowls (three for the national championship) and a Bowl Championship Series title game; the College World Series and NCAA basketball tournament.
I do not know what I will be doing next. However, I have no regrets. How many people can say that they got to do what they have wanted to do since they were 10 years old?
For me, there is disappointment and uncertainty, of course.
But, above all else, there is gratitude.
[1] http://bloggingwiththedevils.freedomblogging.com/files/2008/12/danz1.jpg
[2] http://www.baseballpilgrimages.com/national/pittsburgh.html
[3] http://bloggingwiththedevils.freedomblogging.com/2007/11/12/ranking-the-pac-10-stadiums/
[4] http://www.ducksportsnews.com/blog/2008/06/so-we-missed-one-ranking-the-pac-10-stadiums/
[5] http://www.saltys.com/portland/
[6] http://www.buckheadrestaurants.com/diner.html
[7] http://www.charliegittos.com/
[8] http://www.auntkizzys.com/
[9] http://www.elcharrocafe.com/
After graduating from Arizona State -- yes, for those readers who were not aware, now it can be told -- in 1993, I interviewed at a handful of newspapers. On one trip, at the Fort Wayne (Ind.) News-Sentinel, the sports editor gave me a packet of reading material that included a Xerox copy of a column about life as a sportswriter.
(It is indicative of the current state of the journalism business that the aforementioned sports editor, who moved on from the News-Sentinel, was laid off from his most recent job last month.)
I kept that column and re-read it regularly through the years, particularly for the advice that, even for a veteran reporter, is sage. Its author, Shelby Strother (pictured below, beside the Berlin Wall), was a highly-respected writer at such papers as the Orlando (Fla.) Sentinel, Denver Post and Detroit News until his death from cancer in 1991.
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So, you want to be a sportswriter …
By Shelby Strother
The Detroit News
June 30, 1988
The letter was handwritten, more polite than most, and it began, “Sir, I am interested in becoming a sportswriter and would like any suggestions you might offer to help me …”
What are you, nuts?
Hunter S. Thompson, whose doctorate in gonzo shields the fact that he once made a living writing about sports, has said, “Sportswriters are kind of a rude and brainwashed subculture of fascist drunks whose only real function is to publicize and sell whatever the sports editor sends them out to cover.”
To which I say to the good doctor, it takes one to know one. His point, however, is conceded. The aura surrounding the craft of describing the games that other people’s children play is actually more like a green haze. Sportswriters are perceived as freeloaders; they get into the ballgame for free, get to sit under a roof and slurp free coffee nonstop simply because it’s there. They’re louts and slobs and their clothes are always wrinkled. Not only that, we’re all on ego trips, too, although we’re booked in tourist class, middle seats.
A book reviewer for the long-gone New York Herald, a man named Lewis Gannett, once wrote, “Sportswriters suffer from hyperthyroid congestion of adjectives and are dope fiends for forced similes. They try to be jitterbugs with words and have no change of pace; they stutter in their excitement.”
Whatever he meant by that, it’s probably true to an extent. The sports section will break the heart of a lot of English teachers. There is a great deal of huffing and puffing at the keyboards sneaking into print. So, while not trying to totally disillusion anyone, perhaps some personal glimpses are warranted.
It used to be a sportswriter would never check into a hotel that didn’t have a bottle opener. Then it became vital that your room could accommodate a three-pronged plug. Today, as journalism enters the Space Age, the premium is on modular phones.
Wanna be a sportswriter? Better get a law degree and pay particular attention during your contractual law class. Take geography courses and also beef up on abnormal psychology.
Get used to being alone in airports at ungodly hours. Be satisfied with room-service meals. Learn to breathe foul air, as you will always be stationed in the press-box seating chart next to a raging cigar. Have a cast-iron stomach; by the time you get off work, the only places open are gastronomical horror palaces. Learn to climb steps while carrying several loads of equipment until you become so proficient that you can actually run through airports with such gear. Learn to live without sleep.
Grow a thick skin that not even the barbs and arrows of angry booster clubs and defenders of Bobby Knight can penetrate. Hone your patience level, because you will be stood up again and again by teen-agers and millionaires, both of whom are sure better than you. Hold onto your self-esteem, even though the guy you’re interviewing would rather be going to the bathroom.
Carry double rations of aspirin at all times.
Remember, nobody wants to hear about labor pains; they only want to see the pretty baby. And your editor doesn’t care about the problems. When will he get the story?
There will be times that your dog barks at you because he doesn’t recognize you. Your children will kiss pictures of Daddy good night far too often. You will feel unappreciated by the world, overcome by the insignificance of your work and frustrated that the everlasting prose you used up several pints of blood to compose yesterday is lining the puppy dog’s box today.
You will probably learn to drink, although hopefully not too well. And play golf, although I’m pretty sure not too well. It must have been a sportswriter who invented the shank, which must have been the first golf shot. By the way, playing poker is no longer mandatory, thank goodness.
Most importantly, remember this. A sportswriter is not the paramount character in the game. Stay the hell outta the way.
And keep perspective.
In the Silverdome locker of Isiah Thomas is a little message. It is the same one Washington Redskins quarterback Doug Williams quoted after the most recent Super Bowl. It is the same one Grambling football coach Eddie Robinson recites frequently to anyone willing to listen.
“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood.”
Although Teddy Roosevelt probably wasn’t thinking about sportswriters when he penned those words several seasons ago, we can adopt them as important safety reminders. Perspective.
The guy splashing big tears on a cold concrete floor because he missed a last-minute field goal thinks it is the worst thing in life. Let him. If he’s lucky enough, it is, though probably not for long. Be compassionate. It is his moment. Rush not into judgment, collect the facts and remember -- they are the experts. Sportswriters are nothing but privileged eyes and ears, messengers for the public.
Keep in mind that the world does not revolve around spheres made of pigskin or horsehide. Do not pretend to be Nostradamus. Do not attempt to pass off untimely defeat on the playing field as Armageddon. The world does not end, only the season. And when you tell the world about the game, be interesting and to the point. Or else everyone’s going to roll over and go back to sleep.
Above all else, be accurate. Credibility is a fastball. Lose it and you’re doomed to the minor leagues.
This is not meant to disillusion or scare anyone off. Wanna be a sportswriter? Step in and take your best cuts. It’s no day at the beach or even the kiddie pool in the backyard.
But it’s still better than actually working for a living.
[1] http://bloggingwiththedevils.freedomblogging.com/files/2008/12/sstrother1.jpg
Ahhhhhh, the holiday hangover.
Arizona State went through it a little upon their three-day hiatus (even coach Herb Sendek said he didn't watch film on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, but we aren't fully convinced). We'll see if another hangover lingers into Monday's night last waltz before the Pac-10 party begins on Jan. 2 in the Bay Area.
We'll also see if there's a shooting hangover from the Idaho State game on Tuesday, in which ASU hit a school-record 17 from beyond the 3-point arc and shot 52 percent from outside in a runaway win which looked as well-oiled as the 90-55 score suggests.
Since nothing outside a random IUPUI defense has stopped James Harden, the Sun Devils have seen more zone defenses than in recent memory.
But because Rihards Kukskis is shooting 50 percent from outside, Deerk Glasser and Jamelle McMillan have fired slightly better as of late, and Ty Abbott hasn't reached his pinnacle, you wonder how long that will last.
To date, ASU has been uneven in its outside shooting. The Sun Devils average 23 attempts from 3-point range per game and hit 39.6 percent of them. It feels a lot like a feast-or-famine type shot, but on Sunday, Sendek praised his team's shot selection "by and large," and the Sun Devils didn't feel that number was abnormally high.
(Those 30 attempts against IUPUI became more necessary while digging out of a 16-point second-half hole).
Not surprisingly, two of the Sun Devils' three worst shooting days have been against the two best non-conference teams they faced (.294 against Brigham Young and .346 against Baylor). We'll chalk up a .190 against Pepperdine as an anomaly.
When there are games such as Idaho State, the Sun Devils are nearly unbeatable.
Ever the pragmatist, Sendek doesn't buy into the "contagious" factor when it comes to making shots (such as when Kuksiks started 4-for-4 from outside last Tuesday). His theory being it can't be that easy to explain.
Players say there is something to it. At least there is with this group.
"Everyone gets excited and wants to get a piece of it," McMillan said. "Rik can shoot, Ty is going to want to get his, it’s a competition. It's an ‘Anything you can do, I can do better' type of thing. It creates energy. A guy is shooting like that, gets a few defensive stops here and there, and it amps it up for everyone else."
So if Pac-10 teams play zone against ASU and guys like Harden, Kuksiks, Abbott, Glasser, McMillan and Jerren Shipp (8-of-16 from outside) continue to make shots, it's going to be trouble.
If Pac-10 teams play man-to-man -- such as UCLA -- Harden is almost always going to get his share, and everyone has it easier.
Beginning Friday, we'll find out what it's going to be.
Chris Fry created this group on SportProjections.com. 
