I've known a dozen sportswriters up close. They come in two genetic phylums.
A. Nicest guy you ever meet.
B. Cheesedick.
Too many come to hate the job, hate the athletes and fall in love with their writing, which is geared toward Sports Illustrated in the way 9th graders learn to sing by watching "American Idol." They come to view the ideal sports story as a gaggle of adjectives that reads like a Jeannie Velasko pre-game voiceover.
Which brings us to the events of yesterday.
Jack Curry of the Times took the buyout. Everybody I know who's grabbed a buyout got the second best deal they'll ever get from a newspaper, the first one being that time when the cafeteria vending machine mistakenly gave two Snickers for the price of one. With the exception of "The Life You Imagine," his rancid 1999 book with Derek Jeter, the Stepford interviewee -- he no doubt wrote it to keep the kids in sneakers -- Curry is the great sportswriters of our time. He should be more renouned. Writing for the Times is like playing for the Yankees: The smaller markets resent you, and you don't get voted MVP.
Bill Madden of the Daily News won the Spinks Award for sportswriting, which has gone to the best (Ring Lardner, Jim Murray, Red Smith) and the worst (Dick Young, Dick Young, Dick Young) that ever stood in judgment of another man's guts from the pressbox lasagna buffett. Make no mistake: This is no Pulitzer. Madden runs very good and very awful. This award is probably the worst thing that could happen. Something tells me he's about to start veering hard into Type B. Stay tuned.
Peter Gammons, chief Gammonite, announced he is leaving ESPN. He turned Bristol into a Redsock rats nest and made a second career as the sportswriting version of Don Zimmer, the old sage everybody should bow to. He's also one of the guns at Sports Illustrated who wrecked the profession, though others were far worse than he. The Yankiverse hated Gammons' blatant Redsock bias, but one aspect of the guy did come through: He was Type A.
A. Nicest guy you ever meet.
B. Cheesedick.
Too many come to hate the job, hate the athletes and fall in love with their writing, which is geared toward Sports Illustrated in the way 9th graders learn to sing by watching "American Idol." They come to view the ideal sports story as a gaggle of adjectives that reads like a Jeannie Velasko pre-game voiceover.
Which brings us to the events of yesterday.
Jack Curry of the Times took the buyout. Everybody I know who's grabbed a buyout got the second best deal they'll ever get from a newspaper, the first one being that time when the cafeteria vending machine mistakenly gave two Snickers for the price of one. With the exception of "The Life You Imagine," his rancid 1999 book with Derek Jeter, the Stepford interviewee -- he no doubt wrote it to keep the kids in sneakers -- Curry is the great sportswriters of our time. He should be more renouned. Writing for the Times is like playing for the Yankees: The smaller markets resent you, and you don't get voted MVP.
Bill Madden of the Daily News won the Spinks Award for sportswriting, which has gone to the best (Ring Lardner, Jim Murray, Red Smith) and the worst (Dick Young, Dick Young, Dick Young) that ever stood in judgment of another man's guts from the pressbox lasagna buffett. Make no mistake: This is no Pulitzer. Madden runs very good and very awful. This award is probably the worst thing that could happen. Something tells me he's about to start veering hard into Type B. Stay tuned.
Peter Gammons, chief Gammonite, announced he is leaving ESPN. He turned Bristol into a Redsock rats nest and made a second career as the sportswriting version of Don Zimmer, the old sage everybody should bow to. He's also one of the guns at Sports Illustrated who wrecked the profession, though others were far worse than he. The Yankiverse hated Gammons' blatant Redsock bias, but one aspect of the guy did come through: He was Type A.
Merry Christmas to all... now... let's sign John Lackey.
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1 comment:
We're not getting Lackey! Shut the hell up!
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