The Yang Slinger: Vol. IV
The 2021 Complete Handbook of Dealing With Asshole Athletes, five questions with WaPost columnist Candace Buckner, the death of Bob Stiff and yet another story of one of my career fuckups.
On September 9, 1979, a Boston Globe reporter named Will McDonough was inside the New England Patriots’ locker room following the team’s 56-3 beatdown of the New York Jets at Schaefer Stadium.
He was doing what reporters do immediately after a game—which is to say, interviewing players, trying to snag some quotes, working the room in the way all of us (at one time or another) work the room.
Standing nearby was Raymond Clayborn, the Patriots’ notoriously unpleasant third-year cornerback out of Texas. For reasons that have never been fully explained, Clayborn was not in the jolliest of moods, and he began spewing shit at writers, then intentionally elbowing into them as they attempted to complete their tasks.
McDonough, a 44-year-old scrapper from South Boston, tried making peace. “Hey, Ray,” he said, “there’s no need to do that.”
Clayborn wasn’t here to play. He jabbed a finger toward the scribe’s face, inadvertently poking him in the eye. According to McDonough, Clayborn then grabbed his shirt and said, “You [bleep]! I’m going to bury you!”
This is the moment when most of us—by training, and also by sheer wimpiness—slink off in pained embarrassment. That’s precisely what I did in June 2000, when an Atlanta Braves pitcher named John Rocker dressed me down before an audience at Turner Field, and I stood still and absorbed every crass word like a totem pole. It’s also what I did during an equally awkward exchange that same year, as Baltimore first baseman Will (The Cackling Douche) Clark lambasted me in front of the Orioles clubhouse.
But McDonough was (Praise Jesus!) no punk, and no Pearlman. He raised his right fist and (POP! POP! POP!) nailed Clayborn in the face with—in the words of Mark Jurkowitz—”a three-punch combo,” knocking him into a nearby laundry cart.1
It remains the gold standard of sports journalists refusing to take shit from athletes.
It remains greatness personified.
Like most veteran sports media members, I have plenty of experience being the target of an athlete’s ire. From former Giants ace Shawn Estes calling my house to chew me out to Clark going out of his way to embarrass me to do-si-doing with Rocker, I know what it is to absorb abuse from a fellow adult. J.R. Rider, former Slam Dunk champion, walked toward me with menace in his eyes. Arthur Rhodes, journeyman reliever, insisted I get the fuck out of his chair.
On.
And on.
And on.
And here’s the thing: It’s jarring. Always jarring. We go through life having arguments with parents, with siblings, with spouses, with close pals and (on occasion) co-workers. But it is far from normal to have someone you don’t really know—always famous, generally wealthy, oftentimes dressed in glorified pajamas, sometimes holding a piece of dead animal byproduct in hand (glove, ball, etc)—threatening to decapitate you.
I believe we—as an industry—have bungled the entire approach.
In other words: We cower. It’s what we do. We cower, and we stare downward, and we take it, because, well, we’ve almost always taken it. And 100,000 editors throughout history have insisted the athletes have a right to vent and complain and blow off some steam. So we let them in the most aggressive of manners. The jocks are the cool kids, we’re the geeks. I think back to the infamous Ryan Leaf-Jay Posner blowup of 1998, when the Chargers rookie quarterback2 loomed over the San Diego Union-Tribune reporter and loudly, awkwardly berated him. Posner sat there, sorta sad and defenseless and hangdog-ish, absorbing the spewage. He didn’t escape until Junior Seau guided Leaf elsewhere.
I actually took a few moments tonight to ask Ryan what would have happened had Posner tried battling back with fire and hostility. My question, as exactly worded …
Leaf’s response: “Twenty-two-year old Ryan would have knocked his ass out and boot stomped him until someone pulled me off. [It’s the] only way that that Montana prick ever handled anything back then if I felt disrespected or threatened.”
Less than two years after Posner’s shitty moment in the sun, I had mine. It happened in the bowels of Turner Field, when Rocker, a lunatic Braves reliever who was the subject of my, eh, not-so-flattering Dec. 24, 1999 Sports Illustrated profile, spotted me walking down the hallway and said, as loudly as possible, “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this!” He turned back his baseball cap, placed his head inches from mine and revved up the anger.
I have pondered this moment many times, and the word that returns to my brain is: Wuss. Why, at age 28, did I have to be such a fucking wuss? Yes, John Rocker outweighed me by a solid 40 pounds and, yes, John Rocker was likely injecting all sorts of chemicals into his veins. But—as he unjustifiably teed off—I did nothing but freeze and wonder how long this hellscape would last. Why, oh why, didn’t I work up the nerve to say what ran through my head two minutes after the fact: “Hey, asshole, since you’re accusing me of misquoting you—wanna hear the tapes of our time together? You know, the ones where you call Randall Simon a ‘fat monkey’ and mock foreigners and teammates and, oh, your manager? Because I have them. Right here.3 I will happily play them for your v-e-r-y diverse clubhouse. Then I’ll go up to the press box right now and make sure everyone there gets to hear ‘em. How does that sound, you diseased racist slab of dogshit?”
Had I brought forth such a Lincoln-esque monologue, two things could have followed:
John Rocker beats the living shit out of me, and I’m writing this Substack (with dental replacements) from one of these.
John Rocker backs down. He throws another curse my way, then shuffles off like the juiced-up phony he’s always been. His teammates quietly applaud me for standing up for myself. I’m a hero in the press box—McDonough II: Electric Boogaloo. Instead of the story being ROCKER CONFRONTS REPORTER BEFORE GAME, it’s REPORTER HUMILIATES PATHETIC RACIST PITCHER WHO RETIRES TO BECOME KLANSMAN.
Either way, I feel better about myself than I do now.
So the question is: What do we do?
What do we do when athletes are assholes? What do we do when we feel reduced, or threatened, or demeaned? Do we endure it? Do we walk off? Spit in a drink?
Is there a happy medium?
The best I’m-not-gonna-take-shit-from-some-idiot-jock practitioner I’ve ever known is Wallace Matthews, the longtime New York sports writer who discussed this very topic on my podcast. Back when I was at SI, I’d see Wally in the Mets’ clubhouse, and he was tougher than Brillo. The guy didn’t walk, he strutted. The guy didn’t request, he put it out there. It didn’t matter if a ballplayer was an ornery 6-foot-4, 290-pound ode to juice or a 20-year veteran or a kid with swagger out the ears—Matthews walked without fear.
I recently asked Wally for his keys to enduring clubhouse bullshit. He offered some good stuff:
You can try what I did when Todd Pratt announced loudly in the Mets’ clubhouse that he was going to kick my ass. I sat on the stool in front of his locker and waited for him. When he came out, he asked, “Who are you?” I said, “I’m the guy who’s ass you were going to kick.” That was the ice-breaker to what turned out to be a very cordial and productive conversation.
You might attempt what I did with David Wells, when he made a similar declaration about me to Jack Curry, then of the New York Times, before I arrived in the clubhouse. I walked over to Wells and repeated his threat back to him. “I never said that,’’ Wells protested, at which point I suggested we bring Curry over to confirm that he, in fact, had. That prompted Wells—Hells Angles wannabe and self-proclaimed tough guy—to turn his back and walk into the trainer’s room, muttering, “You guys can’t take a joke!’’4
You could do what I did when Kenny Lofton proclaimed to want to fight me outside the Indians’ dugout at Yankee Stadium and let loose with a profanity-laced tirade. I took a step back, pulled out my notebook, and said, “Keep going,’’ as I furiously scribbled down notes.
You could attempt the move I used on boxing promoter Bob Arum when he accused me—on live television—of trying to pick up cocktail waitresses at the Caesars Palace pool before the Holyfield-Holmes fight. I grabbed him by the necktie and cocked a fist until he screamed for security to drag me off. This is not recommended to be tried on professional athletes of any kind, and that includes jockeys.
Or you can do what I did when Barry Bonds, at the height of his assholery, came to Shea Stadium with the Giants to play the Mets. He was the elephant in the room and no one seemed to be brave enough to approach. So I just walked over and asked, matter-of-factly, “You going to talk to us today, Barry?’’ I was shocked when he meekly replied, “Yeah, I’ll talk to all of you in the dugout in a few minutes.’’ He kept his word and a fine time was had by all.
The runner-up I’m-not-gonna-take-shit-from-some-idiot-jock practitioner of my lifetime is Bob Klapisch, Newark Star-Ledger baseball columnist and a veteran of the Big Apple newspaper wars. I’ve heard many a story over these past few days about journalists dealing with douche athletes, and his is probably my favorite.
Bob told me about a day in 1983, when he was a baseball writer for the New York Post. He had graduated from Columbia in 1981, then spent two years as a general assignment guy. Now he was in spring training with the Mets. “I quickly learned that first-year reporters are the easiest to spot,” Bob recalled. “They’re the ones who won't ask questions (too worried the questions will sound stupid), the ones who miss deadlines (can’t think of what to write) and the ones who get beat on too many stories (no sources in the clubhouse).”
So there he was, standing alone in the Mets’ St. Pete quarters, clueless and confused. Tom Seaver, the future Hall of Famer pitcher, exited the trainer’s room, walked past Bob and—without uttering a word—ripped the newspaper he was reading out of his hands. Seaver strolled across the room to his locker, where he sat and perused the sports pages.
Said Klapsich: “I couldn’t believe Seaver’s audacity. I’d grown up idolizing The Franchise, having no idea how dismissive he was towards younger writers. At that moment I had two choices: Do nothing, let Seaver win, even if it meant allowing him to tell teammates he’d humiliated the rookie from the Post. Or maybe Seaver would tell no one, keeping the incident as our ugly little secret. I couldn’t take that chance. I chose door No. 2, which was to take a deep breath, follow the path to Seaver’s locker and yank the paper out of HIS hands. I sat down next to him, not saying a word. I didn't even look at Seaver. I just kept reading the local hoops scores.”
Neither man uttered a word. Just silence.
“Well done,” Seaver finally said. Then he rose and walked off.
“It’s still the best journalism lesson l ever learned,” Klapisch said. “Never back down.”
Lord, I love that story. And I love what Wally offers, too. But when I asked Leaf how he thinks reporters should respond when encountering thugs (like, admittedly, he once was), the advice was simple: “Take the high road,” he said. “You’ll have more to report if us assholes get physical or verbally abusive. It doesn’t cost you anything to be passive in response at all.”
Hmm …
There’s something I should have written earlier, but I’ll get it out now …
The landscape has changed.
The athlete-journalist relationship isn’t nearly as hostile in 2021 as it was, oh, five, 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 years ago. Which, on the surface, must be viewed as a positive development. Years ago a colleague walked through the New Jersey Nets’ locker room wearing (the horror) a sweater. This somehow resulted in a shooting guard starting up a humiliating/degrading/nonsensical “ho-mo-sex-ual!” chant. I was once in spring training when a Marlins third baseman named Wes Helms thought it appropriate to fart in a reporter’s face. Brandon Sneed was working on a UFC piece for Bleacher Report when he decided to introduce himself to a fighter at the hotel breakfast buffet. The screaming commenced immediately—”You didn’t ask me the right way! You need to be more respectful! How could you possibly think this is the right way to do this?”
That stuff doesn’t happen so much these days. You also don’t get too many Albert Belles and John Rockers and Kenny Loftons. Confrontations are down. So are hostilities.
But … there’s a catch. Thanks in large part to social media (with a good chunk of Covid tossed in) we no longer have the face-to-face time once granted sports journalists. Not all that long ago, all four major American sports provided media members with plenty of access. And it wasn’t merely for the big outposts like ESPN and Sports Illustrated. Were you a reporter for, oh, the Patent Trader in Cross River, N.Y., and your local-kid-done-good now played third for the Texas Rangers, landing a press credential was simple, and lining up pre-game clubhouse time with Hometown McGee was nearly as easy.
Nowadays, teams like the New York Knicks basically cut off all access5, and when a fantastic journalist like Mirin Fader tells the Milwaukee Bucks she’s writing a Giannis Antetokounmpo biography—the media relations people not only refuse to help, but actually go out of their way to block access.
It sucks. Like, sucks times 100,000. And as a result, there is far less athlete-writer confrontation.
Because there’s far less engagement.
In the fall of 2001, Dylan Tomlinson was covering the University of Florida football team for the Gainesville Sun.
The Gators were quarterbacked by Rex Grossman, a Heisman Trophy favorite. His backup was a kid named Brock Berlin, the nation’s No. 1 recruit a season earlier and a young man unwilling to sit on the pine and watch someone else throw spirals.
In the leadup to the Florida-LSU game, Tomlinson wrote a piece on Berlin’s stated desire to transfer to either Miami or Texas Tech. There was nothing contrived in the reporting—Berlin literally told Tomlinson of his plans, and was quoted accurately.
The next practice, Spurrier charged toward Tomlinson and asked, “Whose team are you on?”
“I’m on no team,” the scribe replied. “I’m just doing my job.”
This did not satisfy the ol’ ball coach6, who said, "You know, I can make things real difficult for people around here.” That night, on his TV show, Spurrier called the story “crap.” The next day, Tomlinson received two death threats. Spurrier, according to Dylan, phoned an editor at the Sun’s offices in an effort to get him fired.
Said Tomlinson: “About a week after Spurrier called me out on TV, my home phone rang (the number was unlisted) and a guy told me, ‘You usually leave your apartment around 10 am, you then drive to campus and stay there until 2. I’m going to be watching you, just so you know.’”
Over the next month, Spurrier ignored Tomlinson at press conferences.
“Eventually,” Dylan said, “he got mad at another reporter over something stupid and forgot about me.”
I like this story, because it speaks to the battle we sports journalists still wage on a regular basis: The battle against big-time college coaches.
When college coaches are bad, they’re 100,000,000,000,000 times worse than any John Rocker or David Wells. First, because they usually make the highest salary in the state, and are cemented into their positions. Second, because (when successful) they’re treated as deities, not Xs and Os simpletons. Third, because there’s just something in the water. That’s the only possible explanation. You can be a nice guy coaching at Delaware or Azusa Pacific or Bucknell. But as soon as a Michigan starts signing your paychecks, you change. You think you’re the king. You think you’re brilliant.
And you think the nerd writer from the local rag has no business messing with your shit.
Earlier tonight I spoke with Armen Keteyian, one of the all-time great sports reporters and a man unafraid to face off against those who sit atop a mountain in a gilded throne surrounded by 40 nude virgins and a bowl of organic grapes (if you have a second, watch his Real Sports sit-down with Vince McMahon. It ain’t cozy). We agreed that Ego+Power Position=(oftentimes, not always) Insufferable Assholes, and we also agreed that dealing with the species can be uniquely difficult.
In such circumstances, my standard operating procedure is pretty basic. A) I never, ever, ever refer to a coach as “Coach” or “Skip,” because we’re both adults and it sets up a weird power dynamic. I’m Jeff, you’re Bob; B) I am not going to suck up and rave about your brilliance. I’m just not—ever; C) That’s about it.
Armen, however, has the secret to slaying the coach/owner/GM/power position. And while it’s not (technically) a secret, it’s an oft-overlooked key to this whole thingamajig: Know more than they do.
Yup, that’s it: Know more than they do. Do your research. Arrive armed with information and information and information. When a coach tries bullshitting you about a player’s trasnfer, or his injury history, state the facts. When a coach stumbles over his wide receiver’s hometown, interrupt (politely) with, “He’s from Toledo. His mom’s name is Terry. She works as an accountant. He likes cockapoos, J. Cole and anything with vanilla extract.”
“You never want to give the other person a sense that they’re in control,” Armen said. “You always want to be in control. That’s how you win against these people. If you have the knowledge, and you’re right, you can’t be defeated. Because you’re armed with the truth.
“That,” Armen said, “is power.”
The Quaz Five with … Candace Buckner
Longtime journalist Candace Buckner recently became the Washington Post’s newest sports columnist—which is awesome, because she’s one of America’s exceptional scribes. You can follow her on Twitter here, and read her work here …
What's the biggest adjustment—journalistically—going from covering sports, per se, to writing two-to-three columns per week?: For the last eight years I was an NBA reporter, so I concentrated solely on the specific team I was covering and the league. It was tunnel vision. Now, I’m paying attention to all things in the world of sports and beyond. I’d say 50 percent of this role is thinking. So the biggest difference journalistically, I’ve noticed, is just thinking more broadly.
What does a columnist do if she just genuinely doesn't have a strong opinion on something?: She kindly says, ‘nah,’ and moves on to the next one. One of the reasons why I initially pushed back on becoming a columnist is because I honestly didn’t want to be the person to fake outrage, or come up with some random take when I didn’t feel it. I’ve got to have some sort of human reaction to a story if I’m going to put my thoughts down in a column. Whether it’s anger or even if it makes me laugh, I’ve got to feel something. One of the wisest things I’ve learned so far is that it’s okay to pull a punch. If I simply cannot nail the reason why something is nagging at me or my emotion about the topic registers at a zero, then I won’t write it. I’ve done that a few times already. I don’t write it if I don’t mean it.
What's the greatest sporting event you've witnessed that nobody beyond you and, oh, 15 people care about?: Probably one of the Missouri or Kansas state wrestling, track or swimming championships I covered while working at the Kansas City Star. There’s peak drama at the high school championships when teenagers are essentially competing alone and proving themselves in front of the biggest crowds they may ever see in life. Can’t remember much detail, only that there were always tears (the good kind and sad kind) at the end.
You recently appeared as No. 9 in my highly (by nobody) coveted 64 Favorite Sports Writers of 2021 list. One thing that struck me while compiling the last was the diversity of candidates. It just feels like this biz has taken a shift to the better. Not completely, but finally some real movement. Am I just being a giddy, naive, blind-to-reality old white guy? Or do you see what I see?: I never knew you to be the Pollyanna of the bunch, Pearlman! Sally Jenkins is the Boss, and you’ve got that right at No. 1 and it is great to see more women and people of color as top writers. More specifically, I’m noticing more and more Black women who are doing big things in the biz, on the editing, writing and even the managerial side. Still, I’d love to see more Black women ascend in the writing space, so I think there’s still much work to be done.
Rank in order (favorite to least): Thurgood Marshall, Bo Jackson, elephants named Henry, canned chicken noodle soup, Farrah Fawcett, my 2010 Toyota Prius, Phil Donahue, Cookie Monster, Spike Lee, "Below Deck.": Why are you so random?!? Cookie Monster (sorry, Mr. Marshall … but he was my favorite Sesame Street character growing up), Thurgood Marshall, Spike Lee (in my top five directors, glad you didn’t put Christopher Nolan on this list or else things would’ve been awkward), Canned chicken noodle soup, Bo Jackson (if you would’ve listed him as Tecmo Bowl Bo, he’s easily top 2), Elephants named Henry, Your 2010 Toyota Prius (Jeff. You have money. Upgrade, brother.), Phil Donahue, Farrah Fawcett (you do realize I wasn’t born in the 70s, right?), "Below Deck” (haven’t watched a single episode)
Yet another story of one of my myriad career fuckups …
Back in 1995, when I was an up-and-coming writer for The Tennessean, I pitched the idea of spending 12-straight hours searching the world wide web. My editors loved it, so I hunkered down before my desktop computer, opened up the first of a dozen sodas and surfed. I went here and there and there and here, then turned around and wrote a 1,200-word piece on the experience.
I actually really enjoyed the whole process, and felt surprisingly wonderful about the submitted story. Then, a letter from a reader:
MORON: AOL CHAT ROOMS ARE JUST A PART OF THE INTERNET. THEY’RE NOT THE INTERNET. GET YOUR SHIT CORRECT.
— CRAIG
I probably hid the note from my bosses, but Craig was right. In 1995, the Internet was this foreign thing that you dialed into. We thought we understood, but, truly, we had no idea. I had devoted 12-straight hours to jumping from one AOL chat room to another. That was the limit of my “night on the ‘web.”
Looking back, I feel like a complete fool.
And the story sucked.
This week’s college writer you should follow on Twitter …
Angelina Hicks, news editor of the Panther, Chapman University’s student newspaper.
So I spent four years advising the Panther, and another two years with Touchstone, Manhattanville College’s student paper. Angelina Hicks is the first news reporter I knew—like, knew, knew, knew, knew—would one day wind up reporting for the New York Times, Washington Post or Wall Street Journal. It’s a lock.
The young woman is a news hound; understands storytelling; gets interviewing; grasps the tone and flow of article writing.
If you sort through her archives, you’ll find a reporter’s reporter.
Angelina is on Twitter here. Bravo, kid …
Death of an editor
In case you missed this, Bob Stiff, longtime news reporter and editor who spent nearly 25 years at the St. Petersburg Times and the Evening Independent, died last week of COVID-19-related complications. He was 89.
Patrick Connolly, my former Tennessean editor, shares a memory …
I arrived back in the newsroom and sat down at a computer, thinking I would spend the afternoon writing the story, when the features editor appeared at my desk. “We hear there was a Times reporter at the event you just covered,” she said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Bob wants us to beat them. You’ve got 15 minutes.” Space was being held above the fold on that day’s features front, she added. (Translation: in your face, Times.)
Bob was Bob Stiff, in 1978 editor of The Evening Independent, afternoon sister publication of the now Tampa Bay Times. I was 20, the summer intern. Somehow, I wrote the story. Minutes later, the features editor knocked on Mr. Stiff’s door and presented a section front page proof to him when he came out. He read the story and handed the proof back to her.
Then he turned and gave me the briefest of glances and an even shorter nod, which have stayed with me over the decades right up to now, as I polish my first novel. Bob Stiff, a veteran news reporter and editor with a 54-year career, died in August of COVID-19 related complications at age 89. His obituary highlighted how his staffs revered him and he was known for nurturing young talent.
Random journalism musings for the week …
Musing 1: So this is absolutely crazy: An Associated Press reporter named Colleen Long is working on a piece about the hard right clinging to a new slogan, “Let’s go Brandon!” She’s flying Southwest, and the pilot wraps his announcements with, “Let’s go Brandon!” Which, left or right, is awfully messed up. Here’s the article.
Musing 2: If you listen to one podcast episode this week, make it Chris Jones’ appearance on “Sorry, I’m Sad,” hosted by former baseball writer Kelsie Snow. Chris is one of the most gifted scribes of my era, and here he breaks down his past depression, multiple suicide attempts and the burdens that often come with this profession. Kelsie is a marvelous interviewer, in that she allows subjects to just … talk. It’s an hour well spent. Trust me.
Musing 3: For a moment, forget whether you’re left or right, Trump or Biden, pro-choice or pro-life or pro-death penalty or anti-death penalty. Just listen to the following CNN clip of Joe Biden trying to tell a Satchel Paige story to … the Pope. It’s so preposterously joyful and, oddly, innocent. Again, set politics aside. Just enjoy two old dudes chatting it up.
Musing 4: Not sure how I wound up reading this Q&A with Meredith D. Clark, a journalism and social media professor at Northeastern University, but it’s fantastic (a nod to Hillary Chabot). And I’m all in on Clark’s reply to a question melding Critical Race Theory and journalism …
Musing 5: In Vietnam, five journalists were sent to prison after a court found them guilty of spreading, “anti-state content via Facebook.” Here’s the story. Ironically (in a very sad way), the media members were accused of “abusing democratic rights and freedoms to infringe upon the interests of the state.” In other words, by exercising the rights afforded under democratic principles, the journalists were found to have, eh, violated democracy. Anyone here get that? Truong Chau Huu Danh, the identified head of the group, was sentenced to 4 1/2 years. Depressing.
Musing 6: The Washington Post’s Chuck Culpepper is writing at an insanely high level right now. I recall, back during my boyhood, Yankee first baseman Don Mattingly going through a stretch where nobody could get him out. That’s Chuck—and if you don’t believe me, check out this gem from Saturday, RE: Michigan State’s win over Michigan. Written on deadline.
Musing 7: Why is local journalism so important? Well, here’s example No. 124,710—a terrific piece from Dan Nephin of Lancaster Online about local cops submitting fake Covid vaccine cards — and then being fired. These types of stories are far too rare these days, because local papers (when they still exist) lack the funds and manpower to cover them. So, great work, Dan.
Musing 8: Never underestimate the power of good ol’ storytelling. This article via Kyle Goon of the Orange County Register did it for me: Two kids from small-town Arkansas now playing for the Lakers—and appreciating every minute of it. Beautifully crafted.
Musing 9: A reminder that the 232nd episode of my journalism podcast, Two Writers Slinging Yang, drops Tuesday morning. This week’s guest is Jimmy Kimmel, the fantastic late-night host and executive producer of “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” All things comedy writing.
The episode will be posted here.
Quote of the week …
“He did not want to look at the fish. He knew that half of him had been destroyed.”
— Ernest Hemingway, “The Old Man and the Sea.”
I reached out to Raymond Clayborn for his entry. He did not respond. No biggie.
I just wanna stress—Ryan Leaf has become one of my favorite people on social media, and seems to be a genuinely good guy. We all make mistakes when we’re young.
Admittedly, I did not have the tapes with me. But in the movie version, I sure as hell do.
I can confirm. David Wells was a major asshole to cover.
There has never been a more hostile media relations outpost.
If his nickname had been “Teddy Ruxpin,” it would be no more or less ridiculous.
Phenomenal post.
Good stuff Jeff.