The Yang Slinger: Vol. LXXVIII

In 1996, at age 24, I was hired to work at Sports Illustrated. It was a different media landscape, overflowing with money and ambition and dreams. Here is a look back, via my old diary entries ...

In the early months of 1996, while living in Nashville and writing for The Tennessean, my girlfriend of 2 1/2 years broke my heart.

She was a senior at the University of Delaware, and (in hindsight, quite understandably) had grown tired of, well, me. My needs. My loneliness. My holier-than-thou demands. My desire to discuss Freeman McNeil v. Joe Morris. So she called, told me we were done, listened to me sob and then, wisely, hung up.

Click.

Two things followed:

1. I punched a hole in my wall.

2. I went to a local drug store and purchased a diary.

I don’t remember exactly what led me to think writing would be a good outlet for my anguish, but nearly three decades later, I still regularly jot down notes in journals. It could be about family, about politics, about sports, about sex. My wife has often asked, “Don’t you worry about the kids one day finding out [fill in the blank]?”, and my reply is always the same—“As long as I’m dead, who cares?”

The diaries have saved me. Healed me. Soothed me. And, best of all, they allow me to step back in time and remember moments that otherwise would have long ago escaped my mind.

Which leads to today’s entry …

With the news of Sports Illustrated’s looming death, I started thinking back to my early days at the magazine. I arrived in December of 1996 as a fact checker/reporter with dreams of one day becoming a senior writer. I was 24, dumb, ambitious, cocky, scared, eager. I didn’t know what to expect or what I was doing, only that SI had been a stated goal beginning in eighth or ninth grade, when I told my mother, “One day I’m gonna write for Sports Illustrated.”

“Well,” she said, “you need to be realistic. Why not a doctor or lawyer?”

“No,” I said. “I know I’m going to do this.”

On the day of my hiring, I called my mother from Nashville (where I worked for The Tennessean, the morning daily) and said, “I told you! I told you!”

Then I wept.

I kept diaries. Tons of diaries. And, after reading through those early days, I realized they serve as pretty good flashbacks to what it was to be young, excited and working your way up at a dream publication in the last golden age of print.

So, here you go—snippets from the life of a green-and-hungry chump …

October 29, 1996. Nashville

It’s Tuesday night, my second since accepting the job at Sports Illustrated. I was so fucking happy. Cried a lot. But I went out with Denise and Kim for coffee tonight. It was sad—they’re good friends. When I told Sutherland¹ of my job decision, I started to sob again. You think you hate a place, you do everything you can to be gone, then you prep to leave and you realize it was pretty great. Weird. I also got a call from the newspaper in Ann Arbor about the open Michigan hoops beat. Would usually love the chance—still do—but not now.

I’m heading back home to New York to start at Sports Illustrated.

December 5, 1996. NYC

Tomorrow starts the Sports Illustrated odyssey. I don’t feel nervous or, really, overly excited. But I should. This is what I’ve waited for—a shot at SI. I start as a scrub. Let’s see where I end up.

December 6, 1996. NYC

I’m up, it’s 7:52 am and I’m about to start my first day at SI. Jeff Pearlman: Fact checker. I can feel the nervous tingling a bit. I’m a bit concerned—in that goofy sort of way—about wearing a black Nike jacket with a huge plastic ball on the back … and a suit. No choice, though.

Feb. 12, 1997. NYC

Amazing! Amazing! Amazing! I’ve been given my first shot! Last week I spent five days in Seattle-Eugene-Portland for this sneaker dude story. Basically, there’s a guy named Ron Duquette who travels the region trying to get NBA players to give him their used shoes. He stands in the parking garage at arenas and screams as they walk by. I was with him when he tried getting Michael Jordan’s attention. Didn’t work. Still, what a cool fucking experience. He was a strange guy whose love of kicks confused me a bit. But it’s my first opportunity to write for the magazine—a giant deal for me.

Sept. 22, 1997. NYC

Work is OK. I had sex with a co-worker. That was good. But now it’s weird seeing her in the office. Also, over the past few months some other reporters here have definitely started to hate me. I’ve had a ton of bylines, and it’s not going over great. First, [unnamed] accused me of stealing his Catching Up With … idea, which was totally unintentional. I felt terrible, apologized, told the boss to please not run it. I was as sincere as possible. But [unnamed] told everyone what he thought I did, and it got really awkward. We all work in one hallway. You can’t avoid people. I try being a decent person, but if you get writing opportunities here you’re definitely resented. Which I get. It’s an uncomfortable spot.

In my defense, all I do is work. On the days we’re off, I come in, open my COSIDA directory² and call colleges/universities. One after another, usually some SID sorta surprised to hear from Sports Ill. I say, “I’m Jeff, I’m working my way up, you have any stories I should be pitching?” Then I go into Jack & Rich at Scorecard and pitch undersized RBs and one-armed swimmers. I think it’s working in my favor.

Nov. 12, 1997. Airplane

Am on an American Airlines F-100, flying into Nashville where—fuck me—it’s 39 degrees and raining. This is it—the big Billy Collins-Panama Lewis trip from hell. Eleven days from New York to Tennessee to California, with a goal of hunting down Panama Lewis in Huntington Beach and getting him to talk, then Johnny Duke in Nashville and getting him to stalk (he’s schizo—that could be a problem). Whatever the case, this story is easily the greatest journalistic endeavor of my life—much longer than anything I’ve written. I’ve been pursuing it for several months, with oodles and oodles of interviews and clips and notes and wrong phone numbers and … ugh. I’m actually proud of myself, because I worked on this thing without telling anyone at the magazine for about three months. I think it’s a great idea, and I didn’t want them taking it from me to give to Gary Smith. I finally told an ed, and they’re letting me go for it. Praise Jesus.

Nov. 15, 1997. Nashville

Hey. Am sitting in the Vandy Days Inn—way, way early in the morning. Has been a weird few days here in Nashville. This Billy Collins story really had everything—mainly a whole lot of tragedy. Mr. Collins is a book or two by himself. The guy has a real endearing quality to him—like a lost pup or something. Yet his “nigger” references and Jew bashing speak for him. On my first day here I lucked out and got to meet Johnny Duke, who answered his door with a plastic bag covering his head. Tomorrow I’ll bite the bullet and drive to the house belonging to Andrea, Billy’s widow. She’s already told me to fuck off on the phone.³

Nov. 18, 1997. Nashville

Since I’m here, I’m doubling up on stories. Spent the day with J’Marie Moore and her father, the legendary boxer Archie Moore. She’s training to become a fighter and the magazine is letting me profile her. I feel like I’m making SI inroads.

Nov. 19, 1997. Los Angeles

Yes, I’m sitting courtside at the LA Forum trying to explain to Phil Taylor, my SI colleague, why I have a press pass to this game. Secret answer: I just wanted to go, so I called and got one. Regardless, had a kick-ass day hanging with Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini, the former boxing champ/current actor. Again, it reminded me why this job’s soooo cool—getting to spend the day with a hero plus writing a story about him … and getting paid to do so. Amazing. Ray and I drove all over the place—his cigar club, salon, house, theatrical office. Just a great, great guy with wonderful kids and an ulta, ultra, ultra hot wife. Over the next two days I’ll be searching for Panama Lewis, which hopefully won’t end with my extermination. Oh, one more thought—Cali is my place. For real— my place of places.

Dec. 5, 1997. NYC

Has been one year at Sports Illustrated. Probably can’t complain. I hate fact checking (well, dislike), but during the 365 days I’ve been promoted and allowed to write more than the average scrub. I still love newspaper and wanna be a beat guy. But living in NYC is cool, SI is a great magazine (though I read it less than I used to) and it’s much better than the Tennessean.

Is it weird I have a thing for Victoria Addams?⁴

Dec. 13, 1997. NYC

Weird day yesterday. Got called into Bill Colson’s office⁵, where he promoted me to staff writer. A total, total shock. I’ve been at SI all of one year. Weird. So I was really psyched when he told me, then I found out Grant Wahl and L. Jon Wertheim were promoted, too (as well as Marty Burns, a vet). That changed things. This is probably dumb, but I wanna move up because of me doing kick-ass stuff and Colson seeing that; not because he wanted to promote some folks.⁶

Dec. 21, 1997. New Jersey

Am somewhere in Jersey, stuck in traffic in a cab, waiting to go through the Lincoln Tunnel. Anyway, I woke at 4:30 this morning to catch a plane from Chattanooga to Raleigh to lovely Newark, N.J. Was back in Tennessee for the 800th time to cover the I-AA football championship game (Youngstown beat McNeese, 10-9). Nothing very exciting there—Chattanooga ranks high on my shit city list. I will say, the players on both teams seemed pretty psyched to have SI in town. Also, I went to Delaware, so I-AA is my thing. Long live Bill Vergantino.

Jan. 3, 1997. NYC

Had a fun, relatively insignificant New Year’s Eve. Went to a bar on 14th Street, drank a heavy amount, got the number of a Riverdance performer, called her and never got a return ring. Also had my first major SI rejection—I was asked a while back to write a humorous piece for the Swimsuit Issue about El Nino. Was returned today with two words: “Not funny.” Fuck.

Jan. 20, 1998. Airplane

Am on a Delta 767-300, heading south to a too-cold Atlanta. Will be there for three or four days for a spotlight on Georgia Tech’s Matt Harpring, a pretty good basketball player. Then off to Tampa-Ft. Lauderdale-Miami to write about Scooby Roach, a D-II guard for Barry University who: A. Is female and B. Can dunk and C. Is only 5-foot-9. Was also assigned another Swimsuit Issue piece today, this time on some jock wives who posed for spreads. Bright side: Talked to Herschel Walker yesterday—one of my childhood idols. Bad side: I hate the Swimsuit Issue. So many guys here find nothing wrong with the Swimsuit Issue. They love it. I think it sucks.

Side note: The road can be really lonely and sad. My friend Laura said she bets lots of business people hang themselves in hotel rooms. Agree.

Feb. 5, 1998. NYC

Sports Illustrated really has me down these past two or three weeks. My J’Marie Moore story is never running. My El Nino story was killed. Matt Harpring has been cut in half and Scooby Roach is about 100 words. Somehow I need to chill with the negative thoughts and remember I’m at SI, mag of the gods.

Oh, one more thing. Grant Wahl said to me the other day, “I could’ve been writing for this magazine two years ago.” Guy does not lack for confidence.

Feb. 13, 1998. Milwaukee

Welcome to Milwaukee!! Will only be in town for about eight hours, then fly to Cleveland tonight for Cavs-Bucks Saturday. This is being written in the parking lot of Archbishop Cousins Center, where the Bucks practice. I’m supposed to speak with Tyrone Hill about “Defending the post.” Boring idea. Not mine.

Feb. 14, 1998. Cleveland

Am sitting courtside at Gund Arena, next to Wes Unseld’s son, a little nervous. After several years of covering sports, I have managed to lose my press credential. Must’ve fallen off on my walk around the arena. As a result, I’m just gonna sit here (quietly) and not ask any questions. Oh, yeah—met Tyrone Hill yesterday. Interviewed him during his exercise bike routine. Good guy.

March 10, 1998. Airplane

Am on an American Airlines Super 80, on my way from Dallas to Sacramento for the first round of the NCAA Tournament. I had a major scare this morning when I left my laptop on the plane. Realized 30 minutes later, ran back and—whooo!—still there. This is going to be a long, potentially fun trip. Five days in Sacto, then off to Phoenix for a golf tournament story on Laura Davies. I know 0 about golf, but … so? I like the challenge. Interestingly, the Nicholls State hoops team is sitting in the rear of the plane—I’m gonna head back and check things out.

March 15, 1998. Airplane

Once again, I’m in the air, flying from Sacramento to Phoenix on an America West B737. Sacto was a mixed bag. The city is terribly boring—a poor man’s Brewster—and I was 50 percent sick with a cold. But covering the NCAA Tournament was a positive exercise in intensity. I didn’t have to write a story—just report. But for five days I pretty much ate, slept and farted hoops nonstop. It’s fun being in the competitive atmosphere of trying to beat other journalists and I thought I did a half OK job. The worst are the TV boobs—think they have some sort of God-given right to ask inane questions whenever they want. Fuck ‘em. I’m always tempted to throw elbows and bash a few teeth, but that wouldn’t end well.

My highlights would have to be: Michael Dickerson’s well-intentioned Bible thoughts, Laron Profit’s honesty, signing an autograph for Nicholls State coach Rickey Broussard, Kevin Stallings raising his eyes to me from the bench during Illinois State’s loss to Arizona. Really, the whole experience was a nice one. Now it’s to Phoenix for golf. Birdie, bogie, par, chip—what’s the difference? I’ll go buy “Golf for Dummies.”

March 16, 1998. Phoenix

Am in room 319 of the Phoenix Ramada Inn Metrocenter, about to head out for some golf. Against my better judgement, I picked up the premiere issue of ESPN The Magazine last night. I hate the sort of stuff they do—old, Ivy-educated snob fuckers trying to be cool. I fear the way journalism is heading. It seems like everything is straight out of Slam, except Slam does it well. I don’t know why I’m angry, because there’s not much loyalty in this world. But those guys are trying to take apart SI, the magazine they were part of. Fuck ESPN.

March 23, 1998. NYC

I’m back. I was supposed to be flying to Virginia right now for the McDonald’s High School Basketball exploitation piece, but that was nixed. Instead, I’m going to Auburn Thursday-thru-Sunday for the NCAA men’s—yawn—swimming championships. Five days of golf? Three of swimming? Fuck me.

I joke, but golf actually kicked ass. Sunny, 80 degrees, athletes who are happy to have the coverage. Free media lunch. Four Ross clothing stores within walking distance.

March 28, 1998. Auburn, Alabama

Did something for the first time today—wrote an entire Sports Illustrated story while on the toilet inside room 649 at the Auburn Hotel and Convention Center. Maybe the breakfast buffet was a bad idea. Are eggs supposed to be beige?

April 4, 1998. Scottsdale, Arizona

Allergies, back pains, sunburn, four days of nonstop golf—that pretty much sums up my time here In Scottsdale for the Senior Tour’s The Tradition. It’s the second golf tournament of my SI career. Golf is one of those things that excruciatingly sucks at the time, but in looking back wasn’t so bad. I mean, there were times out on the course where I surely swore I’d never do this again. But if [golf editor Jim] Herre called me tomorrow with another event in Arizona, I’d go. Hell, it’s writing for Sports Illustrated.

One cool part was I had a long, nice interview with Jack Nicklaus. I’ve now interviewed a handful of legends—Jack, Magic Johnson, Greg Norman.

Now I need to go home and sleep. I never fucking sleep. And when I do, I dream about golf balls.

April 6, 1998. Airplane

The plane is an American West A320, whatever the hell that means. The ticket cost $800. My lips and nose are heavily chapped from Arizona sun, and I’m listening to Styx on my portable CD player. Rick Lipsey called this morning to check some facts in my golf story. Gotta wonder how he feels, being there much longer than me and checking my story. It has to hurt. Which I don’t like. He’s a nice guy. Plus, he’s a golf expert and I know shit. If I’m him, I’m pissed. But what can I do? I love writing and the opportunity is there.

PS: The Hanson CD, “Middle of Nowhere” is actually pretty good.⁷

April 14, 1998. NYC

Something fucking crazy happened. My golf story on The Tradition featured a lede on this fat, beer-drinking Brewers hat-wearing fan who I called “Robin Yount.” The real Robin Yount didn’t find this funny (or clear)—thought I was speaking of him. He tracked me down to my parents’ house, where I was spending two nights, and called. My mom and dad have no idea who Robin Yount is. So when Mom said, “Jeff, someone named Robin Yount is on the phone”—I didn’t know what to think. Well, he was mad. Not a dick. But mad, and demanded some type of correction. Oy. I thought I was about to be fired. Nope. I’m actually off to Palm Beach tomorrow for another senior golf event.

April 15, 1998. Airplane

So in an early entry I wrote about meeting the woman who is surely my future wife. Like, I knew it with 100% certainty. This was The One. Eh, I was wrong. [Name] is a sweet, nice, well-intentioned woman, but something is missing with her. She just talks, for 20-minutes straight, about nothing. I’ll just stay home and think about Posh Spice or something.

April 21, 1998. NYC

Back from Palm Beach and the PGA Seniors Championship. I should not be allowed to cover golf. First, there was Robin Yount. But then, a few days ago, I was walking inside the rope, as writers do, when I heard someone yelling, “Hey, asshole! Hey asshole! Hey asshole!” toward someone. Well, it was toward me—and it was the caddie for a golfer named Gary Player. He screamed, “Look down!” and Player’s ball was between my legs. I came an inch from kicking it. That was bad.

Yesterday I got a call from Kevin Whitmer, sports editor of the Newark Star-Ledger. He offered me a gig as a lengthy, ass-kicking takeout writer. The base pay is about $70,000. But there I was, in the sun, watching Jack Nicklaus play golf, getting paid well to do so, and I realized what a great gig I’ve got going. I’m staying.

April 22, 1998. NYC

It’s official—I’m 26. How did I get so old?

May 7, 1998. Airplane

I’m an idiot. Clearly, as idiot. Why do I continue to fly Continental? Continental sucks. I don’t care about their passenger satisfaction awards or safe flights or blah, blah, blah. All I know is these fuckers are way too honest. First, there was that episode en route to Nashville last year, when the stewardess was nice enough to thank a passenger over the PA system for noticing an oil leak (Weirdly, Kit Hoover was one row in front of me). Then, today, Captain Dick tells us the plane is “extremely heavy.” So, as I sit here in a 737, bouncing all over the place, shit scared of death, I wonder—why not American?

By the way, I’m en route to Oklahoma (through Houston) for my story on Jet and Cord McCoy, rodeo brothers. Yesterday I went to Elizabeth, N.J. to profile Frank Beckhorn, the first baseman for Kean University. I love that I get assignments like these. You wake up and truly never know what’s coming, who’s calling and where you might be flying.

May 8, 1998. Tupleo. Oklahoma

I’m sitting on Denny McCoy’s porch as he explains to me the depth of a mechanical bull and his sons sit off somewhere else. This trip is a real experience. Tupelo is a dirty little nothing town, but the cowboy lifestyle is pretty fascinating. As I write, a guy named Ted has pulled up to the house to look at a saddle. What movie am I in and will I be able to get out?

Anyhow, we’re about to leave for the Future Farmers of America banquet at Tupelo High School. It’ll be my first FFA event.

Oh, forgot to say—last night I shared room 27 of the Red Carpet Inn in El Reno, Oklahoma with Jet and Cord. I slept on the floor, they each had beds. We didn’t spoon or snuggle. Walking around the rodeo last night, I noticed a lot of eyes following me. I guess I stand out a bit. Still, people have been lovely.

May 9, 1998. Tupelo. Oklahoma

Here’s something new. I came to the graduation of JoRay McCoy (Jet and Cord’s sis) from from Southwestern Oklahoma. We’re waiting in the lobby—waiting, waiting—and it turns out they locked us and a bunch of other people out of the ceremony. So all these family members who came to see their kid graduate missed it all.

May 22, 1998. Airplane

America West A320 to Phoenix for a piece on the Diamondbacks and their suck-ass first year. I’ve even got a one-on-one with Jerry Colangelo tomorrow evening. So four days in Phoenix, then three more in Oakland/San Fran for a piece on Quinton McCracken.

Before I left, got a weird call from Bill Colson. He was reading my rodeo article and wanted to know whether they didn’t place in five of100 rodeos or five of 100 rodeo events. This is the fucking managing editor of Sports Illustrated!!! It’s also the reason I really respect the guy. He cares about the magazine and what it stands for.

May 24, 1998. Phoenix

The glamorous life of a high-flying Sports Illustrated writer: I’m in my hotel room, staring at some pubic hairs affixed to the wall (previous guest, not mine!), watching the Teen Wolf sequel with Jason Bateman. There’s a bar downstairs, and what looks like a party with a bunch of hotties. But … Teen Wolf!

June 2, 1998. Detroit

Need to get off this plane. The guy next to me keeps picking his nose and wiping it on his jeans.

June 3, 1998. Omaha.

I am now, comfortably, in Omaha, in the Rosenblatt Stadium press box, waiting for the big Arizona State-Long Beach State game to start here at the College World Series. It’s fucking freezing here—50s and lots of wind. But an underrated city. Good burgers. If you’re a baseball nerd, this is the spot.

I’m working on some ledes. Here …

‘Over the years, the NCAA has taken more criticism than Macaulay Culkin—most of it deserved. But at least there was always a defense: Hey, why can’t we make money off a Chris Webber jersey? Hey, who likes Kansas anyway? Fine—we’ll buy it. But seeding LSU fifth? Fifth?’⁸

July 20, 1998. NYC

Covered the Roy Jones-Lou Del Valle fight at the Garden Saturday night—my first prime-time bout. What fun! A total carnival, featuring Allen Iverson, John McEnroe, Jayson Williams, Big Daddy Kane, Derrick Coleman, Heavy D, Spike Lee, Tracey Ullman and a bunch more. Just a fun, crazy environment. Got home at 2:30, filed the story at 5 am, slept until the next afternoon.

Funniest moment: At the post-fight press conference, someone asked Roy Jones when he plans on fighting Tommy Hearns. We turn—and it’s Tommy Hearns asking the question. He’s 40.

August 2, 1998. Airplane

Am on one of my shortest SI trips to date—a quick one nighter to Houston for an Inside Baseball item on Carl Everett. Hopefully he’ll talk to me (and not hit me) about the whole ordeal with his children and beating them and all.

I will say, sitting here, there are times I can’t believe I’m at SI. Dating back to my high school newspaper, college newspaper, internships, all the rejection letters. It’s amazing how fun my life has become. Fuck, earlier this week Howard Stern read something I wrote on the air. Howard Stern!

I love being a writer, and I always wonder what’s coming next.

The Quaz Five with … Erik Deckers

Erik Deckers is the author of myriad books, a social media guru, humorist and the mastermind behind Pro Blog Service. One can follow him on Xitter here.

1. You are the author of "Branding Yourself: How to Use Social Media to Invent or Reinvent Yourself." It came out in 2017. And I wonder, with everything moving at light speed, does the advice still hold? Or are we in a different world?: Actually, the first edition came out in 2010, and I'm a little ashamed that I wrote it now. I worry my co-author and I helped create today's "Hey, Look At Me" culture. I always die a little when I see wannabe influencers doing annoying shit just to attract attention. So to everyone who needs glasses from rolling their eyes so hard, I apologize. But, the principles are still sound, especially for entrepreneurs and creative professionals. If you want to be noticed and/or seen as an expert, follow the principles. Be visible and consistent. Share good information, not empty platitudes. Provide value and entertainment. Your personal brand is an emotional response people have about you. That is, you inspire an "Oh, good" and an "Oh, shit" response when you show up and when you leave. Which one at which time totally depends on you.

2. You published your first humor novel, "Mackinac Island Nation." What makes a humor novel a humor novel? And how do you know what you write is funny?: Humor novels are humorous because they often put weird people in normal situations or vice versa (called "fish out of water"), and then exaggerate the problems and reactions. Writers like Joseph Heller, Douglas Adams, and P.G. Wodehouse were hilarious because they exaggerated certain elements of normal, everyday situations. Lately, I've been reading the M*A*S*H novels from the 1970s, by Richard Hooker and William E. Butterworth (aka W.E.B. Griffin). They put weird people in normal situations and exaggerated the hell out of everything, and it's some of the funniest stuff I've read since Catch-22. It's a struggle for me to know whether the things I write are funny because I have a terrible case of Impostor Syndrome. I know the humor formulas and if I've followed them. And I've done this long enough to know if I've made the best word choices and kept the punchlines short and pithy. But whether I did it well is something that worries me constantly.

3. According to your website, "Erik has been blogging since 1997." Not being snide—is blogging still a thing? And, if so, how has it changed over the decades?: God, I hope so. My day job is ghostwriting blog articles for corporations. Blogs are important for search engine optimization and for establishing one's expertise, especially in business. It's also a great way for new writers to showcase their work and give it a permanent home, especially if readers want to explore past works. Newsletters like this one are important, but what do I do if I want to read an issue from two years ago? I'm sorry, Jeff, but I haven't saved back issues of The Yang Slinger. But with my blog, you can go back to the very first blog articles I wrote. (Please don't. They suck.) Blogs have changed a bit, but at their foundation, they're still the same. The name may change, but it won't ever go away. Businesses and individuals still need a permanent home for long-form written content; we can't all do videos and podcasts.

4. What are the biggest social media mistakes you see people commonly (unknowingly) make?: A lot of companies treat social media as free advertising and blast us with "Buy our stuff!" messages. They don't treat it as a conversation and don't engage with people. They're so focused on getting out their own messages that they don't respond to people talking to them. If you want people to pay attention to you, have conversations. Answer their questions. Ask your own questions. Share valuable information (see #1 above). Have a sense of humor. Treat people like people, not customers.

5. You've done a good share of ghostwriting. What are the keys to taking someone else's voice and making it sound authentic?: First, I talk with the client to get their speech patterns down. Do they use certain words or turns of phrase? (Turn of phrases?) Do they have fun little sayings or verbal quirks we should highlight? Next, I read their own writing. Do they use big words and long sentences, or simple words and short sentences? Are they formal or conversational? Do they write with authority or are they approachable? Then I use my own skills to incorporate their language patterns. Since I am usually not listed as a co-author, my style and their style merge to become "their voice," and no one will know any different.

Bonus (rank in order—favorite to least): "Dances With Wolves," happy people whistling, “Freakonomics,” Thurman Thomas, former Jets wide receiver Eric Decker, the Indiana State Department of Health, Disney World, Tito Jackson: Disney World, “Freakonomics,” happy people whistling, Tito Jackson, “Dances With Wolves,” Thurman Thomas, Indiana State Department of Health (I was the crisis communications director for two years. Scariest two years of my career), Eric Decker (He nearly played for the Colts when I was in Indianapolis. Would have killed my whole personal brand).

Ask Jeff Pearlman a fucking question(s)

From Sad: Sports Illustrated is dying and the Los Angeles Times just killed off its staff. Is it even worth becoming a journalist?: Damn. Tough question. So the short answer is—yes. I love reporting, I love writing, I love communicating. And I never want to be the person to tells others to bypass the joy of a potentially awesome career.

That said, it’s not easy. And it’s not getting easier. When I was coming up, entering journalism was no different (when it came to potential gigs) than becoming a teacher or sanitation worker or lawyer or store manager. Work hard, you’d find a gig. Now, however, I tell people it’s more like saying, “I wanna act on Broadway.” If you want it—really, truly want it—you should go for it. But it’s brutally hard.

So, yeah.

Sigh.

From Griff: Hi Jeff, love your work. Any thought to writing a biography of Mike Webster, Dan Hampton, or Mark Stepnoski? Maybe Steve McMichael or McMahon?: I actually think Webster would be an amazing subject for a biography. I’m not sure whether it sells enough for a publisher to pursue it, but I love the idea.

A random old article worth revisiting …

On June 28, 1983, the San Diego Clippers used a late pick in the NBA Draft to select a never-before-heard-of mystery man out of Africa named Manute Bol. The Ventura County-Star carried this short piece …

The Madness of Tyler Kepner’s Grid …

So unless you’ve been living beneath a pebble beneath a rock beneath a big hunk of cheese, you’re aware of Immaculate Grid, the daily game that’s drawn thousands of nerdy sports fans (guilty!) to its ranks. And while the NBA grid, NFL grid, NHL grid and WNBA grid are all fun, this game is at its best when it comes to baseball—where the names are endless and the transactions ceaseless.

Over the past few weeks I’ve often discussed the grid with Tyler Kepner, the Athletic baseball writer. And now, for kicks, every week I’m gonna feature one of Tyler’s bonkers grid results. He’s the ultimate baseball geek (I say this with great affection), and his outputs blow my mind.

So …

Tyler' thoughts …

• Melvin Bunch was called up by the Mariners in 1999, when I covered them for the Seattle P-I. He was a former Royal who made an emergency start in Cleveland when the Indians were loaded. It did not go well.

• Cesar Geronimo was the everyday center fielder for the Big Red Machine in the 70s. He finished up in KC.

• Bob Hegman played one game in the major leagues. He played a half-inning at second base for the Royals in 1985. Became a scout based in Chicago.

• Jerry Reed pitched briefly for the Phillies before they traded him to Cleveland in 1982 for John Denny, who wound up winning the Cy Young Award. Reed later had a few solid years with Seattle.

• Tom Marsh was an outfielder in the 90s who the Phillies seemed to call up every time they had an injury.

• Rafael Quirico pitched in one game in the major leagues. He was shelled in a doubleheader in Cincinnati the summer of 1996.

• Andrew Lorraine pitched for the Mariners late in the 1998 season, when I covered them. He pitched for several other teams, none for very long.

• Reid Nichols caught a fly ball in left field for the final out of Tom Seaver’s 300th win in 1985.

• Swede Risberg was one of the Eight Men Out for the 1919 Black Sox. Honestly I didn’t know if he played for any other team, but because he was a young player banned for life, I figured he didn’t.

This week’s college writer you should follow on Twitter …

Tyler Kavalecz, Bowling Green University

A sports writer for the BG Falcon, Tyler is a former Big Scribble contestant whose early interest in journalist has blossomed on the collegiate level. One of his latest pieces, a profile of Marcus Hill of the men’s basketball team, is insightful, crisp and smart. Writes Kavalecz in MARCUS HILL CONTINUES TO IMPRESS AMIDST BGSU’S RED-HOT STRETCH …

One can follow Tyler on Twitter here.

Bravo, kid.

Journalism musings for the week …

Musing 1: I’ve been locked out of my Twitter account. Someone overtook my protections, and now I can’t Tweet. I reached out to Elon’s company—and they’ve told me there’s nothing they can do. I’ve basically been hijacked, and now if someone wants to Tweet pictures of elephants having sex with Doris Day at @jeffpearlman, they can. And it’s weird, because I have mixed feelings. I hate Twitter, and I’ve long thought about leaving. But I wanted to do so on my terms, not like this. It blows.

Musing 2: It’s increasingly tough to anoint one specific person America’s most spineless political figure, but Sen. Tim Scott may well nail down the title after standing behind Donald Trump and having his testicles snipped and tossed into the crowd. This was just brutal.

Musing 3: If you love journalism, as I do, The Writing Shed with Tommy Tomlinson is absolute gold. This old post, on his 25th wedding anniversary, remains beyond lovely. Writes Tommy: “The other night, when Alix and I were getting ready for bed, I noticed that our toothbrushes were embracing. So I took this picture. It looked like they’d had a long day. You would, too, if you sat in a dark medicine cabinet most of the time, except for when you got yanked out of your holder and scrubbed across a set of grungy teeth. It can’t be fun to be a toothbrush. But it might be rewarding to be part of a pair. When you’re wet and grungy and ragged, it means everything to have someone who will let you lean on them for a little while. And it means even more when the other person is wet and ragged and grungy and they come to lean on you. As of today Alix Felsing and I will have been married 25 years, and probably the first thing I should do is apologize to her for starting this essay by comparing us to a couple of old toothbrushes.”

Musing 4: I’ve always wanted to be a Jeopardy answer. And, well, I still wanna be a Jeopardy answer. But this was awfully close—and dope as shit. Walter Payton never lets me down.

Musing 5: TRAIN YOURSELF TO ALWAYS SHOW UP, a guest essay in the New York Times via Rabbi Sharon Brous, is an absolute must-read and a reminder that decency, kindness, compassion all matter. Writes Brous: “Those who walked from the right would offer a blessing: ‘May the Holy One comfort you,’ they would say. ‘You are not alone.’ And then they would continue to walk until the next person approached. This timeless wisdom speaks to what it means to be human in a world of pain. This year, you walk the path of the anguished. Perhaps next year, it will be me. I hold your broken heart knowing that one day you will hold mine. I read in this text many profound lessons, two particularly pertinent in our time, when so many of us feel that we are breaking. First, do not take your broken heart and go home. Don’t isolate. Step toward those whom you know will hold you tenderly. And on your good days — the days when you can breathe — show up then, too. Because the very fact of seeing those who are walking against the current, people who can barely hold on, and asking, with an open heart, ‘Tell me about your sorrow,’ may be the deepest affirmation of our humanity, even in terribly inhumane times.”

Musing 6: In the Los Angeles Times’ own coverage of its layoffs, the publisher—Patrick Soon-Shiong—says he is very unhappy with the way the sports section has been reorganized. ““I was very upset when I learned, after the fact, that we took away sports scores,” he said. And, while I find all the bloodletting depressing and sad and wrong, I do think the paper made some major errors in its approach to sports coverage.

Musing 7: How did Joe Mauer make the Baseball Hall of Fame? Excellent player. One of the best of his era. But all-time great? I’m legit bewildered.

Musing 8: With the NFL playoffs in full swing, take a few minutes and read this fantastic 2008 profile from ESPN.com’s Elizabeth Merrill on former Dolphins quarterback David Woodley.

Musing 9: A wonderful New York Times piece from Kevin Draper and Benjamin Mullin on the power and prestige the cover of Sports Illustrated used to carry.

Musing 10: Just lovely writing from Anne Lamott in AGE MAKES THE MIRACLES EASIER TO SEE. Like breathing in sunshine.

Musing 11: This is where we’re at.

Musing 12: The new Two Writers Slinging Yang stars Mark Mulvoy, the legendary former Sports Illustrated managing editor …

Quote of the Week …

1. Frank Sutherland, the newspaper’s editor in chief.

2. A book with every sports information contact at every American college and university.

3. This is the Billy Collins story. I remain very proud of it.

4. Yes, this Victoria Addams.

5. The managing editor of SI at the time.

6. This is a mortifying passage, and show how much of an asshole I was. Grant, Jon and Marty were outstanding writers and 100 percent worthy. I was just being a self-indulgent fuck.

7. I stand by this.

8. I have no idea what I was thinking. And why the Macaulay Culkin reference?