The Yang Slinger: Vol. XLIIII

Sometimes you're assigned a story (or book) and the subject has no interest in engaging. Does it suck? Yes. Is it a setback? Sure. Can you survive—and thrive? Absolutely.

In the lord’s year of 2000, the editors at Sports Illustrated assigned me a detailed profile of Allen Iverson, at the time the NBA’s top point guard and a man of myriad contradictions.

I was not a basketball guy, but I was young scribe hungry to work his way up the magazine ladder. So I shuffled off to Philadelphia with approximately five or six days to compile enough information, then submit 1,800 words of A.I.-related genius.

Upon arrival, I was told Iverson was expecting me and that I could chat with him in the Sixers’ locker room during pre-game.

He blew me off.

The next day, I was told Iverson would be at the facility, and I could—without question—catch him there.

He never showed.

I followed the team to Florida. Miami! South Beach! I would 100-percent get Iverson in Miami!

I did not.

Finally, we were in Orlando. I was tired and beaten down and the newly sworn-in president of the FEED ALLEN IVERSON TO 100,000 MOSQUITOES ASSOCIATION. He avoided me during the pre-game, and as I shuffled off to my press row seat I knew—with 100 percent certainty—I should have taken my mother’s advice and attended dental school.

Late in the fourth quarter Billy King, the team’s general manager, tapped me on the shoulder. “How’s it going with Allen?” he asked.

I growled.

“Oh,” he said.

When the game wrapped, King led me into the Philadelphia locker room, told me, “Stay here,” then whispered something into Iverson’s ear. A few seconds later, the future Hall of Famer looked up and said, “Where’s the SI dude?”

I raised my hand.

“Follow me!” he said.

We began walking through the bowels of the arena. Iverson’s friends and admirers approached. Other friends and admirers approached. Where did Warren Sapp come from? How did Derrick Brooks get here? A.I. talked with them at length, treating my presence as one does a cotton ball on a Sephora floor. By the time we reached the team bus, the engine was running and the 14 (or so) other Sixers were waiting for their leader.

“Gotta go,” Iverson said.

And off he went.

The next day, I was back in New York City, plopped down before a computer in my Manhattan apartment and desperately trying to figure out what to write. I’d interviewed teammates, coaches, friends, Sixers execs. But no Allen Iverson. The void was enormous, and as I paced and cursed and punched (air) and whined and moped, I didn’t quite know what to do.

Turns out, I was far from alone.

There is a long and (somewhat) storied American journalism history of having to write an article (or book) without the cooperation of the subject. Perhaps the most famous example dates back to April 1966, when Esquire assigned Gay Talese to profile a singer named Frank Sinatra.

Alas, the legendary crooner wanted nothing to do with the pesky (and ultimately legendary) scribe, so Talese wound up writing a 10,000-word masterpiece—FRANK SINATRA HAS A COLD—without a single moment of cooperation from his subject. According to a well-sourced Wikipedia entry on the story, Talese spent three months stalking out Sinatra and any/all of his friends. It cost the magazine $5,000 in expenses, and—pre-publication—Talese wrote a letter to his editor that said, in part, "I may not get the piece we'd hoped for—the real Frank Sinatra, but perhaps, by not getting it—and by getting rejected constantly and by seeing his flunkies protecting his flanks—we will be getting close to the truth about the man."

Thanks to the duel powers of detail and observation, Talese produced what many magazine heads consider to be the greatest long-form feature ever written.

Here’s a snippet …

And while very few of us possess the talent of a Gay Talese (lord knows I don’t), FRANK SINATRA HAS A COLD remains an important reminder that—frustrations be damned—we can still thrive and survive sans assistance of the No. 1 person we aspire to interview.

Personally, much of my career has revolved around this bedeviled fate. While the Iverson story was an early example, every book I’ve written has included at least one coveted character failing to engage. My first offering, on the 1986 Mets, featured the to-the-author voices of neither Dwight Gooden nor Darryl Strawberry. My second, on Barry Bonds, lacked (cough, cough) Barry Bonds. I wrote a Roger Clemens biography without Roger Clemens, a Brett Favre biography without Brett Favre, a Bo Jackson biography without Bo Jackson. The 1990s Dallas Cowboys were headlined by Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith and Michael Irvin. Aikman failed to return my calls, Smith ignored me (until he tried body-slamming me while we were both being interviewed by ESPN’s Bob Ley), Irvin gave me 15 minutes at his Hall of Fame induction weekend—although I’m 99 percent certain he had no idea who I was/what I was working on (The next day, however, Michael J. Lewis and I snuck into his private Hall of Fame party—which included the Pointer Sisters and endless bowls of M&Ms).

Fuck, since we’re here (deep in the weeds) sometimes it can get downright antagonistic. Not long after The Rocket That Fell to Earth hit shelves¹, Clemens—who puts the douche in douchebag—Tweeted this about me …

Favre expressed equal displeasure about my biographical efforts (though, to his credit, he did so in a text message), and one of the athletes I’ve written about—and I am not making this shit up—called the independent book shops where I was scheduled to sign copies and urged them to cancel the events (to their credit, none obliged).

Wait.

I digress.

The point is, life without access is part of being a journalist, and survival in the field depends (to a certain degree) in learning how to overcome.

So let’s discuss.

One of my favorite baseball books in some time is Erik Sherman’s latest offering, “Daybreak at Chavez Ravine: Fernandomania and the Remaking of the Los Angeles Dodgers.” It’s the story of Fernando Valenzuela, the early-1980s pitching phenom who joined the Dodgers out of the blue and—within a year’s time—found himself winning a World Series title, plastered across the cover of Sports Illustrated and invited to the White House to meet the president.

I’ve known Erik for a big chunk of clock. He’s the type of writer athletes (and retired athletes) respond to, because he’s earnest and decent and transparently sincere. His catalogue of wonderful books are an ode to trust: Mookie Wilson trusted Erik. Davey Johnson trusted Erik. Art Shamsky trusted Erik. Steve Blass trusted Erik.

Fernando Valenzuela wanted nothing to do with Erik.

It was almost certainly nothing personal. Erik tried. He went through the Dodgers. Went through intermediaries. Friends of friends. But Valenzuela—lovely, but notoriously private—failed to break. So what’s an author to do? “You follow the subject to observe how he interacts, where he goes, who he talks to, how he talks to them, what is his body language and mannerisms like,” Erik told me. “You contact those in his inner circle, his acquaintances, and those whom he impacted.”

And Erik’s right. You do all of those things. Like, when I was chronicling the life and times of Barry Bonds for what would become the damned “Love Me, Hate Me: Barry Bonds and the Making of an Anti-Hero,”² I spent a shitload of time within the San Francisco Giants’ clubhouse—probing, prowling, searching. You takes notes with your eyes and your pen, looking for anything that suggests greater meaning than the action itself. For example: Refusing the hold the door for someone. Failing to say 'Thank you.' Signing an extra autograph. Picking your nose and wiping it on your leg. Complaining about the clubhouse food. I remember, years and years ago, a Yankees reliever named Graeme Lloyd looking at me inside the Wrigley Field visitors’ clubhouse, then whispering toward a teammate, "You never know who's listening." I was deeply offended—but only because Lloyd was correct. I was listening.

Alas, observation only gets you so far. Shortly after I signed a contract to write about Bo, I reached out to the man himself—sending him three of my books along with an optimistic letter. When, ultimately, Jackson (politely) told me he wouldn’t talk, I did two things:

1. Lick my wounds.

2. Roll up my sleeves.

You don’t wanna help? Okay. But I’ll now be calling everyone. Every teammate. Every coach. Every teacher. Every classmate. I will find your old yearbooks and I will make a file for … every … single … classmate. Then I’ll reach out. And if the first seven won’t talk, the eighth will.

To be clear, this is not me threatening anyone. But it’s the reality of the jilted scribe. With rejection comes resourcefulness.

From my days at Sports Illustrated, the first example that comes to mind is Rick Reilly’s masterful Jan. 17, 1994 profile of Knicks center Patrick Ewing, headlined, THE UNKNOWN PLAYER³. Rick wrote a slew of unforgettable pieces during his time at the magazine, but the cobbling together of the Ewing saga is a wickedly smart and creative journalist at the height of his powers.

Here, take a quick glance …

“I had to write 10 pages on Ewing and he wouldn't speak to me and wouldn't speak to me and kept delaying and I was running out of time,” Reilly recalled. “So the 10 pages were about getting ready for the interview. So I talked to his mom and sisters his ex-teammates and coaches and Knicks teammates, and the waiter at his favorite restaurant. Just everybody. All telling me what he was like.”

And there are a few choices Rick made that really stand out: First, the decision to be relentless. When someone refused to chat, Rick just called the next dude. Then the next dude. Second, he allowed for anonymity. Which, while frowned upon by some in the business, makes perfect sense when you’re writing about someone who isn’t cooperating. For Bonds, in particular, I encountered many folks who hated the man—but didn’t want to be named hating the man. “Hey,” I’d say, “fine with me.” Third, he didn’t write with a chip on his shoulder. Reilly could have been annoyed at Ewing. I mean, back in the day rare was the athlete who didn’t cooperate with SI. But there’s no trace of anger in the article. It’s bouncy and fun and informative and strangely liberated. Really, it’s like ESPN’s Tom Junod told me when I asked his approach to writing minus help: “I look at them as an opportunity,” he said. “I mean, they’re sort of like writing obits—you don’t owe anyone anything.”

Six years before Rick’s Ewing opus, Tim Layden—another fantastic Sports Illustrated senior writer—pissed off Marion Jones, the star American sprinter, with a profile she found, ahem, objectionable. “She hated the story,” Tim recalled. “Her mother told me some unflattering stories—or stories—that revealed vulnerability and weakness, and she left me voice mail dropping about 50 MFs. Later on, her mother told me yet another revealing story, and I wrote it, and the mother cut me off.”

So now Tim—the No. 1 Olympic writer at the world’s biggest sports magazine—was all but dead to track and field’s major star. I asked how one manages such a situation. Tim offered some tips:

• Resist the temptation to punish the subject for not talking. Most people have good reasons for not talking, and fuck, I probably would think very hard before offering my innermost thoughts and biographical details to somebody.

• Also be very careful about making the “subject not talking” a narrative device. It’s self-aggrandizing (“Look at me, I can do this without Jeff Pealrman talking to me”), gets old, and requires a fuck ton of skill and experience. Readers only care about process to the extent that it makes the story better, not just the writer bragging

• On the other hand, you have to deal with why the subject might not talk. (And don’t rule out the possibility that he just doesn’t like you, or you’re not important enough)

• Then just grind. Without the subject, you have to work twice as hard. And when you’re done, go back to the subject, either to confirm, or just to say, “Hey, I did all this work, maybe throw me a bone.” Humans are human.

• But in the end, not having an obligation to reward the subject for taking time to talk to you is 100% an opportunity to be more candid in point of view

Amen.

A final thought on this.

An important one.

Sometimes, reporting without the subject’s help—and doing it with brio and oomph—results in, well, the subject’s help. In other words: It’s easy to say, “Yeah, breh, not interested” when you’re face to face with some goober reporter in ill-fitted pants and a shirt stained by press box fried chicken.⁴ But when all your friends and colleagues starts hitting you up, saying, "Hey, some guy named Jeff Pearlman called me ..."

It shifts the dynamic.

The best example I know of involves Sean Gregory, the terrific Time writer who, in 2020, was tasked with jamming together a piece on LeBron James for the magazine’s Athlete of the Year nod. This was shortly after the Lakers won their bubble title, and James was the talk of the universe. “He was just too busy, I was told,” Sean recalled. So he did what veteran reporters do—”We reported the story out anyway,” he said, “talking to other players and coaches who were with him in the bubble, and offered perspectives on his influence. We spoke to key players in the voting rights group [LeBron had started]. We spoke to families in Akron whom he impacted with his philanthropy.”

The finished piece was due on the Monday after Thanksgiving, and Gregory locked himself down, cocooned within a wall of notes, articles, clips. This was a big story for Time, and it needed to be done well.

Then, on Saturday, James called.

“It wasn’t a ton of time,” Sean said. “But we were able to plug his perspective in the appropriate places, and it really helped the piece.

“I do think the legwork we put in convinced his team to recommend that he speak for the story. Once subjects know you’re going to do the reporting and write a story anyhow, without their cooperation, very often they come around at the very last minute, since they want their voice in the piece.”

Which brings me back to Allen Iverson.

It’s 2000. Like Sean two decades later, I’m in my apartment, feeling the heat. I’m writing a story without the protagonist’s insights. I’m grumpy and nervous and overwhelmed.

The phone rings.

“This Jeff?”

Yeah.

“Hey, man. It’s A.I.”

Um, hi.

“Sorry we didn’t connect. But I’ve got some time now.”

I didn’t need him.

But I was happy to have him.

The Quaz Five with … Chad Osborne

Chad Osborne writes about the long-defunct Marion (Va.) Mets on his Substack—and it’s wildly entertaining and engrossing. You can follow him on Twitter here.

1. OK, Chad—you have a substack devoted to the Marion (Va.) Mets. Which means you have the world's greatest Marion Mets-themed Substack. So, eh, why do you do this?: I do it mainly because it’s fun, super fun! I love digging through old newspapers. I love tracking down and cold-calling guys who played here in Marion—Marion is my hometown, by the way—and writing and sharing their stories with my readers. And, I love finding stories that may otherwise never be uncovered. For example, Randy Pugh pitched a no-hitter for Marion in 1970. During my research, I discovered his catcher for that game was Roman Schmitt, who after a brief minor league career, went on to a career training circus elephants and rhinos. Another one of my favorite stories was about the night Yogi Berra came to Marion. His son, Larry, played for Marion in 1971. I knew Yogi came to town to help boost Marion’s attendance numbers just before the season ended, but Larry told me the main reason for the visit. Larry had busted up his knee in a game in Wytheville, and Yogi flew to Marion to drive his son home to New Jersey in Larry’s royal blue 1969 Rally Sport Camaro with a convertible black top and hideaway lights. (Details, Jeff!!!) Another cool story came from finding one of Nolan Ryan’s catchers. Ryan played for the 1965 Marion Mets. The catcher, Larry Wallin, said “Nolan threw so hard it scared the hell out of me.” I dig finding those stories that go beyond games. Yeah, my newsletter is about a baseball team, but it’s more about the people who played and watched games here in Marion. Sorry for the long answer. I could write about this all night.

2. So your team existed from 1965-to-1976, and in your ABOUT THE WEBSITE section you mention a large handful of guys who wound up making the Majors after stops in Marion. You also note that Birdie Tebbetts managed Marion in 1967. What does one need to know about the Birdie Tebbetts era of Marion Mets baseball?: I’ve heard a lot of great stories about Birdie. He skippered the Marion Mets less than a year after managing in Cleveland. So, within a few months, he went from the majors to a low-level rookie league in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. That had to be a bit demoralizing. But, he received a lot of national publicity while he was here. Life Magazine sent David Wolf to Marion to write a feature story about Birdie and his family. The headline was “A big-leaguer in the boondocks.”

3. Do you feel like the romance of minor league baseball still exists? Or has that Bull Durham-esque thing sorta vanished with technology and such?: I think the romance is still there. And, I think it’s growing, even though there are fewer teams now. My wife and two kids love going to games, and have for years. Not to sound cheesy, but it’s tough to beat a night at the ballpark, eating hot dogs, sipping sodas and rooting for the home team. Plus, it seems there is more media coverage and books written about the minors. And college baseball is growing in popularity, too,

4. So your day job is as a Radford (Va.) University marketing writer. And I wonder: What goes into marketing writing? Can you be creative? Inventive? Are you limited in what tools can be used?: I think when people think of marketing writing, they often think of dull, promotional, jargon-filled text. That’s not how we do it at Radford. Our job is to promote all the cool things about the university: the students, the faculty, the research, our alumni and so on. To truly do that, you have to be a storyteller. When I interview someone for a Radford feature story, particularly for our magazine, I dig for details just as I would for a Marion Mets story. I want to show readers why the person is interesting. So, yeah, we can be as creative as we like because, you know, we want people to actually enjoy reading and learning all about Radford University. I wrote one of my favorite stories a few years ago about a professor’s research into the mating habits of a particular spider. I wrote it as sort of a spider dating story.

5. You interviewed Whitey Herzog last year about his time in Marion. He's known to be a bit ... ornery. What was he like?: Whitey was great, and I couldn’t believe he agreed to do the interview. But as we talked, I quickly learned why he agreed. He loved Marion. In the late 60s and early ‘70s, Whitey was the New York Mets director of player development, and part of his job was visiting various Mets-affiliated minor league teams. He came to Marion two or three times a year, and shared with me a lot of great stories about the town and Hungry Mother State Park, which is three miles from my house. I got married there. I camp there, and bike there often. I consider it part of my backyard, so it was nice to hear how much he loved it, too. I talked to Whitey on the phone last summer. He was watching the U.S. Open golf tournament as we chatted. Near the end of our conversation, I kept saying, ‘I have one last question.’ After three or four of those, Whitey did get a little ornery, asking, ‘How many last questions do you have, Chad?’ It was great. I consider it an honor having Whitey Herzog get a little grumpy with me.

BONUS: Rank in order (favorite to least): Cold brew with one sugar, Doja Cat, Alex Trevino, electric bicycles, Anthony Davis, brown wallets, the smell of waffles, Viola Davis, your elbow, Micah Parsons, picking your nose when no one is looking, Nancy Reagan: Doja Cat is super cool, so I’ll rank her No. 1. From there, let’s go with Alex Trevino (return my emails, please, Alex), Viola Davis, my elbows are pretty sweet, Anthony Davis (because I grew up loving the Lakers and Magic Johnson), I have a terrible sense of smell, but everyone tells me waffles smell amazing, brown wallets (I have a brown wallet with baseball stitches on it. It looks like it belongs to a fifth grader), I only pick my nose when people are looking, Nancy Reagan, Micah Parsons, electric bicycles (seems kind of lazy) and cold brew with one sugar (I’m not much of a coffee guy.)

A random old article worth revisiting …

For no particular reason, former Mets ace Al Leiter entered my dome earlier today. So I did a search for early material, and stumbled upon this beauty from the Daily Register in Red Bank, N.J. Pub date: June 22, 1984 …

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

Alexa Baumberger, recently graduated senior, University of Akron

The arts and entertainment editor of The Buchtelite, says farewell to college with the perfectly headlined piece, I’M STILL GETTING MY S*IT TOGETHER (AND THAT’S OKAY). Like a huge chunk of people leaving school for the real world, Alexa isn’t sure what she’s heading toward … and willingly, delightfully admits such.

Writes Alexa …

One can follow Alexa on Twitter here.

Congrats on congratulating, kid. Go get ‘em …

Jim Murray speaks with …

A new feature to the Pearlman Journalism Substack—thanks to the warped geniuses at Chat GPT, we can sorta kinda see what would happen if Jim Murray, the late/legendary Los Angeles Times columnist, sat down with three random celebrities. This week, here’s what GPT offers from Jim’s meeting with Tupac Shakur, Rush Limbaugh and Clubber Lang …

Jim Murray: Good evening, everyone. I'm Jim Murray, and tonight we have a very interesting panel of guests. We have the late rapper and social activist Tupac Shakur, conservative talk radio host Rush Limbaugh, and the former heavyweight boxer Clubber Lang. Welcome, gentlemen.

Tupac Shakur: Thank you, Jim. It's an honor to be here.

Rush Limbaugh: Pleasure to be here, Jim.

Clubber Lang: Yo, yo, yo, what's up, Jim?

Jim Murray: Tupac, you're known for your socially conscious music and activism. Can you talk to us about your passion for making a difference in the world?

Tupac Shakur: Yeah, absolutely. I grew up in a neighborhood that was plagued by poverty and violence, and it really opened my eyes to the issues facing black people in America. I always felt like I had a responsibility to speak up and use my platform to make a difference.

Rush Limbaugh: But Tupac, do you really think that rap music is the best way to address those issues? It seems like a lot of it glorifies violence and drug use.

Tupac Shakur: That's a common misconception, Rush. My music is a reflection of the realities of life in the inner city. It's not glorifying anything. It's just telling it like it is.

Clubber Lang: Yo, Tupac's speaking the truth, man. You gotta understand that life in the ghetto ain't all sunshine and rainbows. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to survive.

Jim Murray: Clubber, you've also come from a tough background and have achieved great success as a boxer. Can you talk about how you got to where you are today?

Clubber Lang: Yeah, Jim, I grew up in Chicago, in a tough neighborhood like Tupac. But I always had a dream of becoming a champion boxer, and I worked my butt off to make it happen. It wasn't easy, but I never gave up.

Rush Limbaugh: That's what I like to hear, Clubber. You're an inspiration to people who believe in hard work and individual responsibility.

Tupac Shakur: Hold on, Rush. I think it's important to acknowledge that some people face more obstacles than others. We can't just ignore the systemic issues that contribute to poverty and inequality.

Clubber Lang: Yo, Tupac's right. It ain't just about working hard. Sometimes you gotta fight for what's right and demand change.

Jim Murray: Rush, you've been a vocal critic of the Democratic Party for many years. What do you see as the biggest problem with the party?

Rush Limbaugh: Well, Jim, I think the biggest problem with the Democratic Party is that they're too far to the left. They want big government and high taxes, and they're pushing an agenda of political correctness.

Tupac Shakur: But Rush, don't you think that everyone deserves access to healthcare, education, and basic human rights? How is that a bad thing?

Clubber Lang: Yo, Rush, you're just scared of change. Sometimes you gotta be bold and make big moves to improve people's lives.

Jim Murray: Clubber, you mentioned the importance of being bold. As a boxer, you had to have a lot of confidence and swagger. Can you talk about how that translated into your personal life?

Clubber Lang: Absolutely, Jim. Confidence is everything. You gotta believe in yourself and your abilities. That's how I got to the top of the heavyweight title. No one thought I could beat Balboa. They said I was scared. I wasn’t. I pitied the fool.

Rush Limbaugh: I pity the Democrats.

Tupac Shakur: That says more about you than them, Rush.

Jim Murray: Well, with that I want to thank today’s guests—Tupac, Rush and Clubber. Have a great week.

Journalism musings for the week …

Musing 1: The Washington Post editorial from earlier this week—BIDEN NO LONGER DOES PRESS CONFERENCES. THAT’S NOT ACCEPTABLE—is dead on and 100-percent correct. Look, I think Biden has been an excellent president, and his low approval ratings actually baffle me quite a bit. But the “Is he too old?” question is a legitimate one, and the White House hiding him from the media doesn’t exactly instill confidence in his mental acuity.

Musing 2: Someone recently asked for the name of my favorite childhood book. The answer: “The Secret Life of the Underwear Champ.” I don’t remember why I had it, or who bought it for me, or what grabbed me about the saga (a youth baseball star who doubled as an underwear model and was terrified of classmates knowing), but a few days ago I looked up the author—whose name I forgot. Well, it was Betty Miles, and she died five years ago after living a remarkable life. I was happy to learn about her via this New York Times obituary. Hope you are, too.

Musing 3: This Texas Tribune piece, via Sneha Dey and Joshua Fechter, had me screaming at the walls. Just wondering what, exactly, has to happen for this nation’s Republican leaders to take serious action on guns and gun violence? Do we need a congressional leader to be shot? Nope—already happened. Do we need a Christian school in a major Southern city to be shot up? Nope. What the fuck will it take?

Musing 4: I don’t know who Perry Johnson is, but according to this piece from Nick Baur of the Times Republican he’s running for president as a GOP longshot. Is it just me, or does Johnson look like the out-of-wedlock offspring of Vin Scully and Clay Aiken?

Musing 5: The opportunistic dolts calling the shots at CNN should be ashamed of themselves for allowing Donald Trump to lie and lie and lie and lie his rear off for two hours during Wednesday night’s debate. When it comes to democracy’s death, people assign all sorts of blame. A huge finger needs to be directed toward cable news, where profits trump accountability.

Musing 6: God, I loved Rick Reilly’s piece for the Washington Post on his hatred of pickleball. Rick catches a lot of shit, but he’s both: A. A really lovely guy; B. A fantastic writer.

Musing 7: This week’s Two Writers Slinging Yang stars Konrad Marshall, the exceptional long-form magazine writer for “Good Weekend” the weekly Australian pub.

Quote of the week …

1. And vanished from them just as quickly.

2. Free tip from Uncle Jeffie: Never have your Barry Bonds book come out two weeks after another Barry Bonds book.

3. God, Sports Illustrated’s Vault fucking sucks.

4. Been there, bro. Been there.