Just a short update for all you loyal readers today. Fear not, I’m sniffing out a game-changing scoop as I write this, but I had a recent journalistic experience I thought you all might find illuminating. A peek behind the curtain, if you will–how the sports-flavored sausage gets made, sweaty gristle and all.
It all began about a week ago now, when my bookie rang me and let me know that my long series of doubling down in order to recoup my losses had added up to a rather impactful sum, and that betting against American Pharoah did not pan out for me. Pressed for cash, I went through my little black book and rang up an obscure contact who I knew could help me out. Ten minutes later, I was officially a well-paid journoblogger under The MMQB banner.
It’s amazing how much dirt you can get on a guy like Greg Bedard by knowing just a few professional panty sellers and diaper fetishists.
As it turns out, they were about to have their weekly meeting to help write the weekly MMQB column for SI, and I had just enough time to catch a plane to get there. Well, just as long as I reserved a private jet on Peter King’s SI account; I just showed them the email that confirmed my hiring, and that was that. Such is the life of a professional boutique blogger, readers! All life’s finery, right at your fingertips! The future is online, I can tell you that!
I landed and had a town car summoned–same account, naturally–and found my way to the conference room. Well, Mr. King had not yet arrived, so I seized the opportunity to drop a big scoop I had recently learned from my regular conversations with Bobby Dubanowski, a practice team guard for, most recently, the Las Vegas KISS indoor football team, but before that the Niners, Raiders, Chiefs, Raiders again, Browns, and many others.
“I’ve broken the case on all the Niners retirements and exits,” I began, trying to make eye contact with the editors at the table, who all twitched and alternated between grim smiles and expressions of naked fear and confusion, “The players in San Francisco both can no longer afford to live within 300 miles of the stadium, and also refuse to play for a coach shaped like candied apple, who looks like a Lifetime-movie version of Ron Jeremy, and smells like he filled a used catbox full of sardines, cheetos, and Aqua Velva and then used it as a slip and slide during record high temps. That oughta make some waves, right, folks?”
There were a few quiet coughs and one senior editor began rocking himself and emitting a high keening moan, until the doors opened and waves of coffee-soaked manwich-sweat and salami-farts assaulted my nose, and Peter King trundled his way to the head of the table.
“Just phone-talked to Jed York. He say hype team and I am get more access, also free beer and tickets. Please now read to I more congrat tweets on brave wedding writing?”
I then felt his blank and uncomprehending eyes fall on me.
“Who you are?”
I introduced myself and went through my pitch again. His eyes went wide and he shrieked in horror right before I finished.
“NO! BAD! We not write on players; players not people, only objects. Only owners, coaches, and Handsome, Strong Roger. You get fired now!”
And with that, my friends, I was out of the job. Still, there weren’t any issues with me using the private jet for my trip back, and I decided to pick up a few old lady friends in the off-Broadway entertainment profession on the way out of town and have a champagne room party at 30,000 feet to make the trip over the plains states that much more enjoyable. I may not have made it into the glamorous world of rarified sports content, but at least I was able to renew my Mile High Club Membership.
That, my loyal readers, is not a bad moral to have at the end of one’s story. Not a bad one at all.