Stories in sports reporting

It’s easy to go to a game, mark down the score-lines, the significant moments, and how every big play breaks down. It’s time consuming, but easy nonetheless.
It’s also basic to talk to the coach, a few players, and get some quotes to go along with your story.
Granted, there are long days with sports reporting. Some weekends you pound out a few articles a day, attend a handful of games each day, and run around like a chicken with its head cut off.
The difficult part is picking up on the stories behind the action. These are often referred to as human interest.
Now, sports reporting is not the same as it was. I am not beckoning for some past era of sports reporting, when Hunter S. Thomson drove Cadillacs while hopped up on handfuls of drugs, or anything of the sort.
It’s rare to get the true human interest pieces now. Sure, you get the stories about an athlete like Tim Thomas, and his hard road to the NHL, and the Stanley Cup> You stillg et some of it. My issue is that we aren’t getting enough of it. Stories make sports interesting to everybody, not just sports fans.
I believe anyone can read about someone like Thomas, and be interested. Someone can read about the age-defying Teemu Selanne and be inspired, not just because they like hockey.
However, the feature side of reporting seems to be drying up. It is the joy of sports reporting, and it is shrinking. I read a tonne of game summaries, and the hard news of sports; it’s my job, but it’s also my passion. I long for more sports features. Occasionally, one comes across an article, and video, like the BBC produced interview with Joe Cole. This is a short interview, but it reveals a lot about the athlete and the culture around soccer in England and France.

These are the sort of stories we need more of in journalism, and not jut with sports. Last night I had a great conversation with a man who had 17 years of journalism experience before stepping away from the field. He now works as an independent film-maker and makes corporate communication pieces. He enjoys making documentaries, because he gets to dive into a story and swim around awhile. He can wade around the water, dive to the bottom of the pool, or try and climb out wherever he would like.

Story-tellers need the space to tell the story fully and in their own way. Modern-day journalism focuses on quick hits, and hour-by-hour updates, as opposed to the whopping features and deep-digging stories of old. Some people say the audience has changed, and they no longer read the lengthy features. Some say the industry no longer funds journalists to write long stories. I believe complacency plays a role as well. I’ve seen a lot of journalists who are willing to call it in from the office, or get their quick story and get out. I’ve even heard ghastly rumours of template-using sports reporter.

In truth, there is a combination of things. Morale among journalists is low, funding is brutal, and maybe the audience has become less interested. There is no easy solution, but this is a plea for more consistent effort from all my colleagues in sport writing. Keep writing, and I’ll keep reading ladies and gentlemen.

Finding my way as a Newfoundlander

Many Canadians will read the headline for this post, and instantly think of that six-letter word – newfie – which I have intentionally left out in favour of the politically-correct term.

While the word has always been something I have used in an endearing, affectionate manner, it is not often regarded as such by people hailing from Newfoundland. It isn’t akin to violently-offensive racist descriptions, but it also isn’t welcome. A solid post about the term can be found by Candice, a native Newfoundlander, over at Candice Does the World, so I won’t rant too much about the topic.

Now that we have taken care of that thought-progression, let’s get to the meat of this post – my experiences living in Newfoundland.

To begin, I will establish a timeline.

I moved here to attend MUN’s Humanities program – which drew me in from Sudbury, Ontario – on August 30. 2011. I viewed and selected a condo on September 1, 2001 with my love, Melanie Langlais. Notice the word ‘condo,’ which begs the question of how I am living in a condo as a student.

In terms of work, I accepted the job of Sports Editor with The Muse in the latter stages of the summer. I picked up a second job as a Graduate Assistant for my program shortly after arriving. I kept freelancing for my old paper, The Lambda. I took on a new job as a freelance writer for the Canadian Press covering the St. John’s IceCaps (see an example of that here), which is an entire-season contract, similar to my work for them last year as the Sudbury Wolves’ reporter. Today, I accepted another position that I can not announce yet, but it involves sports writing as well.

So I’m working something like five jobs, although an exact number gets a bit hazy when it comes to freelancing. I manage this along with being a full-time grad student. In a simple statement; I’ve been busy. I have also been saner and more-organized in the past, but some things must be sacrificed in the name of productivity.

I have found the amount of help given to me by certain individuals has been helpful for me, professionally and socially. On a professional level, I would like to thank Neil Davidson of CP, Dr. Jennifer Dyer from MUN’s Humanities program, and Shayne Menecola of MUN’s varsity athletics. Socially, I would like to thank the staff at The Muse, particularly Jessie Small, Marie King, Tim O’Brien and Paul Hussey, who I have become fast friends with. I would like to thank MUN soccer coach Scott Betts, who was the first person I met with upon arrival, and who has provided great conversation about the beautiful game and life. I would like to send a special thanks to my fellow IceCaps reporters, who have made the  job more enjoyable, and especially humorous. I would also like to thank Mike Rossiter of CBC who has been great to talk shop, and life, with.

A careful combination of professional and social life has led to a happy and productive life so far on the Eastern shores of Canada. I have now been here for close to three months, and although I am excited to return home to visit with my family and friends, St. John’s does feel like home  for me.

Luke I am your

Father,
I’ve become so much like you.
Up at 4:20 AM
making bologna sandwiches.
Where did all the time go?
Sitting around in my joggers and wool socks,
wondering where all my sleep goes,
when I am not partaking in it.
Just a few months ago we were together,
and now all I get is your voice
but I can still see your smile
on the other end,
when I hear
pride in your voice.
At the end of the day,
that’s one of the only things that matters to me.
I remember being young and saying
I would never be like you,
the thought of it was appalling.
Now It’s a badge of honour.
I love you dad,
and you always did right by me,
even when you were wrong.

the return of the mistress

A familiar love claws to the surface

long thought buried

but missed.

 

My true mistress of old

maybe will become

new again.

 

I've never loved

as I loved

sadness.

 

There is something pure

in the blue flame

of sorrow.

 

My first instinct was to run,

remember the happy,

the smiling cheer,

but it is false.

 

A big storm approaches,

held off and forgotten

for many years,

but not lost

at sea.

 

One can not run from who they are,

as hideous as the reality is.

 

Putting on sheep's clothing

never hides a wolf for long.

stand and fight

 

I've been a poet since 14,

and they used to laugh,

and chuckle among

themselves.

 

Talentless,

spineless,

cowards.

 

Afraid to face their own

emotions.

 

Terrified of anything,

real.

 

Running only gets you,

so far,

when,

your problems are faster,

and never tire.

 

Stand,

fight,

live well.

a wretched success

 

I can't change

but I

tried.

 

At least hard enough

for that guilty

piece of my

mind to

run and

hide.

 

I pretend it vanished,

but I know where it sits.

 

It sits in the old me,

the dead,

molted,

me,

hiding,

and waiting.

 

Waiting for nothing.

 

It's return will be a touch

too late to save me

from myself.

 

Is that a pity,

or success?

empty girl

 

An echo follows you,

not from behind you,

but from within.

 

Hollow girl,

empty words.

 

There is no

quick

fix

for your boredom,

or the absent mind

you protect with venom.

 

Empty girl,

hollow thoughts.

the value of a man with a gun

Thoughts beat as sledgehammers,

sieging my fragile, near-dawn mind,

The answer to the question is easy,

and therefore too hard to accept.

 

Wordsmiths are not what they were,

in the gun-slinging days,

when words oft failed.

 

No one values a man with a gun,

like they value one who can still

cheat

lie

beg

and generally be a scum-sucking

waste

of

flesh.

 

First-hand experience is trump,

and I can throw around bowers

with the kings of the underworld.

 

What happened to the sweet genius?

Where lay the inoocent, golden locks

of my youth?

 

When does a broken man,

oft mistaken for a saint,

and too hard on himself,

qualify for ascension?

 

The devil is in the details,

and she is dancing so lovely,

tonight.

 

The battle is between loneliness,

a long-neglected sense of destiny,

and the warm feeling of security;

nothing else matters.

 

Life doesn't go around handing out lemons,

it squirts them in your eye

while it kicks the piss out of

the useless, slowly-dying gas-bag

we all seem to refer to as the human body.

 

That's life,

and we deserve it.

the tender ego

It's a burden,

assumed omniscience,

which inflates the tender ego.

 

Watch as the personality,

breaks down on the side,

of the common road,

under its weight.

 

The solution doesn't surface,

a submarine long since torpedoed;

the death rattle of your love life.

 

Maybe there wasn't a solution.

Imagine years spent

three steps ahead

only to realize that

the race is a lie.

 

Three steps ahead became

three steps above or away,

but it didn't matter in the end,

it was only relative to zero.

 

And now who is laughing? 

I can't see them but I hear

strange, strange echoes

of love and ignorance

not so blissful

or needed.

 

There was a point to the story,

I told myself,

as I lay down under the siege

of an enigmatic stream of consciousness,

that somewhere is broken,

and all too complete.

 

It's bent on destruction,

it's own, yours, or the delicate

break-down of my loved ones.

 

A battle tonight became a victory,

and the wolves danced as sheeps

following a failure too obvious and unsung.

 

Silence is golden,

even when shrouded by

bronze defeat.