mattlawyue

After finishing Grantland’s most impressive piece thus far, The Greatest Paper That Ever Died, and reading comments in it from Steve Buckley, it reminded me of this past fall, when I sat next to Steve covering my first NFL game.

I had been on a plane for ten and a half hours on September 13th, departing from the Istanbul Ataturk Havalimani to JFK. I passed the time by watching four movies, none of which I can remember now, and eating plastic food: I believe it was Russell Crowe’s Robin Hood and a processed, microwaveable hamburger? Not a good look for anyone.

When I turned on my BlackBerry after landing, there was an email from the Boston Herald asking if I’d want to string the Jets/Pats game for them. I’d be joining two columnists and two reporters.

Initial thoughts that raced through my mind:

• On the heels of a successful reporting trip overseas, the vaunted door to sports journalism I had so long wanted to push through was finally beginning to swing open
• The Boston Herald - holy shit

But perhaps the most critical thought was:

• I do not know ANYTHING about football, nor have I ever ATTENDED a NFL game before

Honestly. I didn’t grow up watching football, although my childhood was in the tri-state region. The only time I ever set foot in Giants Stadium was for an international soccer match between two teams I can’t recall to this day - there was indecipherable chanting and the wave. I can tell you all the Yankees and Knicks of the ‘90’s, but I sincerely do not know one Jet or Giant from that era. But hey, this is what being a respectable, well-crafted journalist is all about right? I’d have to fall back on my reporting skills, rather than rely on my intuitive knowledge of the sport.

Sunday arrived, and I’m in my car heading south towards New Meadowlands Stadium. I had exchanged emails with the Herald editor about where to pick up my credential, and when he asked if I’d be fine getting into the stadium, I ignorantly said it wouldn’t be a problem. I figured it would be like any other sporting event: there’s a booth, you pick up your pass, and you head to the press box.

Except it wasn’t, and I had a car.

If you’ve ever driven to New Meadowlands for a football game, you quickly learn the parking lot is divided into colored sections, depending on how much you’ve paid for the privilege to tail-gate. No pass means no entrance. Me, no pass. I roll up to the first check point, and explain to the man in yellow that I’m here with the Boston Herald to cover the game. He looks at me, glances into my car and lets me through. What?

I guarantee I was allowed through because I was alone, and had a collared-shirt on, because no respectable Jets fan goes to the game alone, with a collared-shirt on. That must have signaled “press.”

After this wash and repeat interaction with a few more security guards, I park my car next to some guys drinking Keystone and tossing a football around. The scent of hot dogs, burgers and frothy ale is in the air. Sun shining high above, it’s a quintessential Sunday for football.

I make my way towards the press gate, pick up my credential and take an elevator up to the media room. Of all the press rooms I’ve been to, it was by far the most comfortable. Air conditioning, a kitchen with free hot meals and a spacious dining room - the exact opposite of what I’d been accustomed to covering the Knicks at MSG or Team USA in Istanbul.

Not knowing where the Herald team was sitting, I peruse the media seating chart and find my name and seat number. It leads me closer and closer towards the first row overlooking the field. Really? The closest I ever sat to cover any sporting event was behind the basket at MSG for Team USA vs Team China, and even that was the last row. So here I was, sitting in the very front row, rubbing shoulders with the hardened beat writers and columnists who have been covering sports for longer than I’ve been alive.

I introduce myself to the Herald team: reporters Ian Rapoport and Ron Borges, editor Karen Guregian, and the reason for this post, columnist Steve Buckley. I sat next to Steve the entire game. I shadowed him, trying to pick up every detail and nuance of his process, hoping to learn something from one of the most respectable sports columnists this country has to offer. I did the same thing in Boston covering a playoff game between the Celtics and Cavs, after I spotted Adrian Wojnarowski (although I give him a lot of shit on Twitter for the way he portrays certain players, I do respect him as a journalist a great deal).

The game flys by, and mid-way through the 4th quarter, as it appears the Jets are going to pull this thing out, I’m assigned to the Jets locker room for reaction from Jason Taylor on his last-minute sack of Tom Brady, and some thoughts from Darrelle Revis on his containment of Randy Moss.

I follow the media herd downstairs, and as I’m walking toward the Jets locker room, Karen spots me and asks if I’ve gotten anything yet:

Me: No? I’m going there now.

Karen: Go!

So I start fucking SPRINTING towards the Jets locker room, wondering if I’ve missed anything, and if I have, how will I explain this dreadful laziness to the Herald? How would I be able to look Karen in the face?

Thankfully I haven’t missed my assignments, so as I’m waiting for Taylor and Revis to get out of the showers, I start interviewing random players just in case the Herald needs more quotes. About 30 minutes pass, and I’m still waiting for my interviews. The Herald team is already back upstairs writing their stories. Finally, Taylor arrives so I can get my quotes. Ten minutes later Revis steps out of the shower and the media flock to him for reaction.

50 minutes later I’m back in the press room at my seat, the adrenaline of deadline approaching, fingers slamming onto my Macbook, and the flurry of quotes, stats and editorial thoughts flying through the Internet and our Herald bubble.

Deadline passes, I email in my two stories, and I’m finished. I say my thanks to Ian, Ron and Karen - who would say I did a good job, which means the world to me, coming from an editor like her. Steve still seems to be in the middle of his story, so I quickly blurt out a “thanks for everything today” and offer him a handshake. Steve stops his typing and turns to me to chat about the day, my education, where I’ve been, what I’ve done, where I want to go, etc.

It was incredible. Here’s a guy who has been covering sports the way I want to - with class, incredible writing, and a fire for the job - who’s giving me advice, direction and wisdom that I will always carry with me.

After we’re done, I get up to leave and he turns back to finish his story. I exit the building, and halfway between my car and the stadium I realize I forgot my laptop charger. I turn around and head back upstairs. It’s still there, in the same spot where I left it next to Steve.

I unplug it and put it in my bag without saying a word to Steve, who’s still pounding away at his story, getting every word right, down to the last sentence.

It’s been roughly ten months since I’ve returned from Istanbul, the metropolis that will forever have a place in my attitude, my direction and my heart.

Istanbul is a city that means more to me than any place I’ve witnessed before. More than the savaged plot of land we drove by in Trinidad that once housed my adolescent father; the river-side apartment building we strolled past in Quebec where my mother grew up; Englewood Hospital, where I gazed upon my niece and nephew for the first time; more than New York City, my jungle-turned-classroom for so many summers, where I learned more about the world than any lecture hall in Ewing, NJ could have taught me.

In the last ten months I’ve experienced nothing remotely close to the emotional grandeur of Istanbul. “Temporary fun” I’ve had, but it’s too fleeting and leaves no impression. Needless to say, I’ve become bored. And wishful. Mopey. Anxious. All of the above. My senses have been numbed, praying(preying) for any spark of inspiration. Nothing helps. Dating; relationships; work; being with friends; nights out; trips to Atlantic City; concerts; interviews; etc.

There have only been a handful of seminal moments since I’ve eaten a proper doner kebab, and I can sadly count them on one hand:

1. Trip to Portland, Oregon where Casey, currently saving the world one Kazakh child at a time, eloquently put it as only he could:

It’s not as if this idea is novel*, especially. A couple months ago, I gathered on my lawn with two of my closest friends, two who share paralleling professional pursuits. Matt, Jordan, and I had met during that summer at SI, bonding over fact-checks and foot-high margaritas. Despite living worlds apart – Matt in New York, Jordan in the Bay Area – they’d decided to explore the magic and hyperbole of my city. Portland sufficed, and we paused for a mid-day break to discuss, as we’re wont to do, writing.

*Ha.

Typically, we discuss the latest goings-on in the SI offices, and swap the best offerings we’d recently come across. But that afternoon, as we chewed our cigars, sipped our rum, and wrapped ourselves in a freezing Portland afternoon, we discussed the merits and desires of writing a book. There was no explicit, dye-in-the-wool moment where we decided to push our writing into the world of Penguin and Simon & Schuster. Instead, as the drizzle pocked our smoke, we discussed the possibility of such a path.*

*Jordan’s written more than (and well) enough to warrant at least a compilation, and while Matt and I are currently breaking from that path, I’ve little doubt we will – just as Prodigal Sons; just as Griffey to the M’s; just as Bartolo Colon to ace-hood – return.

We were journalists, after all. We’d be fools to try to shake that two-ton boulder pinning such a goal. It’s in our blood.

2. Lasik surgery.

3. My recent 23rd birthday dinner at Le Bernardin with nine of my closest confidants, or as one friend put it, my “brain trust.” A group of naive, ballsy kids dining on 3-Star Michelin caviar, foie gras and all the exotic edibles the oceans can offer.

And that’s it. Everything else has been lacking of seasoning, and Istanbul is gratefully to blame. She opened up the world to me, the endless adventure I desperately want to IV into my veins. Too frequently I have moments during the day I feel helpless, stymied by the monotony of my life. Public Relations tries to fill the void, but we both know it won’t. It can’t. The love isn’t there. Journalism might, but for how long before the fire rekindles within me?

Friends tell me it’s just my impatience, which I agree to an extent. I’m quick to pull the trigger, always. But this is different because I don’t know what I’m searching for.

And there it is. What’s ahead of me is a gray cluster-fuck of career opportunities and memories waiting to be opened, digested, and plastered to my insides.

A part of me just wants to leave everything behind - throw a dart on a map and go wherever it lands.

I’ll make sure to aim for Istanbul.