and old-timers: George Plimpton, Roger Angell, Red Smith, John Feinstein, Robert Creamer, Frank Deford, Dan Jenkins, Buster Olney, Peter King, and Rick Reilly.
“You didn’t name one female writer,” he said.
“Okay. Mike Lupica,” I said, proud of my quick locker room retort.
He smirked as I said, “Sally Jenkins. She’s great. And Robin Herman.”
“Aren’t you too young to know Angell? Half those guys?” he asked.
“I spent my childhood reading that stuff. Old articles. And I collect Sports Illustrateds. When I was ten or eleven, Coach Carr gave me hundreds of issues when his wife cleaned out the attic. They make for great rainy day reading. Reliving the ‘rumble in the jungle’ or the ’eighty-six Mets–Sox series or the epic McEnroe–Borg rivalry.”
For the first time since we sat down, Smiley looked impressed. Not just satisfied or curious but affirmatively impressed. I knew the look well. It was the look that guys at bars would give me right after I gave them my game day analysis and right before they’d jokingly say, “Will you marry me?”
“What pieces stand out for you?” Smiley asked, but this question felt different from the others. This one sounded like something he’d pose to his reporter buddies over beers, not to a chick he was begrudgingly interviewing as a favor to a legendary coach.
“Hmm. Let’s see,” I said, thinking. “Well, John Updike’s piece on Ted Williams, for one. Phenomenal.”
Smiley lit up as I continued, “Roger Angell’s piece on Steve Blass.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“Gay Talese’s ‘The Silent Season of a Hero’ … Although it’s hard not to be a genius when you’re writing about Joe DiMaggio … Norman Mailer’s story on Muhammad Ali. ‘Ego’—wasn’t that the perfect title? … And Frank Deford’s ‘Raised by Women to Conquer Men.’ ”
Smiley wrinkled his brow. “Which one was that?”
“The Jimmy Connors piece … And let’s see … my favorite football books … John Eisenberg’s That First Season … Boys Will Be Boys by Jeff Pearlman,” I said, referring to the book on the Dallas Cowboys of the nineties. “And Jack Cavanaugh’s Giants Among Men. That book makes me wish I had been alive in the fifties—and a Giants fan … and … probably my favorite, Paper Lion. George Plimpton’s a friggin’ genius.”
“You have good taste,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, as our food arrived, and I noted that I actually, finally, had an appetite. No matter what happened on the job front, I had proven to Frank Smiley that I was legit.
“Oh. One more thing,” Smiley said. His voice was casual, but I could see in his eyes that he was about to test me. “How do you feel about women in the locker room? Think that’s okay?”
My pulse quickened, perspiration trickling down my sides as I did the silent calculation. I told myself that I could wear these no-nonsense clothes and forgo makeup. I could order a big slab of meat before noon. And I could pretend that true impartiality was possible in my highly charged, partisan world of college football. But I just couldn’t—and wouldn’t—give Smiley the answer I knew he was looking for on this one.
So without blinking I said yes. Absolutely.
Smiley raised his overgrown brow. “Oh?”
“No double standards,” I said, unyielding, firm. “Whether in the NFL or the WNBA. Locker rooms need to be open to all or closed to all. And closing them isn’t the answer. We need to be in there to get the immediate reactions and raw emotion. And, as a practical matter, to file our stories on time.” I noticed that I had switched from the third person to we and our—and wondered what this reflected about my true desire.
“What about player privacy?” Smiley asked.
“What about it?” I fired back.
“Don’t players have the right to it?”
I resisted rolling my eyes and instead told him that players of both genders had plenty of time to shower, change, or at least cover up during the requisite cooling-off period.
“And if they don’t want to cover up?”
I shrugged. “That’s on them.”
“Wouldn’t that make you … uncomfortable? If a male athlete chose not to cover up?”
“I’ve been in locker rooms, Mr. Smiley. I’ve been in winning locker rooms and losing locker rooms. And they all are the same. They all stink. And they are all full of dirty clothes and sweaty towels and bloody bandages.”
“And naked men,” he shot back.
“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes there are three-hundred-pound naked men with gnarly cuts and hairy backs and bruised hamstrings.”
He didn’t seem to get my point, or at least pretended not to, so I