that he was typing on a big silver Mac.
“Right,” I said, fishing my laptop out of my bag and plugging it in, then staring at my ESPN home screen for a few shell-shocked seconds, wondering where to begin.
“Wow. You better get off that page before Smiley sees it,” Gordon said as he passed by my cubicle with his empty coffee mug. “Don’t you know that’s the network that puts entertainment ahead of sports? Get it? ESPN.”
“Right. Thanks,” I said, shutting down the browser, then pulling up a blank document and typing Baylor–Walker at the top of the screen. It was an inauspicious start to say the least, especially when coupled with the utter blankness in my brain. It was as if I’d never read a pregame piece in my life. The escalating din around me didn’t do much to quell my nerves, as the few writers on the news end of the floor seemed to be typing away with great caffeinated efficiency, but I took a few deep breaths and told myself that they probably weren’t penning Pulitzers. They were just diligently doing their job, covering mundane events—funerals and fires and fairs. Or, in our corner of the sports cube farm, pulled hamstrings. With that in mind, I took another deep breath, then went to Baylor’s official athletic site, clicked on the football tab, and got to work. Just write what you know, I told myself. You were born to do this job.
The day passed quickly, but, by two o’clock, I had yet to eat lunch and had written only four sentences, none of them keepers. The only really productive thing I did, other than fill out a bunch of forms for human resources, was schedule a phone interview with the Baylor sports information director for that evening. I had also brainstormed a few basic questions to ask him, which was pretty easy to do given the number of times I had heard J.J. on the receiving end of such interviews. Meanwhile, I eavesdropped on Smiley lecturing Gordon for overusing adverbs and, apparently an even greater transgression, synonyms for said.
“He said, she said, they said,” Smiley shouted, socking one fist into the other open palm. “That’s the only attribution you should use in here. Keep it invisible. We want to hear what the guy said, not how he said it. Should I hang a sign in your cubicle?”
I couldn’t hear Gordon’s reply, only Smiley droning on. “So I don’t want to hear your sources comment, claim, assert, suggest, state, disclose, imply, admit, concur, argue, or remark. And they sure as hell better not guffaw, chuckle, or chortle either.”
As he dismissed Gordon, he caught me looking at him and barked, “Did you get that, Rigsby?”
I nodded, resisting the urge to tell him that I heard what he said.
Later that afternoon, I headed back to Walker for football practice. It was like high school all over again, with Coach granting me access that he didn’t give other reporters. I caught him afterward, as he was walking back up to the football complex, and asked if had a few minutes to talk about the Baylor game. He glanced at his watch and said he needed to get home to meet his handyman, something about a problem gutter, but could talk later.
“When’s a good time?” I said.
“For you? Anytime,” he said, patting my shoulder.
Around eight o’clock that evening, I worked up the nerve to send him a tentative text: Is now a good time to chat?
He wrote back: Not alone. Can you text me the questions?
Okay, I typed, then specified that we were on the record before asking him to confirm our starting backfield.
He texted back: They can all play. Who do YOU think I should start?
I laughed, then typed: Ha. If I pick your lineup, will you write my piece?
I stared at my phone, waiting, knowing that he was a slow one-finger typist: I don’t think your readers would appreciate my third-grade writing style.
I smiled and wrote: Don’t try to play the dumb jock with me. I know better.
And the conversation continued from there, the screen filling with our banter:
CCC: Really. And what else do you know?
Me: I know you’re sitting in that big armchair, with the TV on mute.
CCC: Ha. You got me.
Me: Probably with a Shiner Bock on your drink stand next to the remote.
CCC: Where’s the hidden camera? How many fingers am I holding up?
Me: One. As in: number one. Which is how we’ll finish the year.
CCC: You give me