Writers Are Always Misunderstood
Memories came rushing back this morning as I read Deborah Elliott-Upton's weekly column on http://www.criminalbrief.com/ She was working on a freelance job from a newspaper editor that, along with having lunch in a plush restaurant, meant reading a book. When her spouse asked what she was doing she told him she was working. Her husband, the clod, said, "It looks like you're reading a book," in a way, I'm sure, that implied she should be down on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor or doing some other little wifely chore.
This reminded me of my years covering Cincinnati Reds baseball games. Anyone who has spent a summer day in Cincinnati knows that any minister's threat of burning in Hell falls on deaf ears. Before one game, for example, the temperature at field level was 116 degrees. Then there was the time I strolled through the Pittsburgh clubhouse between games of a doubleheader. A Pirate outfielder, Ed Kirkpatrick, appeared to be on the verge of collapse so I made a timely comment like, "Hot enough out there for you?" He answered by raising both of his bare feet so I could see the burn marks from the rivets holding his spikes in place on his shoes. I refrained from saying, "Oh well, just one more game to go."
So one day after a free lunch in the press dining room there was time before the game to go down and see how Jackie was doing. She had a season ticket so I knew where to find her. She had just returned from the concession stand and was finishing her dinner, a hot dog. With no air to breath, talking was difficult and yet I managed to complain that the air conditioning was set a little high in the pressbox and for the second time in a month the entree in the dining room was lasagna, her favorite.
While usually even-tempered and pleasant, I could see murder in her eye. I beat a hasty retreat back to the pressbox elevator. I mean you wouldn't expect the writers to climb stairs all the way up there, would you? It's a tough life, but someone has to do the job.
This reminded me of my years covering Cincinnati Reds baseball games. Anyone who has spent a summer day in Cincinnati knows that any minister's threat of burning in Hell falls on deaf ears. Before one game, for example, the temperature at field level was 116 degrees. Then there was the time I strolled through the Pittsburgh clubhouse between games of a doubleheader. A Pirate outfielder, Ed Kirkpatrick, appeared to be on the verge of collapse so I made a timely comment like, "Hot enough out there for you?" He answered by raising both of his bare feet so I could see the burn marks from the rivets holding his spikes in place on his shoes. I refrained from saying, "Oh well, just one more game to go."
So one day after a free lunch in the press dining room there was time before the game to go down and see how Jackie was doing. She had a season ticket so I knew where to find her. She had just returned from the concession stand and was finishing her dinner, a hot dog. With no air to breath, talking was difficult and yet I managed to complain that the air conditioning was set a little high in the pressbox and for the second time in a month the entree in the dining room was lasagna, her favorite.
While usually even-tempered and pleasant, I could see murder in her eye. I beat a hasty retreat back to the pressbox elevator. I mean you wouldn't expect the writers to climb stairs all the way up there, would you? It's a tough life, but someone has to do the job.
posted by Dick Stodghill | 3/26/2009 11:28:00 AM
2 Comments:
Thanks for sharing the info about my column over at Criminal Brief! I just sent in the review (isn't e-mail great for such things) along with an invoice. I'm afraid newspapers as we know them are on their way out and that makes me very sad as writing for one is so very cool -- at least for this writer.
It was cool for me too, Deborah. But they indeed have fallen on rough times so I'm just glad I wasn't born twenty years later. 1925 was an ideal time in many ways.
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