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Bloody Confused!

Chuck Culpepper

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Description:1COMMON SPORTSWRITER MALAISEI came down with a dogged strain of common sportswriter malaise on the morning of Tuesday, January 23, 2001. It broadsided me in Tampa, on the floor of Raymond James Stadium, an edifice named for an investment firm and set amid boulevards of soul-murdering strip malls. It struck during my tenth Super Bowl Media Day, an annual event that persists despite both reporters and athletes finding it loathsome.As about 2,300 reporters surrounded two football teams--one, then a break, then the other--it dawned on me in a howling rush that I had spent a fourteen-year career immersed in a vat of drivel, banality, and corruption, but especially drivel. I had taken the only brain Mother Nature had granted, and I had exposed it to almost fifteen years of listening to stale and preposterous utterances from managers, athletes, and sports-talk radio. It felt as if my brain had stored, as fluid, all the cliches and the fibs and the grotesque marketing and the extravagant nonsense, until one day the organ simply overflowed.Woozy, I fled up the stadium steps toward the free breakfast buffet.I cannot recall the precise rote utterance by an athlete or coach or reporter that wrought this cranial convulsion. I wish I could, but I believe the human mind has a mechanism that represses things that aim to turn it into mulch. At Super Bowl Media Day, some reporters seek insight. Some seek piffle. All receive piffle. There's such a debilitating barrage of piffle that it'd be yeoman to pinpoint particular piffle.I know it wasn't when Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis compared his double-murder charge and obstruction-of-justice guilty plea to the plight of Jesus Christ, because I weathered that session dutifully. I doubt it was New York Giants cornerback Jason Sehorn chatting with reporters about his marriage proposal to actress Angie Harmon on a late-night talk show, because I deeply feared that session and did not stray near. It could've been when, for the one thousandth time, across ten Super Bowls, I heard somebody ask a player whether his team could handle Super Bowl distractions, followed by the one thousandth identical answer of "Yes, we can because we understand why we're here." No one had ever said, "No, I don't think so, because some of the guys already have hired seven escort agencies and held three all-night orgies," which would've been mildly intriguing.I just know that everything around me felt so hackneyed and so marketed, every conversation so artificial, that I could feel the last shreds of individual humanity draining from my system.This malaise, epidemic among my colleagues, had beset me only in twinges before. For years I had stood in clusters of reporters listening to college basketball players recite the tired balderdash learned in sessions with college PR staffs, and every once in a while I'd feel a sudden flash commanding me to take my own pen and gouge out my own eyeballs. I'd heard almost fifteen years of athletes claiming they'd succeeded even though nobody respected them. That must've killed ten thousand brain cells. I'd heard almost fifteen years of coaches and athletes saying they took it one game at a time, as not a single contrarian in all that time ever dared to say he took it two games at a time. That must've killed a hundred thousand brain cells. I'd listened carefully to almost fifteen years of retired athletes doing TV commeWe have made it easy for you to find a PDF Ebooks without any digging. And by having access to our ebooks online or by storing it on your computer, you have convenient answers with Bloody Confused!. To get started finding Bloody Confused!, you are right to find our website which has a comprehensive collection of manuals listed.
Our library is the biggest of these that have literally hundreds of thousands of different products represented.

Pages: 224

Format: PDF, EPUB & Kindle Edition

Publisher: Broadway Books

Release: 2008

ISBN: 5551859614

Description: 1COMMON SPORTSWRITER MALAISEI came down with a dogged strain of common sportswriter malaise on the morning of Tuesday, January 23, 2001. It broadsided me in Tampa, on the floor of Raymond James Stadium, an edifice named for an investment firm and set amid boulevards of soul-murdering strip malls. It struck during my tenth Super Bowl Media Day, an annual event that persists despite both reporters and athletes finding it loathsome.As about 2,300 reporters surrounded two football teams--one, then a break, then the other--it dawned on me in a howling rush that I had spent a fourteen-year career immersed in a vat of drivel, banality, and corruption, but especially drivel. I had taken the only brain Mother Nature had granted, and I had exposed it to almost fifteen years of listening to stale and preposterous utterances from managers, athletes, and sports-talk radio. It felt as if my brain had stored, as fluid, all the cliches and the fibs and the grotesque marketing and the extravagant nonsense, until one day the organ simply overflowed.Woozy, I fled up the stadium steps toward the free breakfast buffet.I cannot recall the precise rote utterance by an athlete or coach or reporter that wrought this cranial convulsion. I wish I could, but I believe the human mind has a mechanism that represses things that aim to turn it into mulch. At Super Bowl Media Day, some reporters seek insight. Some seek piffle. All receive piffle. There's such a debilitating barrage of piffle that it'd be yeoman to pinpoint particular piffle.I know it wasn't when Baltimore Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis compared his double-murder charge and obstruction-of-justice guilty plea to the plight of Jesus Christ, because I weathered that session dutifully. I doubt it was New York Giants cornerback Jason Sehorn chatting with reporters about his marriage proposal to actress Angie Harmon on a late-night talk show, because I deeply feared that session and did not stray near. It could've been when, for the one thousandth time, across ten Super Bowls, I heard somebody ask a player whether his team could handle Super Bowl distractions, followed by the one thousandth identical answer of "Yes, we can because we understand why we're here." No one had ever said, "No, I don't think so, because some of the guys already have hired seven escort agencies and held three all-night orgies," which would've been mildly intriguing.I just know that everything around me felt so hackneyed and so marketed, every conversation so artificial, that I could feel the last shreds of individual humanity draining from my system.This malaise, epidemic among my colleagues, had beset me only in twinges before. For years I had stood in clusters of reporters listening to college basketball players recite the tired balderdash learned in sessions with college PR staffs, and every once in a while I'd feel a sudden flash commanding me to take my own pen and gouge out my own eyeballs. I'd heard almost fifteen years of athletes claiming they'd succeeded even though nobody respected them. That must've killed ten thousand brain cells. I'd heard almost fifteen years of coaches and athletes saying they took it one game at a time, as not a single contrarian in all that time ever dared to say he took it two games at a time. That must've killed a hundred thousand brain cells. I'd listened carefully to almost fifteen years of retired athletes doing TV commeWe have made it easy for you to find a PDF Ebooks without any digging. And by having access to our ebooks online or by storing it on your computer, you have convenient answers with Bloody Confused!. To get started finding Bloody Confused!, you are right to find our website which has a comprehensive collection of manuals listed.
Our library is the biggest of these that have literally hundreds of thousands of different products represented.

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