When I came into this job, I knew a lot about journalism, but
had spent my life running from it.
You see, my father was a journalist for over 30 years, covering
everything from the Kentucky Derby to major league baseball. In
fact, he’s in the National Baseball Hall of Fame, or was for
a summer when he introduced the winner of the J.G. Taylor Spink
Award ““ given annually to a sportswriter ““ at the
inauguration ceremonies in Cooperstown, N.Y.
On my part, I had taken some journalism courses in high school
and joined the staff of The Aggie at UC Davis before I transferred
to UCLA. I thought, however, that journalism was a difficult
lifestyle. I remembered growing up in San Jose, my dad on the road
covering the Giants. I remembered the birthdays he missed when he
covered games on the East Coast. And I knew that I wanted a life
where my son could see his father every day when he came home from
school.
Call me sentimental or idealistic, but I wanted to be a family
man.
But I never realized that journalists are a family, more so than
most other professionals. There’s more to The Washington
Post’s claim that it’s a “family newspaper”
than just ownership.
Of course, I never knew that until I watched my first class of
interns grow up before my eyes. I watched them go from being
newcomers on this campus to journalists covering the school’s
celebrities, the athletes, writing critically of people they once
idolized, and receiving e-mails about how they had somehow
destroyed the integrity of the UCLA athletic department.
It’s sort of like one of your kids coming home from a
soccer game with a cut on his knee ““ the hurt makes him
stronger.
Was life always so good for me? No. I fought with plenty of
people at The Bruin. I called them names and wanted to hurt them. I
also celebrated with them and danced in waist-high foam.
That’s what a family is all about, in the end. Family
members don’t always get along, but they understand each
other better than anyone and they know that those disagreements
don’t matter in the scope of life.
So I fought with Andrea, my editor and friend on a regular
basis, but I never got angry because I knew that she would always
stand up for me when no on else would. I made jokes about Subiate,
even prompting her to hit me in the face once (it wasn’t
intentional), but she was always there laughing at my jokes and
giving me strength. I even managed to insult my good friend Larry,
who was like an older brother to me, after a fit that I threw via
e-mail was publicized by an evil stepsister. Still, our friendship
got stronger because of it.
It wouldn’t be fair, though, to talk about my surrogate
family without talking about my real one, which had as much to do
with my journalism career as any.
Everyone from my mother to my grandfather encouraged me to go
into the field. The funny thing is though, the only one who
didn’t was my dad. He was content to let me find my own way,
but ironically it went along the same road he took.
I realized last year why he did that work, why he had to go on
the road when I didn’t want him to and worked late nights
getting a story in for the next morning’s paper. It was so I
could have a life less ordinary, so I could shag balls during
batting practice at Yankee Stadium and sit in the clubhouse with
Ken Griffey Jr.
He got to have two families, and by extension, so did I. And
that was worth any price a little boy thought was too much.