by Glenn Stout
I knew nothing about the Awesome Sports Project until a manila envelope arrived in my mailbox one day from a writer I’d never heard of, featuring work from a website I’d never seen. But when I read the stories she submitted from the website—one by Chang, another that won their annual contest, and a third story by another contributor—I had one of those moments that make me smile: here was work that I otherwise never would have encountered, telling stories that otherwise might have gone untold. Chang’s own submission was a personal essay about the challenge of being a woman coach in a sport that, even for a women’s team, is dominated by men—other coaches, referees, and fathers. That’s a subject I’ve rarely seen treated more eloquently than in her essay. It ends, “I pray that one day, when the girls ask me how it was possible that the foul count was 28–7 after we lost by four points, I would not have to glance at the parents—mothers, mostly—and try to swallow what we are all terrified to say in front of them: because the other coach was a man and I am a woman.”
And now I know, and so do you, about this small but ambitious website creating a place for writing that, without it, might be homeless or even go unwritten, writing that may now be noticed and help launch careers. The Awesome Sports Project reminds me in some ways of Vela, the website created in 2011 by Sarah Menkedick and several other women. Frustrated by more mainstream outlets, as contributor Eva Holland recently told me, “the idea was to write exactly the kinds of stories we wanted to write, put them out there into the world, and say to editors, ‘Hey, we can do this, assign us these kinds of things.’” In creating their own space—each writer editing the work of the others—they not only made their case but alerted me to a place where I first discovered outstanding writers (among their occasional sports pieces) in the same way I did recently with the Awesome Sports Project. Now, some years later, not only have many of these writers established careers, but Vela has evolved into a well-known outlet in its own right, one to which many other writers now aspire, without losing its ambitious fire and focus.
This is the kind of discovery that awaits, the kind that I believe has caused readers to return to this book for 28 years and counting. So, as you read through the pages, I suggest that when you reach the end of the final story, you do exactly what so many writers who appear in the “Notable” list have done themselves: keep going, and see what you might discover when you really look.
Each year I read hundreds of sports and general interest newspapers and magazines in search of work that might merit consideration in The Best American Sports Writing, looking for writing wherever significant sports writing might be found. I also make periodic open requests through Twitter and Facebook and contact editors and writers from many outlets and request submissions. And because this book really belongs to the reader, I also encourage submissions from anyone who cares about good writing—including readers. The process is open to all. For the 28th time, not only is it okay to submit your own work, it is actually encouraged. To be considered, work must be seen.
All submissions to the upcoming edition need only adhere to the publisher’s criteria for eligibility, which also appear here each year, on my own website (www.glennstout.net), and on the Facebook page for The Best American Sports Writing. Each story:
Must be column-length or longer
Must have been published in 2018
Must not be a reprint or book excerpt
Must have been published in the United States or Canada
Must be postmarked by February 1, 2019
All submissions from either print or online publications must be made in hard copy—do not simply submit a link or bibliographic citation—and should include the name of the author, the date of publication, and the publication name and address. Photocopies, tear sheets, or clean copies are fine. Newspaper submissions should be either a hard copy of the article as originally published or a copy of it—not a printout of the web version.
Individuals and publications should use common sense when submitting multiple stories. The volume of material I receive makes it impossible to return or acknowledge submissions, and it is inappropriate for me to comment on or critique any submission. Magazines that want to be absolutely certain their contributions are considered are advised to provide a complimentary subscription to the address that follows. Those that already do so should extend the subscription for another year.
All submissions must be made by U.S. Mail—midwinter weather conditions often prevent me from easily receiving UPS or FedEx submissions. Electronic submissions by any means—email, Twitter, URLs, PDFs, online documents—are not acceptable. Please send some form of hard copy only. The February 1, 2019, postmark deadline is real; work received after that date cannot be considered.
Please submit either an original or clear paper copy of each story, including publication name, author, and date the story appeared, to:
Glenn Stout
PO Box 549
Alburgh, VT 05440
If you have questions or comments, contact me at [email protected]. Previous editions of this book can be ordered through most bookstores or online book dealers. An index of stories that have appeared in this series can be found at glennstout.net. All my submissions to the guest editor were made blindly, not identified by source or author. For updated information, readers and writers are encouraged to join The Best American Sports Writing group on Facebook or to follow me on Twitter @GlennStout.
Thanks to guest editor Jeff Pearlman, to all those at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt who help with the production of this series, and to Siobhan and Saorla for sharing space with this annual onslaught of paper. But most of all, thanks to all those writers who aspire to these pages and continue to put their faith in words.
Glenn Stout
Alburgh, Vermont
Introduction
My all-time favorite lede wasn’t written by Leigh Montville or Steve Rushin. It wasn’t written by Ralph Wiley or Sally Jenkins. It wasn’t written by Mike Freeman, Frank Deford, Howard Bryant, Susan Slusser, William Nack, or Claire Smith.
Nope. My all-time favorite lede was written by Greg Orlando.
And, unless you attended the University of Delaware in the early to mid-1990s, you almost certainly have no idea who he is.
Back some 24 years ago, Greg and I were editors on the staff of The Review, the UD student newspaper. A short kid with glasses and a bad haircut, Greg always seemed to wear the same outfit—Chuck Taylors, loose-fitting jeans, and the yellow-and-black squiggly-line T-shirt made famous by Charlie Brown.
Along with his duds, what separated Greg from the rest of us was vision. At a time when we were all young and hungry and dedicated to “doing journalism” (whatever the hell that meant), Greg just wanted to write about really odd, really quirky stuff. He didn’t think twice about inverted pyramids or nut graphs or whether a subject’s name should come before or after his job title.
Nope. Greg couldn’t care less.
That’s why, on February 8, 1994, our paper published Greg’s review of Face the Music, the latest release from that immortal gaggle of crooners, New Kids on the Block.
Was Greg a big Danny Wood fan? Hardly. Did he know all the words to “Step by Step”? Certainly not. In hindsight, I’m quite certain he simply saw the New Kids as a meaty softball floating toward the plate at 5 miles per hour.
So he drew back his Louisville Slugger, pumped his elbow, called upon his (deep) understanding of Norse mythology, and swung away . . .
Somewhere in Asgard, Loki is screaming.
He has a right to, one supposes. The Aesir have bound him to a cavern, trapped forever like a fly in amber. From a hole in the ceiling, a steady stream of acid is dripping down, poised to strike the chaos bringer on his evil forehead.
His lovely wife Sigin is the only thing standing between the God of Mischief and mortal agony. She has a cup, you see, and catches the acid before it can hit.
Alas, the cup runneth over from time to time. When his wife goes to empty the container . . .
Somewhere in Delaware, I am screaming and there is nary a cup for miles.
The New Kids on The Block are back. Back after a three-year hiatus. Back to Face the Music.
A most heinous day of reckoning it is.
I still remember the puzzled looks in our newsroom, the “What is he talking about?” glares from staffers who thought Greg’s take needed to be simpler, plainer, more conventional. A year later, as a cub reporter at The Tennessean in Nashville, I was trying to convince my editor to hire Greg for an internship. I showed her the New Kids lede, convinced she would love it.
Um, no.
“That’s terrible,” she said. “First, I have no idea what he’s talking about. And second, you can’t challenge the reader like that. It’s begging people to put down the paper and walk away.”
As I read through the dozens upon dozens of articles submitted for consideration for this book, I kept thinking back to the University of Delaware and to Greg Orlando and to “Somewhere in Asgard, Loki is screaming.” All these years later, the reason I so passionately love that piece (and the reason I still share it with my journalism students at Chapman University) is the very reason it turned so many off. Namely, it makes the reader work. And think. And perhaps (gasp!) reread the lede once or twice or three times. There’s a payoff that doesn’t come with 99 percent of the world’s articles: a lightbulb, ah-ha moment when you fully understand that Greg is linking a legitimate piece of Norse lore (Sigin is actually Loki’s wife; she did hold a cup above her husband and used it to catch acid) with—of all things—the wretched experience of hearing Jordan Knight sing.
I’ll say it again: Greg Orlando had a vision the rest of us on the Review staff lacked.
Now, as I sit here overseeing yet another year of entertaining, engrossing, important sports journalism, I can’t help but think the majority of scribes whose work is included on the following pages would appreciate Greg Orlando too. I’ve only met—face to face—seven of the 25 selected writers, yet all exercise at least some element of the spirit and derring-do encapsulated in “New Kids, New Album, but the Song Remains the (Stinky) Same.” Or, put differently, they take shots in their work. They approach things with funk and pizzazz. They play with words, dance with imagery, ponder the easiest passageway into a narrative, and say (consciously or subconsciously), “Nah.” Far too many of us have been told (by editors, by journalism professors, by readers) that there’s a clear, definitive methodology to storytelling, and one should resist all urges to deviate from the norm. Never begin a passage with “But.” Don’t use. Fragments. If they. Don’t make grammatical. Sense. Stay away—even if it’s correct—from long dashes. Avoid obscure word choices, for they might upset a gobemouche with an abomasum.
Hell, the majority of the first two and a half years of my career was spent fighting back against the corporate Gannett directive that one must—quickly and literally—tell a person what the piece he’s reading is about. [STANDARD PARAGRAPH THREE: In case it’s not clear, Johnny Wilson is the Nashville Sounds’ second baseman. He’s batting .322 and having a terrific season.] That wasn’t merely a fringe concept inside the Tennessean offices. No, it was dogma. Readers, the thinking went, were too stupid, too lazy, too distracted to hang out. So hook them on the fly. Tell them exactly what to expect. Don’t give them any reason to feel challenged, or uncomfortable, or ill at ease.
Nearly 25 years later, the concept still infuriates me and is, I believe, a culprit in the ongoing death of the American newspaper.
In his gut-wrenching piece on Monty Williams, whose wife died in a tragic automobile accident, Sports Illustrated’s Chris Ballard begins with us witnessing the veteran NBA coach meticulously wiping up the vomit produced by his two flu-stricken sons. It is simultaneously grotesque and beautiful. Writes Chris: “They threw up on the carpet, in the bed, on the bathroom floor. Everywhere but in the toilet and the trash can.” Jane Bernstein’s essay “Still Running” could have read perfectly fine and dandy as a boilerplate article on her fitness journey. Instead, she brings forth choppy little vignettes that create one of the most memorable pieces of 2017. Nine of ten editors I’ve worked with would have told Jane that her technique was wrongheaded and contrived and over the top. The Sun saw her work for what it is—inventive, spunky, and brilliant.
Of all the stories included in this anthology, the one that most meets the Greg Orlando sniff test comes from Tyler Tynes, a 24-year-old SB Nation staff writer who identifies himself on Twitter as “Another black boy from the forgotten blocks of Norf Philly.” Tyler’s essay, “There Is No Escape from Politics,” runs 4,198 words. It begins with him sitting in the White House basement as the Pittsburgh Penguins meet Donald Trump, and it ends with two sentences and a single paragraph: “Nigga, maybe you right. Maybe one day we actually will.” In between, the article jumps from Colin Kaepernick kneeling to a 39-round boxing match in 1810, to Johnny Bright, the Drake University halfback and 1951 Heisman Trophy candidate, to Jim Crow–enforced seating at a 1961 NFL game, to Kendrick Lamar. It is a hot mess of roundabout touch and beauty—a culturally significant shrapnel explosive that leaves little of 2018 America unscathed. There is nothing easy about Tyler’s piece. The words demand a reader’s full concentration.
It is a punch to the ribs.
It’s a blow worth taking.
In case you haven’t noticed, we live in disconcerting journalistic times.
While I write this introduction, our 45th president is almost certainly plotting his next assault on the media. As sure as gelato melts and Justin Upton swings through sliders, Donald Trump is reading (or being told about by Sean Hannity) an unflattering piece in the Washington Post or New York Times and bringing forth his cherished #FakeNews hashtag. It matters not whether the news is, in fact, “fake.” If the commander in chief feels threatened, he will—à la a rabid raccoon inside a garbage pail—lash out and attack. His trained lemmings instinctively follow Grand Master’s lead, overflowing the social media feed of the alleged media member/culprit with a rancid vileness unworthy of the lowest snake. (Don’t believe me? Ask my friend Jemele.)
Hence, I won’t try and sugarcoat this one: it’s a hard time to be a member of the fourth estate. Without fail, we’re repeatedly told how dishonest we are, how corrupt we are, how slanted we are. It matters not whether you cover the Pentagon or Broadway or local weather or the Bucknell women’s softball team—you’re all but certain to endure an irrational, Trump-inspired backlash that didn’t exist pre-2016.
In my one-day-per-week gig as an adjunct journalism professor, I’m asked fairly often whether the field is even worth pursuing any longer. The glory, after all, is minimal. The hours can be long and relentless. Print is three steps from the grave, and too many websites continue to pay approximately six cents per word—if they pay at all. Throw in the nonstop criticism, and it’s hard to blame young aspiring writers for turning toward the dark side that is public relations. (I kid—sort of.)
To this, I say: snotcicles.
Yes, snotcicles.
The year was 2003, and—battered by life as a Major League Baseball beat guy—I had just left Sports Illustrated to take a position in the features department at Newsday. The new job was, in a word, preposterous. Actually, I’ll go two words—preposterously sweet. My task was to roam the streets of New York City and profile the weird, the eclectic, the eye-catching, the batshit insane. So day after day I would walk up and down, left and right, nibbling on pretzels and hot dogs, finding the homeless flutist in front of Ground Zero; sitting across from the Naked Cowboy inside the Times Square Howard Johnson; shadowing an upstart hip-hop group as its members tried pushing CDs to passers-by.
One day, during a particularly brutal winter stretch, I was summoned into the Long Island–based office (a place any journalist worth his weight avoids like Dengue fever) for a rare meeting with the higher-ups. The gig had to be up, right? I mean, who pays a reporter six figures to try every variety at the Nuts 4 Nuts cart?
Instea
d, I was greeted by Barbara Schuler, my editor, who wore a sinister look across her face.
“Jeff,” she said, “we have an assignment for you.”
“A good assignment?” I replied.
“Well . . .”
Within an hour, Barbara and I were hunched over a map of North America, trying to determine the coldest spot on the continent. “We want to show readers what it’s like to live in this sort of climate all the time,” she said.
Glub.
The two of us settled upon Yellowknife, the capital of Canada’s Northwest Territories and a place I knew not existed. Three days later I was on a plane, then another plane, then another plane. This was not why I had left Sports Illustrated, and when I finally touched down in the depths of hell—eh, Canada—the temperature was −40 degrees.
(Take a sharp knife. Cut off your nose and lips. That’s what it feels like.)