Somewhere along the way, I believe I have gotten a reputation for being a bit curmudgeonly.
That’s cool, I guess. I dunno. I’ve called out some bullshit in my day. I tend to wheeze on a bit, or overshare, force intimacy. The shrink would probably have a field day.
But what’s funny about that rep, real or imagined, is that it ignores the dozens of writers I’ve helped along my almost two-decade sportswriting journey, whether as a pissant beginner walking mouth agape onto the United Center floor, a magazine editor hiring the likes of Rick Barry, a beat writer doing all that dirty beat stuff, or even the SSS honcho.