Sunday, March 26, 2000
Best job can be worst job
BY PAUL DAUGHERTY
The Cincinnati Enquirer
There is a man on the porch. That was what she said. My wife was in Norfolk, Va., when Norfolk was home. I was in San Diego, covering the World Series.
Sometimes, writing sports is the world's best job. Often, it seems not a job at all. Free travel, free lodging, free admission to events others would pay a week's salary to see. Strike me dead if I ever whine about covering the Masters.
Sometimes, it's a drudge. Cancelled flights, lost hotel reservations. Bengals games.
Occasionally, it's pure terror.
“What do I do?” my wife said.
“How the hell do I know?” I said. Just call me Mr. Helpful.
Call 911. He's in the back. You're in the front. I'm 3,000 miles away. Run.
As it turned out, the guy wandered into our back yard and wanted to hop the stockade fence at the back of the property. He went onto the porch, grabbed a chair, placed it against the fence and used it as a stepladder. When I got home a week later, his shoe prints were still on the seat of the chair.
Between Feb. 26 and April 12 last year, I was home exactly seven days. Seven out of 46. This year, it's about the same: Eight home games out of a possible 42 days, between March 1 and April 10. It's a sports fan's dream: Spring training, March Madness, The Masters.
It's mine, too. Usually. Even if the longer I do it, the less of a thrill it is. Even if the older I get, the more selfish I feel. Especially when the phone rings in the hotel room, and there is a man on the porch.
Or the 13-year-old is missing.
He was mad last week, and so he took a walk. He didn't tell anyone where he was going. My wife and daughter went to dinner. When they got back, he was gone. It was dark, he didn't leave a note.
It was an hour before my wife called. The more she talked, the less composed she became. What you don't know is more frightening than what you do. Your imagination cartwheels into dark corners.
If I'd been home, I'd have said what I thought: He's 13. He's getting his wings. He's testing them out. This is what 13-year-olds do. He'll be back soon. Don't worry.
This works in person. Logic sounds better face to face. “Calm down,” I told her. But really, who was I to tell her that?
Sometimes, writing sports is the world's best job. Others, you couldn't feel more helpless. “Give it a few minutes,” I said. Call the neighbors. Call his friends' houses. Drive around the neighborhood.
His skateboard was still in the garage. His headphones were in his room. He never goes anywhere without one or the other. His bike was still there. Everything in his world was in its place. Everything but him.
This is when your mind takes you down bad roads. You don't think about a 13-year-old boy asserting his independence. You think about the TV news you saw last night. A 6-year-old girl is missing. The search continues.
He leaves notes. He always leaves notes. It's been an hour. “Where could he be?” my wife is saying.
Sometimes, writing sports is the world's best job. Even when I'm a stranger in my own house. Even when I'm convinced the only people who love me (or should) are Marriott hotel employees.
You see a lot of great things as a sportswriter. Super Bowls, Olympics, Tiger Woods. But you miss just as many: First steps. Birthdays. Basketball games. Father's Day is always the Sunday of the U.S. Open golf tournament.
The 13-year-old showed up some 90 minutes after the worrying commenced. I was right. He was out for a walk, blowing off steam, testing his wings.
It didn't make me feel any better though, being right 300 miles from home. It didn't stop my wife from shaking.
Paul Daugherty, an Enquirer sports columnist, writes a lifestyle column on Sunday. He welcomes your comments at (513) 768-8454.
Enquirer columnist Paul Daugherty welcomes your comments at 768-8454.
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