There is a story, and the pursuit of another, behind the
outfit.
Journalism may not make me a monetarily rich man, but I
certainly provides for a wealth of experiences. Money might provide for
flexibility. However, even that runs out, no matter how fortunate and flexible
we are.
My fiancé suggests leaving newspapers for magazine writing
and other longer forms of journalism. Other family members have suggested that
I switch to broadcasting where there is more money, and relatively more job
security. However, I just can’t get rid of the sense of pride at seeing my name
in the newspaper most days.
I still hold onto the ideal William A. White expressed
nearly a century ago when discussion the fate of rural newspapers, “…Yet we who read them read in their lines
the sweet, intimate story of life."
That story White notes is why I took to the tennis court.
There is a 90-year old gentleman in town that is quite the
tennis player. He recently won a four-hour-ten-minute match to win a
competition in his age group.
Rather than just talk to him and write a story for the
newspaper, we played a set. The gentleman retired before I was born so of
course it was not a fair contest, but he certainly made it compelling with the
placement of his drop shots and other ground strokes.
Virtually all my friends with undergraduate degrees make
more money than me. Then again, none of them have the luxury of waking up at 10
a.m., get paid to go to sporting events and remain in a profession they truly
enjoy?
That’s part of the reason I bought Dr. Suess’ book Oh, the Places You’ll Go last year.
It was a Friday afternoon and I was a bit homesick.I
remember it was a Friday because I was in no rush to get to work that day, and
that only occurred on nights I was covering a high school football game in the
capital of the sport—Texas.
In the half decade since college I have sometimes forgotten
that I have brains in my head and feet in my shoes. I had the ability to steer
myself in any direction that I choose. I’m on my own “and you know what you
know. And you are the guy who’ll decide where to go.”
They have included dark corners of municipal buildings, the
dining room tables of family members and the front seat of my reliable Kia. The
night Barack Obama won the presidency I sat in a suite at Doak Campbell Stadium
writing the finishing touches on student reaction to the historic election.
It was proof that “out there things can happen and
frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you.”
The lobby of a police station served as an office. So did a
tiny library in Carrabelle, Florida on my 24th birthday. Between
morsels of fried chicken that was not nearly as good as the conversation I ran
into the mother, uncle and cousins of someone I interviewed an hour earlier.
“Except when you don’t. Because, sometimes, you won’t.”
Certainly it is true, the bang-ups and hang-ups can happen to you.
They happened to me. And it forced me to chase my dream in a
town foreign to me.
But, the only things friendlier than the Texas strangers are
their restaurants.
Whataburger locations throughout South Texas opened their
doors so I could write somewhere besides under a dim car light. One even took the time to share the history of
the stores and how the original Whataburger was just a 25 minute drive south in
Corpus Christi.
Then there was the time I wrote a story from a bed and
breakfast in Johannesburg just so I could have an international date line on a
story. The story was reported stateside, but I waited until I landed in South
Africa to send it just because I could.
That experience, just like being a professional tennis
player, even for just two hours is proof that I just might succeed. Even if my
success rate is only 98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.
