Veteran sportswriter Dave Kindred takes exception to Frank Deford's recent comments on the demise of the long-form sports journalism narrative.
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Hoping Frank Deford is wrong on the fading art of long-form sports narrative, by Dave Kindred
When it's good, sportswriting tells us who won and why. It explains strategies, tactics, and movements. At its best, sportswriting tells us more. It tells a story.
It was disappointing, then, to read a recent Frank Deford speech. A master of the storytelling art – his bonus pieces made Sports Illustrated must-reading when reading mattered – Deford all but pronounced the last rites over long-form narrative in sports journalism. He did it in giving the Red Smith Lecture in Journalism at Notre Dame.
Early on, he defined Red's gifts: "What always amazed me about Red, the columnist, was how he made such a piece of art out of this small, discrete slice of one newspaper page." He saw Red as a miniaturist, a Vermeer of the sports page, 300 years after the artist, both men able to get it "just so, with the proper amount of balance and character and shafts of light shining through in all the right places."
Then he explained how sports journalism is practiced in more places by more people than ever, in newspapers and magazines, television and radio, websites, blogs, podcasts. He called that a good thing for sports journalists – with two caveats.
"First, who's gonna pay for it? Nobody's yet figured that little niggling detail out. The generation growing up seems to believe that all news – sports and otherwise – is free, dropped from the heavens. . . . And number two, what's good for sports journalism is not necessarily good for sportswriting.
"The Internet – or, to be kind, the influence of the Internet – is reducing the amount of storytelling in sports journalism. . . . The feature story – the ‘takeout' as it is known in newspaper parlance – is being taken out of newspapers. Not enough space. Too expensive to take all that time to research and write it. People don't have the attention span to actually read paragraphs anymore.
"Alas, that's pretty much an article of faith now. Pitchers can suddenly only go six innings, and readings can only go six paragraphs. The story, which was always the best of sportswriting, what sports gave so sweetly to us writers – the sports story is the victim."
He said sportswriting remains popular.
But sports stories "are disappearing."
Well.
Clearly, sportswriters have a choice.
We can agree, storytelling is dead.
Or we can find a story.
We could read a Woody Paige column in the Denver Post on the death of a Broncos' wide receiver. It begins . . .
"Why would a smart, personable, resolute, ‘happy-go-lucky' Kenny McKinley — with a college education, a young son, a $385,000 contract and a bright future in football and life — commit suicide Sept. 20, 2010?
"Why?
"I think I understand why.
"I know an older man who eight years ago this month was committed to committing suicide.
"Me."
This was writing done in a whisper but a whisper of such perfect pitch as to be heard in the back of the theater.
"The last, desperate, despondent, despicable act was all planned out. The Broncos were playing on Sunday, Sept. 15, 2002, against the 49ers. I would fly into San Francisco the day before, drive up to Napa Valley, enjoy a bottle of expensive red wine and check into a nice inn. The next morning I would head over to the coast and swim out in the Pacific Ocean far enough that I couldn't make it back to the beach.
"My death would be termed an ‘accidental drowning,' and my family and few friends would be horrified, but spared the humiliation. I figured out the details while laying on the sofa staring at the ceiling for hours, as I did daily, and swallowing the pills a prominent Denver psychiatrist had prescribed over a period of months — Prozac, Ritalin, Xanax, Valium, Ambien and Zoloft — and swilling Jack Daniel's.
"I had everything to live for, but wanted nothing more than to die.
"I was suffering from deep depression."
Paige used his story to remind people they can help the helpless. They should learn and recognize the signs of depression. They can reach out to someone who needs a hand.
As Paige told us a story about living,
Mike Celizic told us how to die. Long a sports columnist at the Bergen Record before moving to msnbc.com and NBCSports.com, the man known as "the hat guy" – dark fedoras in winter, light Panamas in summer, never removed when working – Celizic was diagnosed with T-cell lymphoma 14 months ago. After a brief remission, the cancer returned this July. He wrote about his decision to forgo more chemotherapy and spend his dying days at home. The column begins . . .
"I'm dying.
"The lymphoma we'd thought we'd beaten into remission back in May came roaring back last month. We threw some really nasty chemo at it. The cancer ate it up and came back for more.
"And so I'm going to die, and not in four or five months. I've got probably a couple of halfway decent weeks left. Then the lymphoma will take over my bloodstream and kill me.
"I don't have to die that quickly. I could undergo months of brutal and debilitating chemo that will leave me racked by pain and barely in control of what few senses I have. The chemo itself could kill me. And even if it didn't, I wouldn't have a single day when I'd feel even vaguely normal. I would then have to get a bone marrow transplant — if a match could be found. There's about a 10 percent chance that I'd survive, and a smaller chance that I'd be cured.
"Taking that chance might be worth it to some, but not to me. The object isn't to live as long as you can, but as well as you can. I've lived very well; had a grand and glorious life. I've done everything I've ever wanted to do except meet Al Roker. I'm not afraid to die. But I don't want to die, and there's the problem. I love life, love this glorious planet, love simple pleasures, love living."
In his next piece, his last, friends were on their way to see him. He wrote . . .
"I was so weak it took an hour to take what should have been a five-minute shower and get dressed. My wife, Margaret, probably thought her dear hubby had finally jumped the shark when I showed up in the white linen three-piece suit I had had made in China two years ago. I added a gold watch and my signature white hat and was ready to greet folks who came up in shorts and T-shirts.
"Margaret never said a word as she helped me get dressed, but I felt she needed an explanation. … It took me about five minutes to explain — not because it was complicated, but because when I realized why I dressed that way, I just lost it. 'I don't know how many more chances I'm going to have to be Mike Celizic,' I finally managed to say. …"
When these kind of stories disappear – and Deford is correct when he says they are fading – we'll all be the poorer for it.