In a recent edition of a major New Hampshire newspaper, an article about the previous night’s Red Sox game began as follows:
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The “C” remains stitched to the breast of his jersey, though the emblem has never been more symbolic, and less substantive, than it is now. As the at-bats have become fewer and farther between, and the letter has seemed barely a representation of “catcher” let alone “captain,” Jason Varitek’s ability to be the Red Sox’ on-field leader has become increasingly less believable.
So, in the crux of the pennant race, the question has been asked more prevalently, and relevantly, of late: Who now carries enough clubhouse clout and game-day caché to effectively—if unofficially—serve as Boston’s captain and lead its push for the playoffs?
Last night, Dustin Pedroia may have provided the answer. Twice.
Setting the tone with a two-run homer in the first, then slugging his second of the night a couple innings later, the swing-from-the-heels second baseman ignited his club’s recently slumping offense and guided the Sox to a win they really needed, 10-0 over the lowly Orioles.
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Thanks, Melville.
There may be someone, somewhere, who likes to retire to the library with the sports section after dinner and savor epic tales, such as the tragedy of Jason Varitek, in front of the fireplace over a single malt and a fine cigar. But here’s what I do: I skim the sports section in a few minutes as I gulp my coffee before going to work in the morning. My goal is to find out—fast—who won the game, and what the score was. I am confident that I am not unusual in this respect. (I did say “in this respect.”)
Thus, I am not interested in suffering through four paragraphs of turgid prose, designed to impress some future employer at a big-city newspaper, to find out who won the game. Here’s how the above article should have begun: “The Red Sox defeated the Orioles 10-0 at Fenway Park last night behind Dustin Pedroia’s two home runs.” Observe the answers to the critical questions “who, what, when, where, and how,” all in the first sentence. Now that’s impressive. You can display your literary genius as much as you want, but please tell us what happened first.
In fairness, I acknowledge that several years ago, the newspaper began putting captions above its sports stories that state the score succinctly—in this case, “Boston 10, Baltimore 0”—enabling readers to get to the bottom line quickly. But why should that be necessary? If the editors taught their writers to tell us the facts in the story, we wouldn’t need an executive summary, would we?
Aside: Succinctly. Pronunciation: suk-SINKT-ly. There’s a “k” sound in the first syllable. Yes, you’ve been pronouncing it wrong all your life. The first “c” has a “k” sound, and the second one has an “s” sound. Most people, for no imaginable reason, ignore the first “c.” Improve yourself. Say it right.
The same day, an article in the same paper about a local sporting event began as follows:
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When Exeter scored with just 15 minutes left, it looked like the Blue Hawks had their revenge for last year’s playoff loss to Concord. But the Crimson Tide wasn’t having it.
“There was a lot of urgency. Not so much despair, but we really came together,” Concord senior Colin Schofield said. “We knew we had to put one away and it was great to see that fire.”
Schofield used some of that fire and urgency to fuel his flip throw which led to Brice Sturms’s tying goal with only seven minutes left in regulation. The Tide (2-0-1) had the better chances in overtime, but couldn’t convert anything and had to settle for the 1-1 result yesterday at Memorial Field.
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Hooray! We got the result in only three paragraphs!
So, here’s a question: what sport were they playing?
Oh, that. Well, uh—we’re not told. Based on the score, the time of year, and the reference to a flip throw, I suspect it was soccer. But I’m not sure—are there flip throws in lacrosse? Field hockey? Water polo? I don’t know. If you’re thinking the question probably was answered later in the in the 660-word article, think again.
True, I was able to piece together, from a number of other clues—notably several references to corner kicks—that it was, in fact, a soccer game. But here’s the thing: I don’t believe it’s my job, as a newspaper reader, to piece together the facts from strategically placed clues. I expect the reporter to feed me the facts. In this article, one simple word would have satisfied my curiosity: “soccer.” That word never appeared.
Some people tell me I’m too harsh. Those people are idiots. (Get it? That’s my ironic sense of humor. I should teach a class.)
I’m not harsh. I am, in fact, very forgiving; but a person can only take so much. I would like a sports story to tell me what sport was played and what the result was. I don’t think that’s unreasonable. If a political reporter, describing a local election, got so wrapped up in the beauty of his own writing that he forgot to mention what office the candidates were running for, would that be useful? If an obituary told you everything about the decedent except his name, would you consider it a solid piece of writing?
Nor have I been quick (at least in this case) to judge. This particular newspaper (which, out of sheer kindness, I have chosen not to identify) has been doing this for at least 20 years. Apparently the editors teach their sports writers that identifying the sport is optional, and that they should mention the score only after they’ve run out of more interesting stuff.
There’s something wrong with people’s brains. Yes, I know you don’t care, but my goal is to shake you loose from your indifference. I’m going to do it.
