When torture turns to teaching

In the dungeon. That’s where we – myself and a handful of other media outlets – were placed during the opening day of the Georgia District 5 Little League championship many a year ago. The first day in the brand new, beautiful as ever, stadium. 

The dungeon. Our not-so-affectionate name for it. It was built “under the bleachers” on an approximately 20-foot slab of concrete. It had two concrete slab walls at each end in which a door had been fashioned into each – one for the visiting team, one for the home team. It had a metal spiral staircase at each end for people – players to come and go (not us, as you’ll read) – a slab wall in back and a slab wall in front minus a panoramic cutout behind home plate. (Great action shots of people’s feet.)

“This is where you’ll be,” the director said. “And this is where you’ll stay until the game is over.” No kidding. (This was between approximately 2001-2003 when Little League was taking a lot of heat after it was discovered a child on the 12-year-old New York team was actually 14. In the director’s defense, she was sympathetic but added she was doing what she had been ordered to do.)

Did I mention it was hot down there? I’ve never been to hell, but I can imagine. To make matters worse, a bucket filled with ice-covered bottles of water and Gatorade.

“Those are for the umpires. Stop licking your (parched, dry-earth-cracked lips.” (See: “And this is where you’ll stay …” Aka: No snack bar. No potty break. And she meant it. Go ask the reporter who tried to sneak out and got caught by the security guard.)

It didn’t take long for the whining to start.

“This is intolerable. Unacceptable.”

“Are you kidding me? Who does she think she is?”

“This is ridiculous! I’ve never been treated so disrespectfully in all of my life.”

“The nerve of these people! Don’t they know who we are (she really meant who ‘I’ am)?”

“We (the station) won’t be back again. I can tell you that (and they weren’t).”

Some referenced it during their newscast. Some wrote a column. I was one. It was witty. It was sarcastic. It was … nauseating, I thought after seeing it and reading it in black and white newsprint, preserved for posterity.

A stark revelation came over me. The words of my college professor at the University of Oklahoma’s School of Journalism came back to haunt me. How many times had he said it? Over and over and over. Hammered it into us: “You are not the story!” “Never make yourself the story!” (The exception maybe being when you die and there’s nobody else who can be your story.)

“I get it. I get it. I get it!” But I didn’t. I realized all of those years of walking up the steps at McConnell-Talbert Stadium – during my stint(s) as sports editor – to … wait a second, still catching my breath, that’s a lot of stairs … just to look down at people had come back to haunt me. “Look at me. I’m in the press box eating …” Well, we ate well everywhere we went. We even had ratings for high school press boxes and other sporting venues, i.e. tournaments. “You don’t want to go there. They’ll only feed you a bag lunch from the cafeteria. Now there … Now that’s good eating!”

Pandered to. Catered to. Treated with the utmost respect. Given the best places to sit, best views of the action. Acknowledged. Affirmed. Honored. And I’m not just talking about sports. I’m talking about community events and activities and happenings and everywhere I showed up wearing a badge or a label that said: “Media”. (Just good, honest people trying to do what they believed to be the right thing.) I mean, we’re talking about hundreds of occasions spanning a good number of years.

And all I had given in return was to become a prideful idiot. Boastful. Arrogant. An ego the size of Stone Mountain. A spoiled, entitled brat … aka “reporter/editor.” Worse. I had become my own worst enemy. The guy or gal on TV or in print who insists on cramming his or her own “opinion” (when it’s “not” an opinion piece – like this) down your throat. What they think is all that matters. It’s all about me. Never mind about balanced coverage or unbiased coverage. (“Sorry, professor. I know those, too, were virtues you held sacred and dear.”) You know exactly who I’m talking about! They’re a dime a dozen!

Well, long story short, it was a humbling experience. Since, I come to work reminding myself of the danger of what unchecked pride can do – not the same thing as pride in a job well-done. Every day I make every effort to practice humility and grace and adhere to necessary morals such as honesty and integrity. (Hey, becoming a Christian certainly didn’t help the effort.) Every day I am guarded against the opposites. 

Every day I remind myself I am a servant to my coworkers and to my community. I never more take it for granted. Never abuse it. Hold your sacred trust – and that of others and that of the profession – sacred. Every day I hold myself accountable for what I say and in particular what I write.

Not such a bad thing. I recommend it for all. To spend time.

In the dungeon.