Shut Up

Recently, while transcribing some interviews, I realized that I talk too much.

It’s a natural human impulse: The other person is sharing, so you want to share too. That’s how good conversations usually work.

Well, an interview is not a normal conversation.

You should answer questions if your source asks. Otherwise, resist the urge to tell your own story. If you must tell, keep it very short.

You’re not there to talk.

You’re there to listen.

That part of you that likes to tell stories?

Wake it up when you get to the keyboard.

SHOPTALK: Spencer Hall

Big thanks to Erik Hahmann for pulling together this Q and A with Spencer Hall. Enjoy. Here’s Erik:

I’m going to be disappointed if Spencer Hall never writes a novel. That’s not something you can say about most sports writers. He writes mainly about college football, yet even those who don’t care about the sport can find something to enjoy in his voice and superb story telling abilities. If you’re a fan of good writing, be it newspaper, magazine or online, Spencer Hall is a name you’ll need to bookmark.

Some clips:
God’s Away On Business
BCS Forecast: Choose Your Own Adventure
The Victorious Sad Men of Every Super Bowl Club
Penn State, Jerry Sandusky, And Joe Paterno: The Law Only Covers So Much

Who is Spencer Hall?

I’m a 35 year old guy who lives in Atlanta with his family. I was born in Nashville, Tennessee, and raised around the Southeast and attended public schools. This experience, having zero athletic talent, and being raised Catholic around a swarm of fundamentalist evangelicals who were mostly Tennessee and Alabama fans pretty much determined everything I am and am not.

I’m less of a writer and more of a conduit for things that go through me. I don’t add much. I like sports because they’re absurd, violent, and very moving. That’s pretty much the M.O. here.

How did you end up at SBNation?

I’d been writing about sports since 2005 on, and started part-time with the Sporting News in 2007 or so. By 2008 the traffic and part-time work coalesced into something like a full-time job. Eventually you hit a point where being independent hits certain limits, and in 2010 that’s where SBN comes in because they know how to build things, sell things, and make your life a lot easier. I’ve been there ever since.

Your writing runs the gamut, from a serious, captivating recount of the national championship weekend in New Orleans to a masterful, and hilarious, take down of a New York Times columnists’ ignorant column on Jeremy Lin. Those are just two recent examples. Have you always had such a wide ranging voice?

I’ve never figured out what I am as a typist, and thus there’s a lot of playing around with voice. Also, I have a manageable level of operational schizophrenia, so being a perpetual amateur is a natural fit. I’m never going to be really good at any of it, but I’ve always preferred singles to albums anyway. I’d prefer to work light-humorous most of the time, but I’m fixated on death/violence, and that never really fades from the picture.

As for takedowns, I try to pick my spots because a lot of what the blogosphere was in 2005-7 was definition by opposition. You cannot do that forever, though some people can do both and do it very well. (Mobute from Mr. Destructo and Drew Magary both come to mind.)

But sometimes David Brooks, a person paid a lot to weave moral hazard fables on a weekly basis, attempts to write sports. That is when you have to set him on fire and throw him off the bridge. I don’t think I’ll ever turn in my arsonist’s card. There’s too much fun, even when you know you’ll eventually get your own house burned down. It’s what arsonists do.

Sticking with your piece on the weekend in New Orleans, my single favorite thing I’ve read this year, did you go there with the specific theme of a funeral in mind, or did you let the city help inspire you?

I was stuck for what to write, and went out drinking. (That’s not uncommon.) There was a bumper sticker on a fridge in a bar. It read “NOLA: We put the ‘fun’ in ‘funeral.'” It clicked from there: the death of interesting football, the zombie city of New Orleans, the end of the BCS, Les Miles torching his good credit in a single night. You can’t write about NOLA or college football without mentioning the hangovers and body bags. They are part of the scene, and doing so would be dishonest. I also wrote that in a 200 year old kitchen at three in the morning by gaslight in the middle of a rainstorm. You weren’t getting happy out of it even if you tried.

Included in the piece mentioned above is my single favorite paragraph of 2012 thus far: “It is very early Sunday morning. There is a cab ride you take in New Orleans late at night. The windows are foggy with humidity. The lights are too bright when they pass, and the dark far too dark when it comes. The wall is high, and shot through with cracks from moisture and the slow prying of trees and vines. Behind it, tiny white spires and crucifixes. Cities of the dead all over the place, stowed behind walls and rusty iron gates, that pass in the night between the bars and the restaurants and the one last bar you hit before checking your watch aghast at the hour.”

If possible, would you take us through your process in piecing that paragraph together? Were you taking notes by hand? Mental pictures? A collection of experiences over numerous visits?

That’s a collage of a lot of drunken late night cab rides in NOLA. A passenger in NOLA is always kind of stepping through the dead, something you don’t do in a lot of other cities in America or elsewhere.

What is the piece you’ve struggled with the most in your career and why?

I sweat blood over writing anything involving my life. I hate writing about me. So “Two Men At The Rail” was hard not because I was emotional in writing it, but because I did not want to oversell it. There’s emotion in there, but you don’t want it to be cheap, saccharine emotion. I don’t want to write about “daddies” they way a lot of dudes from the South do, because that’s a.) been done, and b.) been overdone. My father and his father were a very different breed of dog, and you can’t be weepy over it all. There’s some charming bastards back there. Give them the proper accord and name tags.

But yeah, I’m fine writing about “I” and how things are done there, but “me” is a whole different matter.

In the same vein, what’s been the most rewarding?

Writing the piece on Leach was the most rewarding because it was completely accidental, and had no script, and yet still worked out for me. I can say this because I’m completely partial and in the bag for him now, but meeting Mike Leach is one of the best things you’ll ever do. He’s relentlessly positive, intellectually restless, and grows where he’s planted. If you forget those things, you’re in trouble.

You write for an online publication that’s a rising star in the world of sports journalism. How do you foresee the battle between online and print media going over the next 10 years? Is it even a battle?

I do not see it as a battle. We are the same entities now chasing the same ad dollars. Some of us will skew more entertainment, and some will skew more news-y, and everyone has to find their corner and defend it. They’re losing seven dollars for every dollar of online revenue made while we’re already on the correct market value for advertising. Someone’s going to sell some mansions, and someone’s going to buy some.

You have free reign for a day, what changes would you make in the way sports are covered in America?

Less piety about the wrong things and more reverence for the right things. The Jay Cutler injury controversy in the playoffs was the most insane thing because we were debating the toughness of a football player who has happily taken excruciating physical punishment for over a decade because the NFL has this deranged eminence front encouraged by the owners and by extension the league. I love the English soccer media’s open skepticism of ownership. It would be nice to see more of it here. I have no idea why NFL writers feel the need to extol the personal virtue of an owner at every turn. Bob Kraft’s holiday parties must truly be that spectacular.

I would also like more simplicity in the actual coverage. Live coverage of games with more in-game, in-stream advertising and fewer breaks would be lovely. I’ll take a bit of clutter on the screen and around the field to keep the continuity of the game intact. (Again, this is harping on the NFL, but CBS covering college games is just as guilty, if not more so because of the length of college games.)

The rest I can rely on the internet for because we all have our own little islands now. Pangaea is gone, and I’m fine with that if it means Skip Bayless is somewhere antipodal to me in the sports universe. Oh, and I’d cancel First Take immediately and replace it with Aussie Rules Football games. If I want to watch cruelty, I’ll take it in an entertaining form.



Lane DeGregory: SANFORD

These days, Cheryl Brown has to walk the dog. • For a month — ever since her son heard someone screaming for help and her daughter called 911 and everyone heard the loud snap of a gunshot — Brown’s children have been afraid to go outside.

Her youngest daughter, who is 9, won’t even look out the window. She keeps seeing the dead teen’s body.

“That could have so easily been my son,” said Brown. “He wears hoodies all the time.”

Brown, a 40-year-old single mom who says she is “mostly black,” moved into the Retreat at Twin Lakes last year. She chose the gated subdivision of identical townhomes because it is racially diverse, lots of children live there and, she said, “it seemed so safe.”

Go To Sleep

The latest classic of straight-faced police reporting from Erin Sullivan:

Doyle Hardwick found himself back at the Land O’Lakes jail this week, this time for 60 days, all because he wanted to check his Facebook page in peace.

The trouble began brewing the evening of Sept. 24, as Hardwick plied his wife with beer, hoping she would go to bed. She drank. And drank. But didn’t feel like going to sleep. So he called 911.

Free Fallin’

She’s a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She’s a good girl, crazy ’bout Elvis
Loves horses and her boyfriend too

It’s a long day livin’ in Reseda
There’s a freeway runnin’ through the yard
And I’m a bad boy, ’cause I don’t even miss her
I’m a bad boy for breakin’ her heart

And I’m free, I’m free fallin’

All the vampires walkin’ through the valley
Move west down Ventura Blvd
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
All the good girls are home with broken hearts

And I’m free, I’m free fallin’

I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
I wanna free fall out into nothin’
Gonna leave this world for awhile

And I’m free, I’m free fallin’


A story by Michelle G. Chan in American Journalism Review describes the decision Emily Nipps made to leave the Tampa Bay Times for a PR job at a hospital. (Even though, according to the story, the paper offered to pay her more than her new job would have.)

I’ve known several people who made similar moves. Here’s what I’d like to know: Do you miss journalism? Are you glad you left? What does the balance sheet look like?

It’s hard for me to imagine leaving journalism. Most of my non-family relationships are based on journalism. Most of the best times I’ve had with friends in the past ten years have been with journalist friends. If I left the game, I feel as if a big part of my life would end.

Let’s talk about it. What if the bylines went away? Who would you be? What would you do?

A Chance In Hell

The Virginian Pilot’s Corinne Reilly won the Ernie Pyle Award last week for a five-part series called A Chance In Hell.


The doctors can hear the wailing before their patient is even in sight.

A second later, a flight medic bursts through the trauma department doors. His face is serious. He’s short of breath. Outside, corpsmen rush to unload a soldier from a military ambulance that carried him here from a Black Hawk. Two dozen doctors, nurses and surgeons have been awaiting their arrival.

“Who am I talking to?” the medic shouts.

“Here!” blurts Lt. Cmdr. Ron Bolen, the head of the hospital’s trauma department. He points to the Navy doctor leading the team that will examine the soldier first.

“OK, you’ve got tourniquets on both legs,” the medic gulps. “The right one is totally gone to at least the knee. He lost a lot of blood.”

The doctor hurriedly inquires about vital signs, fluids administered in the field, and the weapon that caused the explosion that did all this.

The next question would usually be whether the patient is conscious, but this time no one has to ask.

Outside, the wailing is getting louder.

(thanks, Mark)


The riveting start of Mike D’Orso’s “The Sniper,” The Virginian-Pilot, March 22, 1987:

The sun lay low in the Vietnamese sky. Steam rose from the damp jungle mulch. The only sound in the sweltering stillness was the buzzing of flies and gnats as they swarmed above Carlos Hathcock’s body, collecting on his neck, probing the corners of his eyes, digging into the creases of his mouth. His knees and elbows were blistered and bleeding. His pants were soaked with urine. But Hathcock felt nothing. He had moved beyond feeling. He had climbed into “the bubble,” and he was ready for the kill.

For two days Hathcock and his partner Johnny Burke had crawled through ferns, mud and rotting leaves, silent as snakes, stalking their prey, a lone North Vietnamese Army sniper. For two days the Asian had eluded their sight, hunting them as they hunted him, sniper on sniper. And now it had come to this, the two Marines lying flat on their stomachs, their eyes trained on the tree line across a grassy clearing.

Burke saw nothing. But Hathcock, his body frozen, his right eye glued to the telescopic sight of a Winchester, his mind locked in on the hunt, caught a flash, a quick glint of angled sunlight bouncing off a point in the foliage.

He needed nothing more. In an instant the crosshairs of his scope were on the point of light, and he squeezed the trigger.

Only when he reached the dead man’s body did Hathcock realized that the NVA soldier, too, had been zeroed in for the kill. The point of light had been the lens of the Asian’s rifle scope. Hathcock’s bullet had whistled cleanly into that lens, entering the man’s head through his eye.

Hathcock was alive for one reason: he had fired first.