A class act

Some nights, I really miss playing baseball. Like last Friday night when I sat along the third-base line, leaning on the fence and talking with some youth league coaches and parents about the pending game. A soft breeze blew over the freshly mown field in east central Illinois, whose sweet smell reminded me of days spent roaming across such fields back in New Jersey. I loved nights like this, as much for the beauty of the moment as for the competition. I miss the joy of playing.

But on this night, I was able to see the next best thing – my daughters were set to play the first game of a weekend softball tournament for a travel team filled with small, thin but fast and determined young girls, a team that has improved dramatically since last fall. And they were set to play a powerhouse Shelbyville team, a squad that had just knocked off two of the best teams in the state of Illinois.

Publicly, we told the girls any team is beatable. Privately, we hoped the game would just be close. As I worked with the girls on their swings before the game, the kids seemed looser than normal, something the head coach worried about, believing his girls were not concentrating. But he is a gentle coach, so he did not yell or scream.

By the second inning, we trailed by four. By the third inning, we were deadlocked. Our girls hit like never before, ripping shots all over the field. My oldest daughter drilled a two-run single up the middle and then scored. Our shortstop snagged a pop up and threw a bullet to first to double off a runner. Our third baseman snagged a liner and tagged a runner off that base for another double play an inning later. The girls played the game of their lives, applying lessons taught by their coaches and showing determination and confidence that they could win. A few more late-inning hits and some solid defensive plays later, the girls did just that, leaping in the air as if they had won the World Series. Our girls had played the perfect game. The girls could barely contain themselves, laughing as they ate burgers and fries at McDonald’s and slurping down shakes at Dairy Queen.

But I was even more amazed the next afternoon. Girls are vastly different than boys (in case you could not tell.) I learn this a little more every day, whether that is as a father of two girls or as a coach of a youth sports team. Girls are cool, man. They play hard, dance in the dugout, and sing songs for nearly everything from foul balls to a batter’s stance. Boys are awkward and duller. Girls sometimes cry when they make a mistake, but they do not give up and have much more fun.

Our team lost in the morning but rebounded to win an afternoon game by about 10 runs. As our team walked off the field, the Shelbyville players stood in two lines in front of the dugout, formed an arch with their arms, and yelled “WE are proud of you! We ARE proud of you!” A class act from a class team. (Which usually comes from a class coach.) And that is exactly how I would characterize the Shelbyville coach, a man who appears to be a calm teacher who cares for his players. I enjoy talking with him. Like our coaches, he is clearly set on teaching life lessons as well. That’s something we all need to consider when we watch our kids compete as parents and when we watch teams play as sports journalists.

There are way too many coaches who mistake screeching for teaching. There’s nothing wrong with raising one’s voice and yelling instructions, but screaming and deriding and attacking is another manner. (Like the coach who growled at his 10-year-old catcher: “Use your head! It’s not there just to hold up your mask!”) Winning is great, but not if it means enduring jerks like this guy. Shelbyville’s coach proves nice guys can finish first. Thanks for the great lesson for my girls.

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Crafting profiles when the main character won’t speak

Joe DiMaggio stood alone in his restaurant, staring out a bay window at the San Francisco wharf where tourists watched the fishermen repair their nets. One pretty blue-eyed blonde brushed her hair back and took some photos. DiMaggio, holding a cigarette, followed her with his gaze as she walked down the street before returning to his table where he finished his tea. DiMaggio, at age fifty-one, no longer played before fifty-thousand fans at Yankee Stadium, but people still flocked to see him. Only DiMaggio never felt comfortable talking with people, least of all a writer who wanted to delve into his private life, something he guarded at all costs. DiMaggio sneaked into a back room when the writer entered the restaurant, spoiling any chance for an interview.

Gay Talese never had a chance to interview DiMaggio, but that did not stop him from writing a profile that has set the standard for all others. In fact, “The Silent Season of a Hero,” was named the greatest sports article of the Twentieth Century by David Halberstam and Glenn Stout, editors of The Best American Sports Writing of the Century.

I’ve read way too many profiles where the only person interviewed was the person featured. That’s a terrible approach. The person profiled should be the last person you speak with. Instead, gather stories from others who are less guarded in offering information and insights. Friends and family are usually more than willing to gab about one another — even if the stories are embarrassing. (And embarrassing stories can reveal much about a person, just as stories that show the bad side of someone yield much. Remember, nobody is all good or all bad, so do not create a person who is so one-dimensional. You might, though, if you only speak with the person interviewed.) More than a few years ago, I read a wonderful profile on Patrick Ewing that did not include a single quote from the Knicks all-star center. I believe the great Gary Smith wrote that piece for Sports Illustrated. (I’m about to start Beyond The Game, a collection of Smith’s wonderful stories through the years.)

In the piece on DiMaggio, Talese found a way to write about his subject in ways that, ultimately, proved superior to the traditional manner in which so many reporters approach profile stories. (He also wrote a tremendous profile on Frank Sinatra, another person who refused to speak with him, that is featured in The Gay Talese Reader: Portraits and Encounters, a book that offers many lessons in how to write a profile story. One should observe, research and interview. That Talese did not interview the protagonists of these stories does not matter. (In fact, this is a strength of these pieces. Who cares what Sinatra and DiMaggio say about themselves? What insights can they offer that hasn’t been stated before? Plus, can we really believe what they say? Their disdain and distance makes these stories all the more appealing and intriguing.) Talese interviewed countless others who know these men instead.

Talese is a keen observer, taking in details others might have missed, like DiMaggio lighting up his fifth cigarette in the past half hour. In addition, Talese clearly researched these people, as any good reporter, by reading what others had reported on these two men. These other articles and interviews help inform the main story, supplying insights into how these men had acted in the past. Finally, though, it is the writing style that sets these stories apart. Talese tells the stories through the eyes of others, shifting the mind’s eye from fishermen to waiters to fetching middle-aged women to press agents.

Talese researches well. He find stories that essentially fill in the blanks, that help to explain and convey ideas and points. So when Talese talks about Sinatra’s personal touch with friends, readers can see Sinatra in action. Talese could have stopped after the first sentence; instead, Talese finds examples to illustrate his point:

“Sinatra does things personally. At Christmastime, he will personally pick dozens of presents for his close friends and family, remembering the type of jewelry they like, their favorite colors, the sizes of their shirts and dresses. When a musician friend’s house was destroyed and his wife was killed in a Los Angeles mud slide a little more than a year ago, Sinatra personally came to his aid, finding the musician a new home, paying whatever hospital bills were left unpaid by the insurance, then personally supervising the furnishing of the new home down to the replacing of silverware, the linen, the purchase of new clothing” (Talese 24-25).

Talese does not always cite his sources, but it is clear that he speaks to many people, everyone from friends of those profiled to those who are more distant, like an acquaintance or a golf club manager. In “The Silent Season of a Hero,” for example, Talese writes that DiMaggio works hard to keep in shape. Talese shows this through the eyes of others.

“He tried hard to remain as he was – he diets, he takes steam baths, he is careful; and flabby men in the locker rooms of golf clubs sometimes steal peeks at him when he steps out of the shower, observing the tight muscles across his chest, the flat stomach, the long sinewy legs” (Talese 109).

Had Talese stated these facts himself, the story would have been far less interesting. The fact that others see DiMaggio in this manner (especially that they steal peaks in the shower) shows how DiMaggio looks in a more fascinating manner. Talese does not rely on his own point of view when creating these portraits (not that he remains silent. He invokes the first person a few times in both pieces), telling the reader how to think. Instead, Talese shows. He shows DiMaggio through the eyes of the fishermen on the famous San Francisco wharf. He also shows Sinatra through the eyes of his agent. And he even shows what New York is really like through the eyes of a popular masseuse and a cop talking a potential jumper from the George Washington Bridge in another story, “New York is a City of Things Unnoticed.”

Talese feels comfortable hanging out and revealing what he sees. He is also skilled in doing the leg work that reveals so much back story. And he also seems at ease allowing others to tell some of these stories. Talese does not need to speak with those he profiles. Instead, he can talk to those who really know the score.

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