Former Sportswriter

(Note: This was the final entry for my previous blog, Future Former Sportswriter. I now begin the exciting post-journalism phase of my career with a whole new blog, Hallucinogenic Toreador, named for a Salvador Dali painting that was created the year I was born. It also was the name of my column when I wrote for the USF student daily, the Oracle.)

I was laid off on Monday, 12 days after "surviving" Black Wednesday. My friend Scott Carter was laid off that day. I sat by my phone all that day, waiting for the call. Every time it rang, my heart leaped into my throat. By about 3:30, Mama Bird and I figured we were safe.

It was the second day at home for the new Little Mouse in the family. He's 100 percent healthy after a mind-numbing, eight-day stay in the NICU at University Community Hospital. Jaundice complications, breathing issues, etc. He was by far the biggest and healthiest baby in the NICU, which is packed with tiny, tiny preemies. He and big brother Bird are unbelievable. Mama Bird is good, too.

Me? I'm out of a job for the first time since 1984 and out of newspapers for the first time since 1986.

I've just gone over the entries I wrote a couple of months ago. They were, I think, right on the money. Except for this: After "surviving" Black Wednesday, they called me as I was on my way to work after a two-week absence (baby stuff) on Monday morning. I didn't even get out of my neighborhood before the cell phone rang. It was an assistant managing editor informing me that I needed to meet him and the managing editor in HR at 11 a.m. I said, "I'll be derned, I thought they were done with all that." He said something to the effect of, "No, we wanted to wait until your baby was out of the hospital." What he meant to say, of course, was that they didn't want it said of them that they laid off a long-time employee of good standing while his second child was in the NICU at University Community Hospital.

So, off I went after my swift kick in the gut. But first, a quick U-turn for home to break the news to Mama Bird. Heartbreak.

All that survivor's guilt I was feeling about Scott getting the ax? Now, it's empathy. The difference is, at least I had a plan (however far-fetched) before I thought I was in the clear. So, we reverted back to the plan in order to help absorb the shock.

That's still happening, by the way. Absorbing the shock, I mean. I'm typing on my brand-new laptop, a necessary new element to the plan; nothing like spending $1,000 at Best Buy to create a little peace of mind.

Anyway, the name of this blog obviously no longer applies. I'll figure something out about that later. Meanwhile, I need to get going on my unemployment application. Maybe if Scott and I pool our resources, we'll be able to afford tickets to a Rays game some weekend.

A Gift

We're told now that the layoffs won't happen until late June or early July. That's when my second son is due. Perfect. Out with the old (job), in with the new (life).

The most difficult thing now is waiting for it to happen. The longer this goes, the more convinced I am that I will be laid off. And the longer it goes, the more I begin to hope I'm laid off.

Why? Why would I actually choose the kind of uncertainty (dread, really) that comes with losing a once-trusted source of income? Two reasons. One, this is going to happen to this company again. Soon. Just because you survive this round, don't think you'll be so lucky next time. And next time? There might be no severance package/six-month parachute.

More than that, though, is the feeling that this chapter of my professional life is coming to an end. And, more to the point, should come to an end. My enjoyment of the actual work is down because of the poisonous atmosphere. Without that joy, this becomes just another job. Only worse, because I don't know if I'll even have this job in four-six weeks.

So, it's time for a change. If I'm ever going to write fiction, now is the time. I'll keep looking for a "real" job, certainly. But Mama Bird is right: When again will I ever have the opportunity to, essentially, get paid to pursue my dream? That's what the severance package is; the equivalent of an advance on the fiction I'll write, hopefully for publication. It'll allow us to pay our bills while I try to find my voice as an artist.

That's a gift. And if this layoff happens, I'll tear into that gift like a 2-year-old on Christmas morning. (A 2-year-old who knows how to write.)

A Story I Should Have Written

Been doing a lot of contemplating lately. I'm writing this piece on Steve Garvey, and it amazed me to realize that when he was going through his serial relationship stage in 1988-89, he was my age. At the time, he was quoted as saying something to the effect of "most people have a mid-life crisis; I had a mid-life catastrophe."

So, I've been mentally looking back at my career. I've been fortunate. There are so many things I've done, people I've met and places I've seen that never would have been possible without the job. I've written some good stuff, but not all of it. I've missed some stories, too.

One of those happened when I was the newspaper's bowling writer in the early '90s. There was this guy, Noel Bostick, who taught bowling classes at a center in Tampa. After he lost his IT job, he started hanging around the alley during the day. He noticed a high school class one day and saw a big, linebacker type fire an eight-pound ball down the lane -- with predictable results.

So, old Noel wandered over and said, "Want some help?" By the end of the day, he'd helped every kid in the class. The manager hired him to teach that day.

Noel's teaching technique was pretty cool; he was an accomplished trick bowler, and as he'd stand holding a ball facing the group with his back to the lane, in mid-sentence he would flip the ball (without looking back) between his legs and roll a strike. So, he was a bit of a showoff, but the method was effective; it got kids interested in the game.

One day, I went out to the center to talk to Noel about his teaching methods. I got a nice, little column out of it, and he agreed to provide weekly bowling tips based on his classes. But I missed the real story, and it still bothers me 15 years later.

When I was done with the interview that day, Noel insisted on walking me out to the parking lot. He wanted to show me something, something very important to him. His whole demeanor changed as he left the dark interior of the center and walked into the sunlight toward a huge, beat-up, mid-'70s station wagon. His car.

He opened the hatch and pulled aside a blanket, revealing a big wooden board hand-painted on both sides with the words: My Daughter Was Killed By A Drunk Driver. Noel pulled it out and showed me how it attached to the top of his car. On weekend nights, he said, after the bowling alley closed down he would attach the sign to the top of his car and drive, slowly, up and down Dale Mabry Highway in the vicinity of bars and restaurants. It was his way, he said, of warning people what could happen if they weren't responsible. It was his way, he said, of honoring his daughter's memory.

Missed that one. Should have written it then. I think he'd make a good character in a short story, though. Maybe it's just as well I never wrote it for the newspaper. Maybe I'll do it better now.

What About Scotland?

I actually checked the real estate listings for rentals in Edinburgh, Scotland yesterday. I mean, what if I get laid off and we sell the house and move to Scotland? It was a fleeting thought, less serious even than the passing notion of selling the house and moving to Mama Bird's extended family's farm in Southwest Ireland to raise sheep and cattle.

I checked the New Town first, because I figured it was a more fashionable section of Scotland's capital. It's about 1,500 pounds per month for a decent flat; far more for something with any kind of living space. The Old Town wasn't much cheaper. Eh. It would be kind of cool to live in Scotland for a while, but I can write anywhere in the world. Maybe if I get paid for my books I can visit Edinburgh again and head up to the Highlands for a day or two. I know we'll take the Bird and the future Baby Bird to Ireland one day; maybe a quick shot over to Scotland will do us good.

It's been a few days since my most recent post, and I must say the anxiety has diminished. I'm at the point that if it happens, I'm fine. If it doesn't happen, I'm fine, too. The waiting is a pain, but it's bearable. We know there are going to be many people out of work when this whole process is done. We know, too, that the "fortunate" ones who get to remain employed will have to work twice as hard (three times as hard for some) and the way things are going, they'll get their turn on the unemployment line soon enough.

So, as I wait to find out whether I'm valuable enough to stay aboard the sinking ship of print journalism, I and Mama Bird plan and live our lives. We spent Saturday and part of Sunday outside with the Bird, even though he's got a bit of a nasty cough and wasn't fit to go far from the house. Mama Bird got him a Dora slip 'n' slide, and he loved it (as you might guess from the above photo).

It's Dora the Explorer, because that's what they had at Publix for $10 and they didn't have Lightning McQueen or Backyardigans. Dora is, perhaps, the most obnoxious kids character since Barney. Her saucer eyes and nonsensical "missions" (fraught with peril delivered by a kleptomaniac fox named Swiper) are too annoying by half for anyone old enough to remember the Smurfs. Give me the Backyardigans, the Wonder Pets, Curious George and Little Einsteins. That's quality TV-as-babysitter material.

What's Important

OK, I was wrong. It's not that easy. Knowing that a month from now I more than likely will no longer have a job is weighing on me, more than a little bit.

It's particularly difficult being in the office, where almost everyone is going through the same range of emotions as me. Almost everyone. See, there are a few fortunate folks who can rest assured that the company will not let them go this time around, the ones who have been given subtle (not verbal) notice not to worry, that their places are secure for now. I am not one of those people.

You know the toughest part? Hearing laughter rise from one of the nearby cubicles, where the bosses hold whispered conversations with the fortunate few. It irks me, but it's not their fault. It's just self pity trying to swallow me, and I won't let that happen. For one thing, I'm too busy working to really let it get to me.

What's important is this: Mama Bird, the Little Bird and the soon-to-arrive new Baby Bird. I know that. I also know that, in a way, the end of my career at this newspaper will present an opportunity I've never had, which is to spend at least half a year still getting paid (severance!) while doing my own writing. If I'm ever going to fulfill this dream of becoming a fiction writer, now seems to be the time. It's a gift, as is my family.

What's bothering me is this: It's not my choice. After all the sacrifice, all the years of giving of myself to this irksome, thankless profession, the appreciation I receive if I'm laid off is essentially ... nothing. Oh, I've seen and done things I never would have done without the job, and for that I am thankful. I'll write about some of those things later. But nothing will replace the time spent away from home. Nothing about this is a rightful payoff for the the holidays worked, the illnesses worked through, the indignities suffered. Still, if (when) it happens, the best I can do is greet it smiling, with dignity and grace. I'll do that for myself and for my family.

Then I'll turn my attention to the important things.

In My End Is My Beginning

(Mary, Queen of Scots embroidered that headline onto her cloth of state during her imprisonment in England. She was beheaded at Fotheringay Castle on Feb. 9, 1587. So, all you nervous newspaper copy editors out there ... it could always, always be worse. And now ... the blog.)

This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end. My only friend, the end.

The Doors. There must be a lot of sportswriters out there who like the Doors. You go to sportsjournalists.com and check the message boards; lots of frightened, confused, bitter future former sportswriters are quoting Jim Morrison's ode to death. Or REM (It's the end of the world as we ... blah ... blah ... feel fine, etc.).

The end, eh? Yes, newspapers as we know them are coming to an end. But you know what? I feel fine.

Certainly, I'm anxious. We all are. It's not only the newspaper I've worked at for 16 years, which is facing massive layoffs soon if not enough employees accept buyouts. It's industry wide. Apparently (and here's where my extensive background in business comes into play), newspapers everywhere aren't making enough money to survive.

We are scared. Most of us won't be able to afford our mortgages or even pay the cable bill if we lose our jobs. Did I say if? More like when. Those who survive this round of RIF (autocratic shorthand for Reduction In Force; it's not coincidence that I almost accidently typed RIP instead) can more than likely look forward to another round in the not-too-distant future.

You want scary? How about the prospect of losing a job about a month before a second baby is due to be born? That's almost too frightening to think about. Yet, ignoring the possibility, the way the newspaper industry seems to have ignored its incremental demise over the past decade, is only an exercise in avoidance. It ain't healthy for anyone, except for ulcers.

So, how to handle this? How to process the anxiety as we anachronistic newspaper people prepare to receive a small, 21st-century taste of what the Great Depression must have been like for so many millions of our grandparents almost 80 years ago?

First, feel the anxiety. Soak in it like a tub of tepid bathwater. Don't reject it. Go ahead. Be afraid.

Now, think. What does the anxiety make you want to do? Cry? Scream? Pound your fists on the keyboard? Crawl between the covers and sleep through Halloween? Blame someone? Blame everyone? Blame yourself? Fine. Of course you want to do those things, or worse. But will you? No.

You won't do those things, because you will choose your response. You will allow yourself to feel whatever you're feeling, but you won't do so without thinking about it and thinking about the most productive way to channel the energy those emotions generate. You won't melt into a puddle of self-pity or angst, because that's not productive.

What I did was start this blog.

You want to know why "the end" was Morrison's only friend? Because without it, there would be no beginning.