By Robert Lipsyte
An established activities columnist for the hot York instances interweaves tales from his existence and the occasions he coated to discover the relationships among the video games we play and the lives we lead growing to be up, Robert Lipsyte was once the smart-aleck fats child, the bully magnet who went to the library rather than the ballpark. because the perpetual outsider, even into maturity, Lipsyte's alienation from Jock tradition made him a rarity within the press field: the sportswriter who wasn't a activities fan. this sense of otherness has coloured Lipsyte's activities writing for 50 years, a lot of it spent as a columnist for the hot York occasions. He did not stick with specific athletes or groups; he wasn't awed by means of the entry afforded through his press go or his familiarity with the avid gamers within the locker room. among bouts on the instances, he introduced a profitable profession writing younger grownup fiction, usually approximately activities. The event and perception he earned over a part century infuse An unintentional Sportswriter. Going past the standard memoir, Lipsyte has written "a reminiscence loop, a round look for misplaced or forgotten items within the puzzle of a life." In telling his personal tale, he grapples with American activities and society—from Mickey Mantle to invoice Simmons—arguing that Jock tradition has seeped into our enterprise, politics, and kinfolk existence, and its definitions became the normal to degree worth. jam-packed with knowledge and an knowing of yankee activities that contextualizes instead of celebrates athletes, An unintended Sportswriter is the crowning fulfillment of a wealthy occupation and a ebook that might communicate to us for future years.
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Extra resources for An Accidental Sportswriter
Not only were we smarter, but we were too cool for this school; we would leave for high school after completing the three-year curriculum in two. There were some good athletes among us, but we were clearly nerds. We were easy to spot. We moved from class to class in a clump and were individually identified by heavy brown leather briefcases filled with books. P. boys called our briefcases “fag bags” and tried to kick them out of our hands. They also shouldered us in the halls and pushed us around on the streets.
Just like an interview. I spilled it out, and he sipped and nodded, no judgment. He said he understood but he thought it would be a mistake. I should stay. He told me that I had talent and would make it at the Times. I was exactly what the paper was looking for. But if I was determined to leave, he had a proposition. He spoke very precisely. ” I lost my breath. I was making $35 a week. He was offering me nearly three times my annual salary. He believed in me. ” “It’s a good investment for me. ” Of course, it was all I thought about for days.
I barely graduated. My final paper, about discrimination in broadcast journalism, was not considered newsy enough. It was also not very good. School was roughly nine to five, my job was seven to three. I also got married in there somewhere when two sets of parents applied the screws because Maria Glaser and I, both twenty-one, were living together, which was rare in those days. Maria was a part-time student at Columbia and worked in a doctor’s office. The marriage lasted five years. On Saturdays and Sundays before my copyboy shift, I covered sermons at $5 each for the Religion Desk, one way of getting into the paper.