“He said, she said, they said,” Smiley shouted, socking one fist into the other open palm. “That’s the only attribution you should use in here. Keep it invisible. We want to hear what the guy said, not how he said it. Should I hang a sign in your cubicle?”
I couldn’t hear Gordon’s reply, only Smiley droning on. “So I don’t want to hear your sources comment, claim, assert, suggest, state, disclose, imply, admit, concur, argue, or remark. And they sure as hell better not guffaw, chuckle, or chortle either.”
As he dismissed Gordon, he caught me looking at him and barked, “Did you get that, Rigsby?”
I nodded, resisting the urge to tell him that I heard what he said.
Later that afternoon, I headed back to Walker for football practice. It was like high school all over again, with Coach granting me access that he didn’t give other reporters. I caught him afterward, as he was walking back up to the football complex, and asked if had a few minutes to talk about the Baylor game. He glanced at his watch and said he needed to get home to meet his handyman, something about a problem gutter, but could talk later.
“When’s a good time?” I said.
“For you? Anytime,” he said, patting my shoulder.
Around eight o’clock that evening, I worked up the nerve to send him a tentative text: Is now a good time to chat?
He wrote back: Not alone. Can you text me the questions?
Okay, I typed, then specified that we were on the record before asking him to confirm our starting backfield.
He texted back: They can all play. Who do YOU think I should start?
I laughed, then typed: Ha. If I pick your lineup, will you write my piece?
I stared at my phone, waiting, knowing that he was a slow one-finger typist: I don’t think your readers would appreciate my third-grade writing style.
I smiled and wrote: Don’t try to play the dumb jock with me. I know better.
And the conversation continued from there, the screen filling with our banter:
CCC: Really. And what else do you know?
Me: I know you’re sitting in that big armchair, with the TV on mute.
CCC: Ha. You got me.
Me: Probably with a Shiner Bock on your drink stand next to the remote.
CCC: Where’s the hidden camera? How many fingers am I holding up?
Me: One. As in: number one. Which is how we’ll finish the year.
CCC: You give me way too much credit. Always have.
Me: Nope. Not possible. But back to the story. What do you think of Lache?
CCC: That kid can run like small-town gossip.
Me: Can I quote you on that?
CCC: Yes.
Me: What else can I quote you on?
CCC: Tell ’em it’s going to be a flesh-on-flesh, in-the-trench battle.
Me: And your strategy?
CCC: Hold on to the ball and score more points than they do.
Me: Sounds simple enough.
CCC: Yes. But don’t be fooled. The best things in life only seem simple.
I smiled down at my phone, thinking just how true that was.
The next morning, at 7:58, I filed my first story with The Dallas Post. Twenty minutes later, Smiley stormed over to my cubicle, barking at me to call it up on my screen. I did as I was told, discovering that he—or someone at the copydesk—had already heavily edited the piece.
“Not awful,” he said, which felt like high praise. “But you need to tighten it up, lose some of that flowery description, and cut down on the quotes. I get it. They’re down a lot of men. Say it once.” He pointed over my shoulder as I tried to follow all the electronic changes made in red in the margins.
I nodded and said I understood.
Then, as if he knew how long the first draft had taken me, he added, “And I need it back ASAP. Ten minutes ago.”
As he returned to his office, I noticed that the only sentence without a single edit was my lead, lifted directly from my cellphone: According to Walker University’s Coach Clive Carr, Saturday’s contest against Baylor is going to be “a flesh-on-flesh, in-the-trench battle.”
Later that day, after I had refiled my first story and worked on the next, I met Lucy at the practice field, like old times. She brought us gourmet sandwiches from her favorite deli, and we sat in the bleachers, talking and watching practice. At least I was watching practice, while she did most of the talking.
“How’s Ryan?” Lucy asked as she handed me half of a portobello mushroom, mozzarella, and red pepper sandwich. It was her favorite topic these days, and I was happy to give her a good report.
“He’s great,” I said, watching a weak-shoulder run drill in progress. Coach was holding a shield at the fifteen-yard line, while his running backs lined up across from him and pressed his outside shoulder to get back up the field. Somehow he managed to look sexy in the process, right down to the way he blew his whistle and bellowed instructions, his voice a little hoarse. I looked away from the field, back at Lucy, telling myself to get a grip. Stop looking at her father like that.