Far from the calypso beat, I?ve been learning to play the world?s other beautiful game: journalism. For over a year now, I?ve been working at The Southampton Press, a weekly newspaper on Long Island?s South Fork. As the paper?s town hall reporter, I?ve been writing about the public policy and political debates that take place far from the summering crowd. And after covering a tough election and a bruising fight over the budget, I think maybe, just maybe, I?m starting to understand the sprints and kicks that all good reporters must be able to perform.
Before I go on, let me stress I mean no disrespect with the ?beautiful game? label. After all, journalism can be a deadly serious pursuit. But how else can you describe a job that demands such skill, performance and competition?
As I see it, journalism?s rules are clear: Write the most accurate, most fair and most compelling story you can in the allotted time. Sidestep the obstructionists, ignore the overbearing PR flacks and expose the liars. Spot the trends, find the moments of everyday beauty and, by all means, get the truth out there. Simple, right? Reporting stories on town hall, but also school boards, Lego-building teams and a man found dead after 13 months, have shown me just how hard that can be and just how many questions need to get answered before your editor leaves you alone.
Located in Southampton Village for more than a 100 years, The Press has been ?hyperlocal? before that was considered the next big thing. Every week, the paper has been finding the news in school board meetings, zoning board applications and the guy next door who done good.
Filing around six to eight stories every week, I?ve really had to concentrate on the fundamentals. Accuracy, I?ve learned, means focusing on the thing in front of you?right?now. And I?ve learned that acting difficult when necessary??raising a fuss? as my editor calls it?is another part of the job.
Sure I?ve had my pratfalls. I?ve struggled to make sense of the mind-numbing jargon when covering land use boards. I?ve experienced the hot shame of calling a source on three separate occasions to make sure I got the story right. And I?ve received that dreaded, day after, phone call to inform me that a correction needed to be published. I count it as a learning experience and move on, because there?s simply not enough time to agonize.
But it?s here that I?ve also had my first views of the game?s beauty. It?s the feeling after hanging up the phone on a politician that?s been cut down to size. It?s catching the details that would otherwise go unnoticed or witnessing a good story come together on the page just as it?s about to be sent to the printer. This is the stuff that gets in your blood. ?Run that baby,? as Jason Robards said, tapping his knuckle on a desk as he walked through the newsroom in ?All the President?s Men.?
Looking back, I was on the high school newspaper and did some writing in college, but I never thought of pursuing a career in journalism. But I trace the spark of my current addiction back to the way I felt on 9/11, watching the defining moment of my generation from a second-story dorm room in Maine.
There are many lessons to be learned from the events of that day. I came away convinced that the world is filled with pain, anguish, heroism and injustice, and I decided that documenting that reality would be my own contribution.
I know I?ve picked a bad time to link my conscience to journalism. Profit margins continue to slip for many newspapers and these days, journalists are not held in high regard. According to research from the National Opinion Research Center at the University of Chicago, some 3,000 respondents in 2006 said they had less confidence in the fourth estate than the military, medicine, organized religion and even Congress. Yet if polls and profits concerned me, I?d be in politics.
But I?m not. I?m with the ink-stained wretches and the hyper-caffeinated band on the run. It?s easy to see how the profession can burn out even the best reporters. But it?s the beauty of the game?o jogo bonito?that has kept me going.