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My feelings on Marshawn Lynch and media people, tuned to various degrees of hyperbolic intensity

Sports journalists have feelings on Marshawn Lynch's refusal to open up to the media, and Jon has feelings about those sports journalists. Here are those feelings, tuned to differing frequencies of hyperbole so that you can find the one that is right for you.

Peter Casey-USA TODAY Sports


I've never had to do the job beat reporters do. It seems like very hard work, and it takes a special sort of talent to be good at it. If I were to put my shoes on and do their job this afternoon, I would be bad at it. I also acknowledge that I don't understand firsthand what it's like for an athlete to be uncooperative. Maybe it feels insulting on some level. That feeling is valid.


But I'm still having a whole lot of trouble getting a grasp on the attitude of entitlement here. Marshawn Lynch is not your co-worker, he's a figure and you're a journalist. If his employer tells him to talk to you, and he doesn't in a meaningful way, that is a bummer for you and you have a right to be bummed about it. Let's just suppose for a moment that talking to you is his job. Whether he decides to do his job is none of your business.


Three things, gooneybird! First, he gave you a story by not giving you one. If you sat down with one of your readers, I think it's likely that their first question would be, "so what was the Marshawn Lynch thing like?" You didn't lose out.

Second, beat writing is a highly competitive business, but even if you do think of the Marshawn Lynch Experience as losing out, all y'all lost out equally, right? Nobody beat you with any kind of scoop. Lynch is an equal-opportunity non-talker.

Third, this place is full of really interesting people. The Seahawks alone have plenty of fascinating dudes who will probably tell you great stories and funny shit and all kinds of shit that you and your readers will think is cool.

I just don't know why the Hell you're complaining.


It could be because you're a giant fucking baby, I guess.


OK, I acknowledge that nobody likes being called a "giant fucking baby." I'm trying not to carelord. I'm not being sharp about this because I'm so worried about Marshawn Lynch -- I really feel like he should be free to do or not do whatever he wants, and face whatever consequences he sees fit, but he'll be fine, and it doesn't really matter.


It's just that I can't stand people in this business complaining and feeling entitled. At large, sports media people are often miserable, sad-sack, self-important, self-oblivious lumps. (I won't except myself from that, although I really try to not be that.)

There are millions of people in America today who would kill to have a job like mine or like yours, whether we're a sports op-ed person, or a beat writer, or whatever. I wanted this job I had when I was 11 years old, and my eyes still bug out once every few days when I realize, "oh shit, I have it."

The ability to do something this enjoyable for a living, I suspect, is a socioeconomic mutation happening somewhere on the margins of humanity. We are the pin in the gutter, existing in the slice of time after the ball hit us and before the giant Brunswick machine puts us somewhere that makes sense.


And you don't have an obligation to perpetually feel like puppies and sunshine about it. It's a dream job, but it can also be a hard job, and I know that. You absolutely have a right to be frustrated, to maybe not like your job all the time.


But if your neutral resting point is one in which you're comfortable with complaining and slamming someone else for this shit, I mean, there's the door. You don't have this amazing job by birthright. I don't know you, but I'm pretty sure you worked hard enough to place yourself in a position to be really, unreasonably, extraordinarily lucky. That is the best that can be said.

You don't deserve this, and neither do I. You're talking like you deserve things. We don't "deserve" to live in this carnival of fun and games and talking to famous people and traveling and expensing Shake Shack. Listen, dingus: one day, society will notice the gauche, exorbitant error that is the professional sportswriting industry, frown, wonder "how the Hell long has that been there," and send us all to mine ore on Saturn. Be quiet! Don't blow this for the rest of us, dumbass! Shut the fuck up, they'll hear you!


We all have fits of discontent, but we're not special. I'm so privileged to even acknowledge that a challenge of my job is to remind myself that I'm not special, but the fact remains. Carpenters don't question the moral fabric of a family that doesn't want new kitchen cabinets. Fishermen don't stand at the edge of the boat and shout "real mature" into the water.


This entire situation is actually all about me, Jon. I am the only person anyone should be concerned with. I am annoyed by people getting upset and entitled when they should really be in a perpetual state of groveling to the Sportswriting Moon-God. Those are my feelings, and mine are the only feelings that matter.


I am the Sportswriting Moon-God. The tides rise and fall with each of my tweets about liking bacon. One day I will compose the perfect "critical of Delta Airlines" tweet, and my fingertips will emit rays of light that stretch out interdimensionally into quantum space, incinerating the first three dimensions and bathing dimensions four through eight in my alabaster light of wisdom. All shall cease to exist, save for myself and the GIF of Chris Kaman trying to run a fast break. I am light. All matter is my body.


The "big game" is big business for athletes and advertisers alike. It will be interesting to see who will win!