Momma didn't raise no dumby

I sat for several minutes trying to think of a clever way to begin an article on sports journalism with little to no avail. Okay, let's not kid ourselves, I sat for at least 45 minutes, sipping my doubleshot espresso, so that I could hate my ideas in fast forward all while making a noose out of my scarf hoping the sheer panic of impending death would inspire a breakthrough.

Continuing with honesty, I never once in my life desired to be an athlete, and (maybe a bit more surprising) I never wanted to be a journalist. I still have no desire to do either. I'd much rather be opinionated, write novels, paint and sculpt works of art and be drunk on wine with my pet penguin by at least 11 a.m.

Though I study in the journalism field I've always seen myself a bit more of an artist than a go-getter man-in-the-field. To add to the discomfort that sports journalism provides me, the very idea of being in a dugout with overweight men resembling the Geico cavemen, makes me want to zest my testicles with a cheese greater or forcibly peel my fingernails off with pliers.

I'm sure, being as far removed from the sports world as I am, I don't realize the competitive fast-paced industry of sports journalism, though I can't imagine I'm alone in the discomfort of being surrounded by tectonic morons an ogres day in and day out. There will always be the few and the select that desire the on-the-road lifestlye. These men deserve the jobs that are out there.

Those who decidedly stay home and just listen to rumor and chatter, attempting to take these brave mens' careers will never have the depth of journalism the men in the locker rooms are getting. Leave the reporting to the hard working men on the field, leave the opinions to the bloggers. It's not our place to take the jobs of the men shoving microphones in athletes' faces, unless we're willing to get off our asses and...