When Sportswriting and Ethics Become . . . Relative

Just when you think you’ve got this journalism thing down, someone comes along and throws a tire iron in your path, knocking you off course and flat on your you-know-what.

You spend years in this business learning about ethics. They pound it into your head from the day you first stick your pimply face into a class of Journalism 101.

You belieeeeeeeeve that writers shouldn’t reveal sources. You belieeeve in fairness. You belieeeve that you shouldn’t take gifts from anyone, lest you one day have to write the hand that feeds you.

These are your Bill of Rights and you live them. You love them.

You’re taught that sportswriters shouldn’t get too close to the athletes they cover. It’s as simple as that. You can’t criticize a player who’s having you over for dinner Sunday. So you learn to keep your distance. You hang in the shadows. You strike when you must. You’re suspicious of anyone who likes you for no apparent reason. You pay for your own meals and tickets.

If Reggie Jackson wants to chew you out for something you wrote, you don’t grovel. You stand there and take it like a man.

It’s what you believe in.

So how might you feel if it all blew up in your face one day?

Say you met a girl a few years ago. Say she was real nice, the one you’ve been waiting for. She didn’t eat much or cheat at cards or anything.

Let’s say you ask her to marry you and she says yes.

Just for fun, say her big brother is a major league baseball pitcher.

Welcome to a promotional spot for “This is My Life.”

I didn’t ask for this to happen. It just did.

If ever I were to date again, I’d consult the Baseball Register first.

But it’s too late for that. Sometime in July, I’ll become a brother-in-law to Matt Young, a promising but erratic left-hander with the Seattle Mariners.

Better make that “a very promising left-hander with a wonderful mother.”

You learn quickly.

It’s lucky we’re both such nice guys. If not, I could salt my peas one night at dinner and wonder out loud if Matt (12-19, 4.91 ERA in 1985) intended to lead the American League in losses every year. Or, perhaps remind the in-laws that his earned-run average is rapidly approaching my shoe size.

The whole thing reminds me of some wacky sitcom series that McLean Stevenson would star in, you know, “Nutty Sportswriter Marries into Family to Get Scoop on Pitcher.”

Anyway you want to look at this thing, a classic athlete/journalist confrontation beckoned.

We cleared the air in our first meeting. Matt had me over for dinner. It was a Sunday. He asked me why all writers asked stupid questions. I asked him why all athletes hid in the trainer’s room on deadline. More or less, he called me a yellow journalist and I called him a dumb jock.

After that, we got along fine. Not a “No comment” or “Tell it to my agent, pal” in the conversation.

But pity the day we should ever have to meet on the job, especially on a day when Young leaves his fastball in the BMW.

It’s not that I couldn’t be objective, but just the thought of having to produce a special edition for my mother-in-law is frightening. . . .

One story from a conscientious, enterprising reporter:

ANAHEIM--Seattle left-hander Matt Young, his arm resembling wet fettuccine, allowed three first-inning home runs Saturday night as the Angels beat the Mariners, 11-0, before a crowd of 30,000 at Anaheim Stadium.

Young, who lasted one-third of an inning, was in total control--until the national anthem ended. After that, he tripped over the rosin bag walking to the mound, blew a bubble that popped in his face and threw his first warmup pitch to Al the peanut vendor. It got worse after that. The only out Young recorded came when Brian Downing lined one back to the mound, the ball becoming embedded in Young’s mid-section. . . .

Same story by writer looking for extra helpings at Thanksgiving:

ANAHEIM--Seattle Mariner left-hander Matt Young, nattily attired in his neatly pressed road uniform, scattered 13 hits over one-third of an inning but was denied his fourth victory of the year thanks to the defensive play, quite frankly, of a bunch of ying-yangs.

Young, freshly shaven and wearing the chain locket he received from Aunt Myrtle last Christmas, couldn’t get a break in the 11-0 loss to the Angels.

And if that stupid Phil Bradley was any kind of center fielder, he would have timed his leap properly and snatched Wally Joyner’s upper-deck homer in the first. . . .

No one said journalism would be easy, but I’ve learned to stay clear of trouble.

I’ve learned to bite my tongue till it bleeds, but recently I mentioned out loud casually that moving Matt to the bullpen might be a good thing. Being on call as a reliever, I reasoned, might be less taxing mentally. It doesn’t allow you time to brood over losses between starts.

“Are you calling my son a psycho?” the pitcher’s mother wondered.

She was kidding. I think.

Anyway, things could be worse. I could be marrying Steve Carlton’s sister.