black francis
Well-Known Member
love the jeter diary
Thursday, May 23: Off day
There's no point in complaining about the intrusiveness of the media. It is what it is. And what it is is this: They follow you around all day long, from sunup to sundown, three-egg-white brunch to champagne nightcap, from physical therapy to telephoto-lens-in-a-circling-helicopter-trying-to-see-your-Netflix-queue, trying to record every waking second of your life. All you can do is hurry between the SUV and the training complex, make sure your shades are always drawn, and delete all the really disappointing movies your ex-girlfriends are in, because you don't need the Post reporting that you've one-starred Minka Kelly's entire post-FNL career. Except for that one where Blair Waldorf was trying to become and then kill her, because that was actually kind of decent in a no-expectations, late-night-cable kind of way, and it kind of taps into your old nightmares about having two Minkas around. But you digress, because you're the Captain of the most important franchise in sports, not a critic, despite the fact you've always thought you have pretty advanced taste in film.
The constant invasions of your privacy are all a part of the job. It's far from your favorite part. Playing the game is your favorite part, and all the other parts are parts you put up with because you have to, and because you've been unsuccessful in your behind-the-scenes push to extend the baseball season to a 12-month, 324-game schedule. And when you're hurt, having the press all up in your business is even less tolerable than usual. You can't even go to Starbucks without it being a story. "Who's Philip?" They're all asking, because they saw that name on the cup I was carrying. Am I shouting out Scooter Rizzuto, and rotating through different Hall of Fame shortstops? Is that my secret alias? Am I a huge fan of Philip K. Dick? The truth, of course, is always more boring than the fiction. Some guy walked off with the skinny no-whip one-pump caramel soy latte with THE CAPTAIN written on the side, so I took his drink. I went home and checked eBay and the Captain cup sold for $15,000 that night. Which is well below market value. I hope "Philip" is enjoying the money, wherever he is. I know he enjoyed my drink, it's delicious. Baristas are always telling me what a clutch order it is.
But like I said, there's no point in complaining. You just write a diary entry, get it out of your system, and move on with your life. All part of the job.
Thursday, May 23: Off day
There's no point in complaining about the intrusiveness of the media. It is what it is. And what it is is this: They follow you around all day long, from sunup to sundown, three-egg-white brunch to champagne nightcap, from physical therapy to telephoto-lens-in-a-circling-helicopter-trying-to-see-your-Netflix-queue, trying to record every waking second of your life. All you can do is hurry between the SUV and the training complex, make sure your shades are always drawn, and delete all the really disappointing movies your ex-girlfriends are in, because you don't need the Post reporting that you've one-starred Minka Kelly's entire post-FNL career. Except for that one where Blair Waldorf was trying to become and then kill her, because that was actually kind of decent in a no-expectations, late-night-cable kind of way, and it kind of taps into your old nightmares about having two Minkas around. But you digress, because you're the Captain of the most important franchise in sports, not a critic, despite the fact you've always thought you have pretty advanced taste in film.
The constant invasions of your privacy are all a part of the job. It's far from your favorite part. Playing the game is your favorite part, and all the other parts are parts you put up with because you have to, and because you've been unsuccessful in your behind-the-scenes push to extend the baseball season to a 12-month, 324-game schedule. And when you're hurt, having the press all up in your business is even less tolerable than usual. You can't even go to Starbucks without it being a story. "Who's Philip?" They're all asking, because they saw that name on the cup I was carrying. Am I shouting out Scooter Rizzuto, and rotating through different Hall of Fame shortstops? Is that my secret alias? Am I a huge fan of Philip K. Dick? The truth, of course, is always more boring than the fiction. Some guy walked off with the skinny no-whip one-pump caramel soy latte with THE CAPTAIN written on the side, so I took his drink. I went home and checked eBay and the Captain cup sold for $15,000 that night. Which is well below market value. I hope "Philip" is enjoying the money, wherever he is. I know he enjoyed my drink, it's delicious. Baristas are always telling me what a clutch order it is.
But like I said, there's no point in complaining. You just write a diary entry, get it out of your system, and move on with your life. All part of the job.