You’ve all been asking, so it’s time I answered.
“”Why do you write for the Guardian?””
You may assume it’s for the money. There’s one major problem with this assumption: I get thirsty when I write. By the time I’ve bought the 20-ounce Gatorade I need to finish the story, I’ve used half of what I’ll earn for this column. If I need to use the phone to do an interview, there’s a good chance I’m losing money on the whole thing. Money is not what motivates me to write.
“”For the fame!”” you cry. “”You must be working for the fame that you get from being a sports columnist!””
Fat chance. As my friend Sandi so eloquently expressed to me the other day, there are only five people who read my column, and one of them is my mom. While I’d like to hope that there are a couple more people at UCSD picking this up, I admit that writing for this paper is not the best way to go about being world famous. In fact, Sandi would have gotten a kick out of me putting her name in print, but she doesn’t read my column.
“”Uh oh,”” you grumble. “”Are you one of those guys who always wanted to be a great athlete, but whose athletic abilities are more Steve Urkel than Steve Young? Maybe you’re trying to live out your dreams through real athletes.””
Nope. I was never a superstar athlete in high school, but I won my fair share of team and individual league championships. I don’t write to live vicariously through the athletes at UCSD. I love playing sports, but I use intramurals to take care of that urge, not writing.
“”What’s left, then?”” you ask. “”Do you write to attract the ladies?””
As glorious as it is to have my head shot at the top of each of my columns, I’m going to have to say no to that. It’s not that I don’t wish some sweet, beautiful, intelligent, funny girl is out there reading this column and waiting to introduce herself to me. It’s that I don’t think it’s possible. Out of the five of you reading this, three are guys, one is my mom, and my fifth reader already has a boyfriend. While it would be a nice perk, I don’t think that my column increases my sex appeal all that much.
“”Is it some kind of power trip?”” you wonder. “”Do you get a kick out of having your name in print and having people read all your thoughts?””
Good guess, but the only person I know who can do something important when only five people are listening to him is Los Angeles Laker head coach Phil Jackson. And if two of my five were Shaq and Kobe, I could do a lot bigger things, too — Zen master or not.
“”I don’t get it,”” you say. “”All this time talking, and you still haven’t told me why you write for the Guardian.””
You’re right.
But I just financed my next two bottles of Gatorade.
