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As a cub reporter at the Los Angeles Times in 1976, I idolized the great film critic Charles Champlin. I love movies as much as I do sports, and Champlin's reviews were at least as entertaining as Jack Nicholson or Faye Dunaway.
One day, to my delight, my sports editor told me to call Champlin for some thoughts on a story I was doing on athletes as actors. When I was finished with my questions, Champlin surprised me by asking this one.
He said: "How hard is it for you guys to have to interview the stars you have to critique? The last thing I want to do is go to a cocktail party with movie stars. I don't want to get to know them, then try to write an honest appraisal of their work."
I was reminded of that story on Wednesday, when Ozzie Guillen, who's either the manager of the Chicago White Sox or a character in a Quentin Tarantino flick, gave his reason for the line-crossing shot he took at a Chicago columnist. Guillen basically explained that he intended the slur to mean this columnist wasn't man enough to come into the White Sox clubhouse and talk to Guillen, either before or after ripping the manager in print.
This again raised the question that sports columnists rarely if ever address in their columns: What is their responsibility, to the stars they critique and to their readers? Should they hang around the clubhouse or locker room and get to know their subjects -- or keep an arm's length?
This is strictly my opinion as a veteran opinion-maker: I've always believed I owed it to my readers to avoid falling under the spell of the stars I write about. To me, that's selling my soul -- my objectivity -- and abusing my privilege. If I buddy up to players and managers and owners -- if I let the fan in me take over -- you lose.
But forgive me, Mr. Champlin: I haven't always been able to walk that line. I'm human. That's the problem with writing a column.
The one you're reading is a little different species than the one I wrote from 1978 through 2004. Then, I focused mostly on the teams in my city -- Dallas, then Chicago, then the Bay Area. Now, though I live in New York, I'm not required to write daily about the Yankees or Mets.
But back then, I often faced the Ozzie Question -- the one your columnists in your town have to ask themselves. Am I obligated to interview the manager or players even if I'm going to be critical of them? And should I show up in the clubhouse or locker room after I've written a critical opinion just in case the object of my column wants to let me know what he thought of it?
When I first became a daily columnist, in 1978, that was the law of the locker-room jungle: They'll always respect what you write if you have the guts to show your face after you rip them.
That's only partly true.
I found right away, covering the media-savvy Dallas Cowboys, that players, coaches and executives would really turn on the charm for columnists, who have the biggest newspaper platforms and the most influence over readers. They would give you lengthy exclusive interviews and share a little "don't-use-my-name-with-this" inside info. Nothing damaging, mind you, but just the kind of inside slant that newspaper editors -- and readers -- love.
Hey, I could even tell my buddies that Roger Staubach invited me over to his house.
But this was a slippery slope with quicksand at the bottom. Did I want to write feature stories or opinions? Insider reports or honest, arm's-length appraisals? Remember, my job wasn't to be a beat writer. A beat writer's job is to report the news. Great beat writers establish working relationships with everyone in the franchise, down to the batboys.
I wanted to develop sources, too. But if those go-to guys are key members of the team or front office, you let them buy insurance in exchange for information. You basically trade them immunity from criticism for, say, great quotes. You can't criticize them or they'll cut you off. So you pull your punches when your instincts scream that some truth badly needs to be written.
Do fans want the truth? Do they really want objective criticism? I'd like to think more do than don't. But I could be wrong.
Why has Ozzie gotten such a pass for his language and behavior? Of course, the best insurance policy a manager can buy is winning a World Series, as Ozzie's team did last season. And because he's Venezuelan and sometimes struggles with English, many columnists and commentators hesitate to condemn him as quickly as they would other managers. If, say, Minnesota manager Ron Gardenhire had used the slur Ozzie did, Gardenhire almost certainly would have lost his job.
But maybe the biggest reason Ozzie gets away with being Ozzie is because he makes the media's job so easy. He gives media members that precious commodity -- accessibility. His daily pregame and postgame media sessions are can't-miss because Ozzie is liable to say anything. He can be hilariously outrageous. He can fill your notebook or your tape. He allows you to call your editor or producer and say, "You won't believe what I got from Ozzie."
So what reporter really wants him fired? Why bite the hand that feeds the media beast? Ozzie can be as entertaining as Charles Barkley -- the other figure in sports who can get away with saying things almost nobody else can.
But Ozzie is much more calculating than Charles. There's always method to Ozzie's madness. He's always trying to unite or take the pressure off his team. And no matter how tough he talks about how willing he is to walk away from his job tomorrow, he wants to keep the media under his spell.
He wants to keep his friends close and his columnists closer. He wants columnists to get to know him because he knows he could charm the objectivity out of the most cynical of that breed.
Either that, or he can take them behind a closed door and intimidate them with the kind of F-bomb tirades he uses to motivate selected players.
That's the way the game is played.
When Bobby Valentine managed the Texas Rangers, I would try to talk to him before writing a positive or negative piece. I always wanted to give his side of the story. But Valentine, who could charm the stirrup socks off Ozzie, would be furious if he gave me his time and I failed to praise him.
So after one particularly honest column -- several players and coaches quietly encouraged me to write that Valentine's intensity didn't wear well over 162 games -- Valentine sat me down in the dugout three hours before a game and reamed me for a good hour as players wandered past. I tried -- and failed -- to reason with Valentine.
I've had countless clubhouse or locker-room battles immediately after critical columns and never felt a single confrontation was productive. This is the worst possible turf for a meeting of the minds. Players and coaches are on stage to show the rest of the team -- and other media members -- that they won't take this from some punk columnist. Invariably, these discussions degenerate into macho mudslinging.
In 2000, I tried and failed to explain myself to Frank Thomas in the White Sox clubhouse -- and then-manager Jerry Manuel had to step between us and ask me to leave until Thomas and I could cool down. I would have been glad to have met Thomas in a neutral setting -- say, a restaurant -- but I'm not sure he would have had the courage.
San Francisco Giants general manager Brian Sabean once had to be restrained from getting in my face, then asked me to promise to call him before writing anything negative about him or his team. I did. He always took my calls and never complained about another thing I wrote.
But I must admit I pulled some punches. Hey, I'm human.
I must admit I became a fan of A's GM Billy Beane, both professionally and personally. I once told Billy I was going to criticize him for trading for Keith Foulke, who had twice lost his closer's job when I covered the White Sox. Billy calmly explained to me why I was way off base and I quoted him on it.
As usual, Billy was right. I wish I could develop that kind of relationship with every executive. But very few are as secure as Beane.
I must admit, I deified Michael Jordan in print when he played for the Bulls -- in part because he returned my calls. But hey, we're talking about Michael Jordan. I also admit I was way too nice in print to Dave Wannstedt (when he coached the Bears) and Dennis Erickson (when he coached the 49ers) because I let myself get too close to them.
So now I prefer to listen only to what players and coaches say in group interviews. Now I often interview beat writers who know what's really going on.
Now I know Ozzie's M.O.
Skip Bayless can be seen Monday through Friday on "Cold Pizza," ESPN2's morning show and at 4 p.m. ET on ESPN's "1st & 10." His column appears twice a week on Page 2. You can e-mail Skip here.
