“Wow!” they say. “You get to meet the players!”
Yup.
“And watch the games!”
Yup.
“And eat for free!”
Yup.
“And sit in the press box!”
Yup.
But about this press box thing. I’m sitting in one now. Soldier Field. Cardinals-Bears. It’s 70 degrees outside. Sunny. A beautiful day for football … to kick back, down a beer and a hotdog, wear your jersey. Great day. But here in the press box, it’s as stale as last week’s ham on rye. Temperature controlled. Almost no noise. Writers making snarky comments about broken players, meditating on this play or that play, whispering, complaining, sipping drinks. Quiet. Dull.
As an up and comer, I longed for the press box. Now, I long to escape the press box. Just a miserable place to observe a sporting event, generally alongside unhappy people who spend 80 percent of their time checking e-mail, downloading porn, calling so and so to complain about so and so.
Which is exactly what I’m doing right now.
Ironic.
