Lupica: "I don't do that" and other great outtakes from The National story

Grantland is perfect for sportswriters, former sports writers and those who care about the sports media business.

I just really wonder how the rest of the 99.9 percent of the people are going to take to it.

 

Simmons himself on his podcasts has made the comparison to The National, and he's previously mentioned how much he enjoyed it and how fondly he remembered it, long before Grantland came into existence. And they do recognize that it will invite comparisons. The tweet announcing that the piece was up:

Simmons has obviously criticized traditional media in the past. But at the same time, it's obvious he has a lot of fondness for it, especially from back in the olden days. How many times can he credit Halberstam for inspiring him to become a writer? He's talked many times about old SI pieces, specifically ones from Deford (NATIONAL ALERT). He's talked constantly about the old Boston Globe sports section. He's filled with nostalgia. Not surprised to see a pair of National pieces. And happy to see them.

 

for any of us in the biz, most notably then, this was a terrific read. i'm sure much of it is the melancholy that comes with memories of a long lost love (you remember the good, shrug off/laugh at the bad) but much in there was what i was hearing then from a number of nationalites. the loopy stuff is priceless. and no doubt as accurate as anything in the entire recollection.

 

I've heard that Dan Jenkins' "Richie Pace" character in "You Gotta Play Hurt" was basically Lupica, and that book came out in 1991.

 

They cherrypicked a lot of the top talent for local columnists. Friend and Ostler in LA, as mentioned, and Ray Ratto in San Francisco come to mind.

I just remember hearing a lot about it working in East Podunk at the time and never being able to get it there, but when I did find it when I'd venture into big cities, it seemed like TMI ... half-page box scores, magazine-style takeouts, and NO advertising. Even in Podunk today, with this Internet fad not going away, its one of the cardinal rules: You can't survive on subscriptions and rack sales alone.

 

Mizzou, I don't think I'm bitter. There was no chance I'd ever been hired at the National and I didn't apply or even think about it. I just didn't relate to people who went on to other jobs and continued to produce fine work regarding this short interlude as some kind of defining experience of their lives. It's like people my age talking about where they went to college. Dude, I'm sure it was great, but time has moved on.
In fairness, there was none of that in this story. It was people telling a pretty amazing story because it is a good story. That's always cool

 

i dunno what the official count was, but it didn't break many. my take then and now was it was a marvelous concept envisioned over much alcohol: 'hey, how great would this be? who would be your starters?'

'the national' was packed with the self-congratulatory elite, tons of columunists and feature writers. which often made it a great read. but it lacked beat folks, the muckers-and-grinders, often most responsible for 'breaking news' for the dailies. they paid big bucks for the 'stars' but underestimated how much breaking news is the backbone of every sports section. or strive to be.

lupica's 'i don't do windows' attitude was certainly obnoxious. but i don't recall sweating over 'the national's' beat folks being much of a concern.

 

Do we still have that thread where we did a "Where are they now?" for The National?

 

The National was an All-Star roster, but similar to many professional sports, it lacked the muckers-and-grinders, the role players, the folks who come in off the bench and play underrated minutes without fanfare. No one disputes the talent at The National, but the great teams always seem to have the role players and the grinders than only the hardcore fans of those teams recall.

And as for Mike Lupica, no one is talented enough to be worth that level of headache. No one.

 

His early work is brilliant. I have one of his collections and after reading it, I would have a hard time arguing that there was a better writer out there.

That said, you are absolutely right. I have never met a single person in this business who likes him. I've met a few Lupica apologists, but even then, it sounds like a parent apolgizing for their bratty kid who is killing the family pet at age 5.

 

This is never not funny:



Is the camera on me? Is it on? Did you check? I don’t see the red light. Well, check it AGAIN. Why is the camera man so far away? Zoom in. No, I wanna be in more of the shot, you fucking zombies. Bring it in on me. Do you know where I got these glasses? Marc Jacobs. They cost more than your household’s income for a year. So get a good fucking shot, or I’ll just make you do it again.

Is it my turn to talk yet? Albom’s still fucking talking. He’s been talking for 30 seconds now. I’ve been timing it. It’s my fucking turn to talk. Are you looking at me? I’m sitting all the way at the front of my seat. That should indicate to you that I am READY TO CHIME IN. In fact, my ass isn’t even touching the chair, that’s how far forward I am. I am the goddamn crouching tiger. Look at Ryan. He’s sitting all the way back in his chair. Does he have anything to say? No. Lazy shit. Read my fucking body cues, people.

Pffffffffftttttt!!!! Who gave me this tea? Who?! That girl? Come here, Guadalupe, or whatever your name is. Let me let you in on a little secret, my dear. You remember Mr. Schaap? The nice old man who used to be here? Remember how he died due to malpractice? Yeah, well that wasn’t malpractice. That was Lupica. I am the star here now, and you better fucking get used to it. So when I tell you that I want Earl Grey, I don’t expect you to bring me fucking sawdust in a Tetley bag. Okay, sweetheart? Tazo. T-A-Z-O. See if you can get that into that teeny tiny itsy bitsy wittle brain of yours. Stupid bitch.

And while we’re at it, honey, who told you I drink Deer Park? Deer Park is for the poor saps in payroll. Everyone at Valerio Productions knows Lupica drinks Voss, chilled to exactly 38 degrees Fahrenheit. So why don’t you do your homework before giving me this prison sludge? Frankly, I’m amazed you managed to get out of Nicaragua, or Costa Rica, or wherever the fuck it is you’re from. Oh, you’re crying? You thought I was a nice man, didn’t you? Sorry, sweetie. My heart only bleeds for the camera.

Is Albom done? Yes, he’s done. About fucking time. That was a nice parting shot, Albom. But you’re the undercard, pussy. The people aren’t here to see you. Always remember that. I’m about to blow you out of the fucking water. When I’m done, no one will remember whatever hockey bullshit it was you were talking about. Go write another book about people dying, douchebag. I’m about to school you. Take notes and maybe you’ll be able to earn enough money to fix whatever the fuck is going on with the tops of your ears.

I’m ready now. My voice is feeling supple. What I’m gonna do is start off with a killer joke. Okay? Here it is:

You know, maybe it’s me, but I think Roger Goodell must be taking commissioning lessons from Bud Selig.

Okay, I’m going to half-snicker at my own killer joke now, which is the cue for you three bozos to start guffawing like the idiots that you are. Then, when you’re done laughing at my comedic majesty, I’m gonna turn deadly serious. It’s gonna show off my range. Watch.

But seriously. If Goodell thinks he can just sweep steroids under the rug, then he is doomed to repeat baseball’s history. Because there’s a story about steroids and the NFL that has yet to be written. And rest assured, someone will write it. And, when they do, the same bloodhounds that picked at baseball’s decade-old scabs will pick up a fresh scent… the scent of pigskin.

BOOM! Fucking nailed it. You see how literary that was? It’s almost like I’m outside of my own body when I’m doing it. That’s how special it feels. That’s the kind of sportswriting that wins you awards, gentlemen. The kind that gets you on Letterman. How many of you assholes have been on Letterman? That’s right. Zero. Check and mate. Live with the pain.

Okay, what I’m gonna do now is wrap it all up with one killer fucking line. Something for the kids to think about the rest of the day.

So Goodell better hurry, or else he’ll find out the hard way, as baseball did, that ignorance is a miss.

See how I took the phrase “ignorance is bliss” and just gave it that little twist? God, what a dagger. It makes you laugh. It makes you ponder. It makes you wistfully nostalgic. It makes me cream my Brooks Brothers suit pants. You know what? I think I want to shoot it again.

Did you hear me? I said I want to shoot it again. Matter of fact, I don’t see my book on the coffee table here. WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BOOK?! You think I come here as a gift?! I want to do it again, and I want my book in the shot. And, if we have to do it 36 times over, we will. What I say, goes. I fucking own you people.

Just ask Whitlock.