In 2000, I took "Literary Journalism" with Craig Vetter at school, and it told me what kind of a writer I wanted to be. That was when I started my subscription to "The New Yorker" and have received the magazine for the 11 years since, without respite. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a fiction writer and I have closets full of great novels with beginning chapters that went nowhere. I went to journalism school because my high school counselor told me it would at least guarantee a paycheck and somewhere along the way, I developed a taste for real, actual people and happenings, but just could not contain it within the staccato'd paragraphs of hard news reporting. My word counts always caused bile to rise in the throats of the Daily Northwestern editors. So, to know that legends such as Tom Wolfe, John McPhee, Gay Talese, and others, propagated a New Journalism in the 1960s - now, literary journalism - gave me new hope that I could actually make something out of this profession, honorably.
Any writer worth their salt knows "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold" by Talese, which is one of the most exemplary showcase of literary journalism, in which an entire profile is written of a subject without the subject actually being interviewed nor present. Because I've always felt that there isn't quite the stage, arena, scene nor set-up for drama like in sportswriting, I was very interested when a compendium of Talese's sportswriting was published - it was like setting up a pitch from Dennis Eckersley to Kirk Gibson, who obviously delivered. Unlike a lot of sportswriting, which can be action-driven and propelling (as it ought to be), Talese scores the characters and personalities instead, letting their off days tell the story from the bench and dugout - locker room literature, rather than stadium sensationalism.
I'm not sure I appreciate the chapter introductions, which often give away some of the best lines to come without the promise of discovery - particularly when some of these are story-ending punchlines! But, there is much salvation to be found in Talese's work. Droll, witty, and completely tweetable, the book begins with his early work for The New York Times, which are totally The New Yorker Talk of the Town vignettes. I would never compare myself to the Great Gaylord Talese, but he makes me feel better about my run-on sentences, and the fact that the key I type most often might just be the comma. And he is the embodiment of the most effective technique in sportswriting, the smart simile. Consider this from 1966's "The Silent Season of a Hero" from Esquire, widely considered Talese's best sports story: "DiMaggio is a kind of male Garbo." Nothing more is needed. Just as Talese takes his time in setting up a scene in flows of prose, he just as soon punches in imagery in just six words. That is Talese talent.
Last Sunday morning over breakfast, I read the "Dr. Birdwhistell and the Athletes" piece, about a social anthropologist who studied the world of the (male) American athlete in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Then I went and played softball and watched all the mechanisms Talese astutely picked up and portrayed play out during a modern-day recreational co-ed game. It was Talese unfolding before my very eyes across a baseball diamond, like each letter of his piece taking their places on the bases, in the outfield, on the mound, at the plate, in the dugout. Talese's observations were current, still. I'm not saying he is a seer. Not in the crystal ball sense, but in the notebook, fly-on-the-wall, best type of reporter sense. He definitely called it like it is, like he saw it, and like any legendary writer, he has remained relevant.
One of the first lessons I learned at journalism school was that you don't need to go to journalism school to be a journalist. True - why not just read and learn from one of the masters?