I sometimes wish my computer could take snapshots of my facial expressions each time I stumble upon a Rick Reilly@@http://www.rickreillyonline.com/@@ headline on ESPN.com.
Most likely, these hypothetical screenshots@@m-w@@ would capture a face contorted with a mixture of abject horror, utter confusion and genuine anger. Reilly gets paid $2 million@@http://awfulannouncing.blogspot.com/2007/10/rick-reillys-contract-with-espn-its-umm.html  -not the most reputable source@@ every year to write — this?
It wasn’t always this way. When I was growing up, as a young wannabe sports writer, Reilly was my idol. I’d rip open my copy of Sports Illustrated every week and flip right to the back page, my eyes frantically dancing along the page to see what my favorite columnist had to say. I suspect this was the case for many others, as well.
You see, Rick Reilly — the guy who spends most of his time these days filing uninspired columns and nonsensical video segments — used to be a great writer. He was provocative, and managed to blend humor and heart better than just about any other writer.
Once he moved to ESPN, however, that talent seemed to evaporate for good.
It’s a trajectory we see all too frequently in sports columnists. They start out as wide-eyed 20-somethings, eager to uncap a mind brimming with thoughts and opinions. This enthusiasm shows in their writing: nuanced, colorful and provocative. Computer keys tap furiously as their fingers try to keep up with the words spilling from their heads.
I know because I’ve been there before. I’m no Rick Reilly, obviously, but to some extent, I can sympathize with his transparent lack of motivation.
When I first started at the Emerald, having a weekly column was like a dream come true. I could finally unleash the inner Bill Simmons@@http://search.espn.go.com/bill-simmons/@@ that I was convinced was lurking somewhere within me. The sounding board that I’d coveted since middle school was right there, in the form of a blank Microsoft Word document each week.
Back then, they were charming, those virtual marble slabs. I would sit down to type my column every Sunday, and the words would come pouring out. Sometimes, it was damn near effortless — not so much because I was good at it, but simply because I had so much to say.
Those were the good days.
Somehow, I’ve managed to go through the Seven Stages of Rick Reilly in less than three years. It starts with elation (“I have a column!”) and wonder (“People might actually care what I have to say!”). Then comes the peak, when you’re gliding along on a mixture of creative prowess and hubris (almost positive that I never hit this point, but let’s move on).
Things start to turn once you hit the fourth stage: doubt. You’ve been flying high on your own air of self-confidence, but suddenly you begin to wonder if last week’s column was unfair. Should you have really called out that running back who fumbled at the goal line? Have you been too critical lately? Too congratulatory?
Your head begins to spin as the weeks fly by, one after another. You’re churning out columns left and right now, sometimes waiting until the last minute as the fifth stage (writer’s block) hits hard. Out of desperation, you quickly move on to the sixth stage: stretching. One ill-advised quote, or seemingly random event, is taken out of context or blown out of proportion — all for the sake of meeting deadline.
It all comes crashing down, though, during the seventh and final stage. Apathy, one of journalism’s most deadly words, marks the end of your time as a credible columnist. Drained of creative ideas, you fall back on old cliches, tired references and also-ran topics. Young writers peruse through your recent headlines and grimace. Readers’ eyes — journalism’s most important currency no matter how many millions you make — depart for good.
And then you’re left to stare at that blank computer screen, faced with the devastating realization that the computer keys have finally caught up with your once-full tank of thoughts.