Excuse Me, Journalist Coming Through
I mentioned how awesome it was last week when I went to cover the league match for class, how much of a real journalist I felt. However, upon reflection, I think we were actually spoon fed everything that night. Everything was done for us so that we couldn’t stuff up. So I decided to up the ante this week and do a story by myself, without the backing of UTS behind me.
Despite my enthusiasm, I’d have to admit that a professional sports match was out of my reach, as I was sure the coaches, players, match officials etc would not have the time of day for me. I don’t work for a major media outlet, so to them I was merely a civilian.
Instead, hearing that the local soccer finals were on, and that for the first time they were held at nearby Parramatta Stadium (which is of course home to the Parramatta Eels), I wandered down on Sunday to see what I could come up with.
Local sport stories are tricky to write, because no one cares about them besides the 20 odd people who actually partake in the match. It’s not like professional sports where the quality of the game is good and there are thousands of fans, simply no one gives a shit about reading local sports. That’s why local sport journo’s have to pick out a feel good factor or quirky aspect of the game to hang their piece on.
I did not have this. I didn’t even know who were playing. But I figured, “Stuff it, it’s a bit of practice anyway, I’ll do what I can.” So armed with nothing more than my backpack, a notepad, a voice recorder, a camera, and a lofty hope that one day I’ll get paid for doing stuff like this, I decided I’m going to write the shit out this feel good story.
I learned two main things that day. Firstly, if you want to be a journalist, just act like one. Over the next three hours, I walked through the stadium, sometimes beyond the access of the general public, all the while carrying with me my notepad and an air of journalistic confidence. I ventured around the stadium, poked my nose into every room, barged in mid-conversation to get quotes, all the while telling myself that I was the press and it was my duty to deliver news to the masses. A security tried to stop me from going down to pitch side, I gave him a thumbs-up, told him: “It’s okay mate, I’m writing for the papers,” and he waved me through. Images of Obi-wan using Jedi mind trick on the Stormtrooper came flooding in.
And I thus learned my second lesson – people who aren’t celebrities want to talk to you. Celebrities might be sick of the press, but regular people definitely aren’t. I told people I was from the local newspaper, and they immediately treated me like a mate, offering me quotes, (perceived) smart ass responses, and general information about themselves in case I need space to fill. People, normal people, just want to go on record and see themselves in print. It’s amazing how much more appealing your name looks in the newspaper than on a phone bill.
It was during one of these conversations that I met Paul, the technical director of Beaumont Hills Soccer Club. He spent twenty minutes promoting the club, telling me that Beaumont Hills was women’s only, set up two years ago to promote the game amongst ladies and to boost their confidence on and off the pitch. Bang, my angle is found.
No offense to the Beaumont Hills girls and their opponents, but the game itself was as boring as bat shit, littered with misplaced passes, soft tackles, and ballooned shots at goal. But it mattered little, as Beaumont Hills won 7-1, drawing another mountain of praise from Paul.
I returned home satisfied. With my voice recorder adequately filled with quotes and anecdotes, the piece pretty much wrote itself. It’s as simple as that.
After all, I am a journalist…
