Journalism found me where I’d least expected it and has completely changed my life. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I was living the dream when journalism found me. I was in Chicago and couldn’t believe it. I pinched myself when I saw the Sears Tower and rode the L Train. Like most Midwest kids, Chicago was always the city on the hill we looked at from our boring suburban streets a few minutes from cornfields and nothingness. Chicago mattered. Kansas City didn’t.
I applied to college with the sole purpose of being in Chicago. I knew I had to be there since I first visited the Second City. The impressive skyscrapers lining the lake drew me in with an allure I couldn’t shake. I was hooked.
I found every way to convince my parents Loyola Chicago was where I belonged. It had the lake, the city, Wrigley Field down the red line and a billion opportunities I could sell my parents on. My plan somehow worked.
If you know anything about Loyola Chicago, it is definitely about Sister Jean and the story of the Ramblers’ Cinderella 2018 Final Four run. Loyola Chicago isn’t a journalism school and in some regards is a glorified commuter school. My friends were like me. They came to Loyola to be in Chicago. Most called themselves Chicagoans but were really from Naperville, Aurora and other forgettable suburbs.
That brought me to the club fair on the picturesque quad butting up to Lake Michigan. It felt like a million clubs were trying to get me to join, but I beelined for the student newspaper as I could hear the waves crashing nearby. I can’t tell you why I did, but it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
That fateful interaction with a friendly face led me to cover Loyola basketball and become the assistant sports editor of our student newspaper. It was a far cry from the glitz and glamor of Arizona State as our rag-tag team of all ten journalists we could scrape together worked into the early morning hours creating layouts for the paper as our news editor stepped out for smoke breaks every half-hour. I don’t miss that lingering smell but I do miss that dungy basement newsroom.
We were living the dream editing right off Michigan Avenue next to the John Hancock Center. We listened to Kanye West’s songs about the city and felt lucky to be alive. What they don’t tell you about living in Chicago is that August is the only good weather you’ll see until April.
Days by the beach in Rogers Park turned to cold walks along the lake and worrying about slipping on ice. Sure, we’ve got winter in Kansas City but Chicago? Chicago reminds you why everyone from the Midwest snowbirds in Arizona and Florida.
I transferred to ASU in the middle of the year loving journalism and seeking better weather. I’d only been to Arizona once and without knowing a single in the Valley of the Sun, I took a chance.
Before I even saw palm trees in Tempe, I nervously sat down for a Zoom interview hoping to land my first opportunity out west. My roommate barged into the meeting with his vape, blew a smoke cloud on the camera and quickly reaffirmed my choice. I was heading to Arizona.
The last few years have been a whirlwind as I’ve taken 20-plus credit hours most semesters and written over 90 stories. It all started with a massive feeling of imposter syndrome as a transfer student from a school only known by college basketball fans and Chicagoland kids. Nothing good comes easy.
This hectic journalism school has taken me to countless ASU games, the last Pac-12 Conference basketball tournament, the NCAA Men’s Final Four, and too many edit nights. I’ve drank enough cups of coffee to keep a cafe open for a year and lost enough sleep to worry my doctor. I love it.
Every step along the way has now brought me to my final semester as I stare down dreaded graduation day and the real world. With the new year still young, I’ve convinced myself it’s time to enjoy the ride and learn as much as possible. That starts with a unique opportunity to learn about sports and cultural commentary.
As a diehard fan, commentary has always been one of my favorite parts of sports media and one of the worst at the same time. Beautifully written columns can strike at your heart while written opinion pieces make you wish you couldn’t read English. Still, commentary’s unique ability to start conversations about important issues in society and sports is almost unparalleled.
Someone needs to get the ball rolling when talking about Lamar Jackson winning the MVP award or the Oakland Athletics abandoning their city. Someone needs to call out bad owners and comment on racism in sports. Why should it be a talking head on television? Why can’t it be a columnist?
The prevailing why may boil down to the overall decay in traditional news outlets as billionaires sweep up historic papers for their pet projects. It may also be attributed to shrinking attention spans or the distrust in media cemented by Donald Trump and loud right-wing voices. The present day looks scary but journalists can stand up to the task.
Journalism wouldn’t be journalism without difficulty. Good journalism pisses off the government and has reporters threatened by seedy characters. Good journalism finds a way around difficult situations and does everything possible to write hard stories.
The industry will survive but it all starts in the classroom for a journalist. I’d like to introduce myself to you as a new columnist learning the ins and outs of this tricky field. Follow along as I hope to learn how to write more creatively, tell fascinating stories, and bring up important issues you might not be thinking about. I hope that you enjoy my columns and can learn something new just like me.
