My greatest fear as an intern reporter was the I.T. guy. He wanted me to play on the office softball team, and although I like baseball, I didn’t think that spending my Saturday mornings on a dusty softball field in the hot, D.C. sun with a bunch of people that I didn’t even know sounded especially fun. But he was persistent. I just smiled and nodded and politely told him that I don’t have a car. That ought to do the trick. But it didn’t. He offered me a ride with another reporter who didn’t seem thrilled to pick me up from a distant Metro stop and then drive me to a dusty field somewhere in Bladensburg. So I took to hiding behind my computer. Good thing Apple makes large monitors.
Life as an intern was delightfully absurd, just like I imagine an office softball game would be.
Sometimes I felt like the right-fielder who wears a patch in the ground after an hour because there just aren’t many left-handed batters hitting the ball to you. Sure, my editors were switch-hitters; but they usually bat from the right side. There weren’t many stories coming my way. So I spent hours reading the news, discovering that online newspapers appear to be free but actually aren’t. I read the Wall Street Journal and then the New York Times until I’d read all of the free articles for the month. The Baltimore Sun lets you read 30 articles in a month, which I discovered in one day after I read 30 articles about the Orioles. Oops. Sometimes a ball was hit to me and I wrote a brief about a robbery or an upcoming concert—inconsequential fly outs, but every team needs a right-fielder who can catch the ball and refresh his Twitter feed often.
Sometimes I felt like the second baseman. Large men run toward him with spikes on their shoes and every intent to arrive at second base without being stopped by anything that would mean an out. I think I discovered how he feels when I went into the city to “shag quotes” from the public.
It’s frightening to get to the top of the Metro escalator in Judiciary Square, only to discover that no one looks like they are going to want to talk to you. Heels looked like cleats, and my mini reporter’s notebook probably wouldn’t be effective at stopping people. As far as I could tell, everyone was barreling towards second base, and I would be hurt before I not only get a quote, but the person’s name and age. Every once in awhile, the baserunner is slow or doesn’t get a good jump—I looked for those people. Tag, they’re out. Usually the best people to try to stop were older men who could be my grandfather or the cute young professional who probably wouldn’t mind talking to a blonde for just a few seconds. Who cares what newspaper she writes for?
And then some days, I felt like the catcher when his pitcher is having a horrible night. Being a catcher can be like pulling teeth, I think. Or it can be like calling the public information office at the D.C. Police.
The public information officer was silent after I told her why I’m calling. She wouldn’t tell me anything unless I asked very specific questions. Was that sign not clear enough? Ball one. She told me the stabbing happened somewhere on maybe U Street. Or wait, maybe it was 17th. Really? You don’t even know where it happened? Ball two. Can you just tell me if someone was injured? Five minutes later, the changeup came across the plate—low and outside. They think the victim is still in the hospital. Who knows when there will be a status update. Ball three. I asked another question, and the only response was a flustered “Didn’t you read the press release?” No, ma’am, there was no press release on your website. She’ll send it to me. It will tell me nothing, but at least I will get an email. Ball four—but maybe this time it was a bit closer to the strike zone.
Now I’m the right-fielder again, catching a fly ball. I read the email, wrote the brief, and went back to shuffling my feet. Too bad most of The New Yorker isn’t free to read online.