On the SportsJournalists.com forum, an interesting question was raised. All reporters are taught from the beginning about the importance of objectivity. For sportswriters, it's pretty clear: you don't root for, or against, the teams you cover. This creates a certain psychological change for us, because while we get to spend our working hours observing sports, we're not to get attached the way fans do. So, we tend to get very blasé about exciting moments in sports, because they generally mean it's time for us to work. So someone on SJ started a thread, asking what still got the writers at the site excited? I mentioned a few events that made me legitimately fired up despite my need for objectivity, but I missed one, and it actually didn't occur to me until a scene in a subway station in "Flightplan," which I reviewed below. So, here goes.
It starts with the drive to Woodland station. Pay the 2.50 to park, and walk to the platform. It's getting dark earlier now, so by the time you're staring down the tracks toward Riverside in the distance, the sky is a painting in pastel. The jersey you decided to wear doesn't really keep you warm, but you don't care - the chill is part of the whole thing. The train comes, you throw your quarters in the little fishtank machine, and head for open space. There's usually a lot, so you can grab a seat or some good overhead rail space. The ride always takes a little longer than you remember, but the breath of the city surrounds you as you get closer, and the early-evening lights are the marquee heralding your arrival. The train stops at Haymarket, but not a whole lot of people are getting off or on now. After a few more minutes underground, the train emerges, and makes the slow curve over Causeway Street. The building glows in the night air, lit up like a movie screen by spotlights. You're there. Get off the train, the cold air in the city is different than it was at the station. It buzzes under your skin, it's sweet and sour to breathe, and it's always moving. Your nose, and then your cheeks, begin to ache just a little, but you can barely feel it past the adrenaline. Hawkers on the sidewalk want to sell you tickets, sausages, knock-off caps and T-shirts, or to give you salvation in a pamphlet. You pass them by, and head inside, bear right at the Commuter Rail for the long escalators that take you out of the regular world and up to the turnstiles. Down there, there are jobs to do and trains to catch, but up here, it is only the game. An old man with a bright blue blazer points his little laser at your ticket, it beeps once, and you're in.
Circle around the concourse until you get to your section, and walk down the short tunnel that opens into the biggest room you've ever seen, a black and gold ballroom with a brilliant white oval at the center of the floor. There is noise all around, from the PA system blaring rock music, from the ice where the cracks of sticks against pucks are the staccato drumbeat of the pregame warmup, and from everyone around you, who is chattering about the day, the world, and the game about to take place. Find your seat, and you're already on the edge of it. You won't leave the edge all night, except to get up for food or to cheer after a goal. Eventually, the last few skaters, right now mere mortals, trickle off the ice, and the lights go dim. For a few minutes, it's quiet, just another group of people in another big room. Then the pregame light/laser show starts, the introductions are made, and the stillness of the National Anthem washes over. Soon, 40 are reduced to 12, and the center is swarmed by large, rough men, ready to play the greatest game on Earth. The striped arbiter puts his left hand up, and with his right hand at his hip, he fires the disk down at to the ice. It has begun.
(THAT still gets me excited, EVERY time.)
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