I was yakking with one of our sportswriters the other day about good jobs and bad jobs. We both agreed that, in the newspaper world at least, sportswriters have it made in the shade.
Instead of three-hour city commission debates over whether to ban gum chewing on city sidewalks, sportswriters enjoy free hot dogs and beer at White Caps games. Rather than spending hours on the phone trying to get a quote from the governor's assistant to the assistant press liaison's secretary's cleaning lady, they are front row center carefully monitoring the All Girls Collegiate Beach Volleyball Finals.
It ain't fair. But since I know nothing about sports, there's not much I can do about it.
Oh, I’m not really complaining. My job is better than most. Better for me, anyway.
I get to write for a living, which I would probably do for free if nobody was willing to pay me (that's between you and me, by the way). I meet a lot of interesting people, I'm always learning new stuff and I don't have a bunch of middle management overlords breathing down my neck day in day out.
One thing I've learned through decades of writing human interest stories is that most folks — not just newspaper writers — like their jobs. My oldest son, Jordan, was a car-show model, one of those guys who stands around all day in a $2,000 suit talking to people about Mustangs and Miatas. My youngest son, James, milks cows and bales hay for a living. They both love their work.
My daughter, Aubreii, runs her own web development business. It involves all sorts of stress, late nights crying over her laptop, and has birthed in her a great fondness for wine. But again, she loves her job.
My fiancee, Lori, is an accountant. An accountant, for heaven's sake! Like, with numbers!! Personally, I'd kill myself. But yet again, she truly enjoys what she does for a living. Although I can't help notice, she, too, is not averse to the occasional glass of Merlot.
For every job, it seems, there is someone, somewhere who actually enjoys doing it.
I did think of one real stinker, though. I was on Facebook the other day and noticed one of my friends had posted a link about a world-killing comet that's supposed to destroy the earth in a couple years. I clicked the link and it turns out the guy doing the predicting also predicted the world would end on Jan. 1, 2000.
He was mistaken. But he's not this time. He says.
Now, it seems to me this guy has a really lousy job, apocalyptic prognostication — predicting the end of the world. If he's wrong, everybody laughs and he looks like a schmuck. If he's right, there’s nobody left to turn to and say, "I told you so!"
Nope, not a fulfilling career at all.
I think I'll just stick with writing. Though maybe it wouldn't hurt to learn a little something about beach volleyball. You know, as a backup plan.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com
(616) 548-8273
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