I was idly skimming through the latest issue of ESPN The Printed Publication a few days ago (yes, I'm a subscriber), when I noticed a strange story about the Giles brothers, complete with helpful commentary in the margins from various Padres, who were shown a completed version of the story "so they could tell it their way." The primary complaint, at least of the brothers themselves, was that the story leads with a description of a leopard-print G-string that Brian takes out of his locker as a joke.
"I don't think you need to use the G-string to show how funny we are," reads one of Brian's comments. "Can't you just say, 'They're funny'?"
Which, in itself, is easily the funniest part of the story. But some of the other comments perhaps reveal that many pro athletes might not approve of a blog dedicated more to locker room banter than to on-field heroics.
Heath Bell: "I don't really read newspapers. I learned that in New York. They make so much s--- up."
Clay Hensley: "[The clubhouse] is kind of like our little home. There are things you do around your friends you don't want printed in the media. Some things need to be left unsaid."
David Wells: "I think if a reporter writes about something that goes on in the clubhouse, personal-wise, they need to find another job. They should be fired on the spot."
Well. Better tell my boss. According to David Wells, I think it's possible that I might have committed a few fireable offenses in my immediate blogging past. And maybe this explains why I've sometimes gotten the evil eye from pro athletes after furiously jotting down the details of their strictly private banter, which generally is conducted, privately, directly in front of scores of media persons.
Anyhow, just in case David Wells ever comes across this site, for the record, I write about hilariously private clubhouse banter because, unless you or one of your teammates or managers throws a perfect game or a no-hitter, steals home, hits for the cycle, plays into the 18th inning, inserts a position player as a pitcher, attempts to start a brawl or is ejected in an equipment-throwing fit of rage, I just don't care about grown men in tight uniforms running around in circles during the month of June. Sorry. I'd rather talk about grown men making jokes about G-strings.
By the way, if you or your teammates ever want to blog about the hilarious on-the-job exploits of Washington Post staffers, that's fine by me. You can meet us at Au Bon Pain.