Buy Me a Drank: The Sports Editors’ Last Night on the Job

Meredith just spilled for the first time. It’s 9:15 p.m.
I had a 15-20 page paper due yesterday. I wrote 11 and change … with footnotes. On top of this, I realized about 20 minutes before it was due that it seemed I was expected to have an appendix with graphs, statistics and relevant government statues. I end up just stapling all the pages from the articles I read with any boxes that even somewhat resemble statistics. I have turned in an incredibly shitty, incomplete paper. Some might call this procrastination. I call this the Daily Sun. No one gets it. No one gets us, I think. I sound like a Dawson’s Creek character. I think that people really need to see what the life of a sports editor is like, and what better night to choose than the last night of publication? So, without further ado, a night in the life of the Sports Department.
4:45 — Watch Gossip Girl. It’s my reward for finishing all my assignments this week.
7:55 — Get text from very responsible writer that reads, “So, how happy are you?”
8:30 — My friend yells at me. “KEENAN TOLD ME TO WAKE YOU UP!” I jump out of bed, figuring the section is in shambles … much as it has been most of the semester. It, in fact, is not. I vow to not rest again until I have found this Keenan character and thrown him off a semi-tall balcony … or out of a fairly fast-moving car. What?! No one messes with the Czar.
8:45 — Tell Schroeder that I need Neil Diamond tonight. No song one gets me going more than “Cracklin’ Rosie.” I wish I were joking. That shit gets me pumped up. Oh. God.
9:30 — Debate writing the column I’ve always wanted to write — Ridiculous stories I’ve heard about athletes that I’ve suppressed myself from printing these past two years. Start binge eating Doritos to take the edge off.
9:40 — Tell everyone that everyone who writes for sports is a failed athlete. Meredith takes offense, claims she’s a real athlete. To be fair, she did win the mixed intramural soccer league championship when she was a freshman. This is absolutely true, asks Senior Editor Molly O’Toole.
9:54 — I reveal to everyone that I’ve always wanted to write a column where I just print a list of things that I think “The Kreef,” or the pseudonym of men’s basketball senior co-captain, (yeah, you like that Sun Style) Brian Kreefer. My favorite. “The Kreff doesn’t really understand the song “Ebony and Ivory, but loves singing it anyway.”
10:03 — Come up with the hilarious idea to have the back page carry read “SPORTS EDITORS ARE” and the carry page read “AWESOME.” Laugh for a little. Then think that we are actually quite awesome. And that we all actually are editors. It works both ways. We all win.
10:15 — I text a writer, “I’m not even lying when I tell you I’ve been looking forward to this night ever since the day I got elected as an Assistant.” There is no response. I have no shame … and that’s O.K.
11:03 — Remember that I run the department on a strict diet of hug therapy. Hug myself for comfort.
11:30 — I claim that the Sports Department is the flip cup champion two-years in a row. A news writer calls me out on this. OK, maybe we lost, but I’m trying to convince these kids that we’re actually cool. We have a freaking reputation to uphold.
11:33 — Complain about being misquoted in the Cornell Diaries series in Eclipse. Then feel O.K. because it’s the cultural double standard that makes me want to complain. Change the quote in the online edition, however.
11:41 — I get a text that reads, “Happy last edit meeting.” I smile my classic, I’m about to cry smile. We still have 19 minutes left.
11:45: Whistle the song “99 luftballoons” to myself. It’s all in German, I think. I’m a great whislter.
11:49 — Get text from friend that reads, “Happy last midnight edit meeting.” Think to myself, no one will ever understand me like he does. Wonder why more people aren’t gay.
11:50 — Flip cup tournament. News and design vs. Sports and arts. This is a competition we should have in the bag. And yet, we still lose the first two games. It’s O.K, though, we rally and what we don’t have in accuracy, we make up in longevity. One of the News editors passes out, seriously injuring their team—we win the next three matches.
12:11 — Last year’s Sports Editor calls me. We’re already in a very serious meeting, though, so I clearly do not picky up. This “meeting” doesn’t involve alcohol at all. In fact, I don’t drink at all during this whole evening. The editor texts me—I am powerless to avoid this second level of communication.
12:13 — Get text from former Sports Editor: “Welcome to the Good Life.” Holy crap. He quotes Kanye in a text message?!? Resolve to spend my extra time next semester drinking more. Clearly, we at the Sports section have big plans for ourselves. Wonder if he will be happy or sad for being quoted in this.
12:35 — Realizing I’m writing this column with one eye open because of either my poor vision or drinking. The jury is still out.
12:45 — “Giggety” – Keenan.
1:13 — Realize that Meredith has fallen asleep during the seminal moment of my lifetime, the midnight edit meeting. According to Keenan, “I’m kicking your ass through this shitty cushion, and you are literally not waking up.”
1:23 — The section contemplates another epic journey to the Shortstop. “I’m fat, though,” Meredith says, “So I really shouldn’t get more junk food.” We all take a moment to ponder the cultural double standard that creates this unfortunate statement. We all go get meatball subs.
1:38 — “Yo, you see that building right there. I’m gonna score with a girl who lives on the third floor.” I tell arts to grow some freaking nuts and just bang a bitch.
2:01 — Keenan starts giggling. “What’s up?” I say. “I’m putting in a completely irrelevant quote right now.” What’s new, I counter. “I’m talking about Minnesota’s height advantage, and I quote Alex Tyler who says, “We’re really coming together as a team.” Laugh, then realize I couldn’t come up with anything less cliché if I was an athlete.
2:03 — Still drinking Keystone Light.
2:06 — Realize that this column was a good idea in theory, but not in practice.