We had a special visitor in my criticism class today. My lovely bride joined us to take part in our conversation on one of the articles the students selected for us to read. I was glad to have her there. A lot of times you just need more expertise than you have. And my expertise — such as it is — is limited to begin with. The story was actually an opinion column, which allowed us to discuss some of the differences between them.

From MTG to Charles Barkley, ignorance was on display about trans athletes:

Even on positive stories, like Tifanny Abreu ending a playoff hot streak with a Superliga title in hand or Nikki Hiltz on the charge in Grand Slam Track, the level of anti-trans ignorance is toxic.

This year, and especially last week, has been one long real-life comment section if you are trans, and especially if like sports. Politicians put on a show of ignorance at a hearing and then Charles Barkley — purportedly an ally — continued that ignorance with his insulting comments about trans athletes.

A House subcommittee hearing last week was another opportunity to show how ignorant and bigoted the GOP majority can be toward transgender Americans and how they use sports drive it home with pride. The focus was on trans women in fencing. It centered on a match where a cis woman fencer forfeited a match against a trans woman fencer and became a cause celebre to the anti-trans movement.

We talked about some of the specifics in the column, we talked about the outlet, Out Sports, and we talked about the power of the context of the links the author shared, including this really useful primer, Cracking the code of bias against transgender athletes:

The anti-trans crowd relies upon the fact that most readers and/or sports fans will not bother to check the facts for themselves, in part, because the sport is more obscure.

[…]

Fact checking would have perhaps saved Chesworth some embarrassment, but that’s the rub here. A transphobe counts on the general public to not research the claims for themselves.

I’d given that additional read, because it had some key terms to it, but it also allowed me to make a different and larger point. You could change some of the terms and that guide would help readers understand any sort of propaganda.

From time to time, as we discussed the piece, I would steal a little glance to my left to see if this was where the eminent Dr. Lauren Smith would chime in. She is an expert in this field, after all, and I just happen to listen to her talk about it. But she never interrupted me, never felt the need to correct me. So I guess the details are rubbing off.

Then we discussed this other story which I assigned to the class, The predatory web of sextortion increasingly ensnares young athletes:

John DeMay and Jenn Buta say that since they’ve made Jordan’s story public, they have heard from hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who have been victims of sextortion at some level.

“Just this week I had four reach out in a 24-hour period,” Buta said.

The parents’ advice for teens getting targeted is simple: Shut off the computer as soon as a questionable message pops up, walk away and then go tell a trusted adult. The criminals are looking for money, and if they think an avenue has dried up, they’ll likely move on. It’s like a fish wiggling off the hook. But if they believe a fish is still on the hook, there is no amount of appeasement — or payouts — that will stop them from pushing for more.

“If you don’t engage with them, they’re going to stop and move on,” John said.

Meanwhile, NCMEC suggests immediately reporting the account to a social media platform and reaching out to the organization’s hotline: 1-800-843-5678. Laws and policies can help keep the image off the internet.

“We can help,” Coffren said. “We can handle it.”

A slew of new state laws — often pushed into passage by victim families — have made sextortion a felony. Law enforcers say that since most of the international criminals don’t believe anyone will actually take their own life, they won’t actually face criminal consequences for what they believe is just a minor financial crime.

It’s why a message had to be sent.

It’s a horrible story, shocking in its details. Important in every respect. In this class we ask a set of questions about who a story is for and who the disadvantaged people are, and this story had plenty of obvious answers, and some thoughtful and unexpected one from a few students, as well.

For a lighter time, after that class ended and I moved to org comm, we talked about the concepts of conflict. (Later this week and next we move to negotiation.) The class broke up into four groups, each had a different sort of sports-centric conflict they had to resolve. One had two teammates pursuing the same woman. Another had a play-coach disagreement on tactics. There was a third conflict about playing time on a co-ed intramural team. The fourth was a conflict stemming from a captain’s favoritism among teammates. They had to understand the problem, detail the framework of solving it and create reasonable solutions. They were into it, right until the end. I think the windows face the wrong way in that room and when there was nothing in the sky above the gloaming, that was pretty much it.

Maybe they were looking ahead to seeing the Northern Lights. They were probably disappointed. We had good skies for it, for the most part, but nothing out of the ordinary. Still, it’s a delight to go outside, shiver, look up and see all of this.

It is even nicer when you rush back inside nine or 10 minutes later, because it is that time of the year now.

The time of year where I have already decided which jacket I’ll wear to campus for tomorrow’s faculty meeting. The time of year when I wonder when we’ll see the 60s again. The long-range forecast says we’ll get 60 on Sunday. But I think that’s just an automated template from the weather site. It’s also the time of year where you wonder how long I’ll complain about this. That’s a fair question. The answer is: until April, for some silly reason.

I think we’ve reached or, heaven help me, are approaching, the mid-semester doldrums. Week 9 we’re in now, and young minds will sometimes wander. I’m speaking of mine, of course. My young mind. No idea about the students’ status.

But, hey, I was up until super late watching the greatest World Series game to ever be played, the only person between both of my sports comm classes to apparently do so, and I brought the enthusiasm under the florescent lights today.

We discussed this piece on the NWSL’s sexual abuse settlement. I find it somewhere between a process piece and a rote recap from someone, Meg Linehan, who’s been all over the story for a long while now. It’s a straightforward news story, and we need a lot of those. In this case, it allowed us to discuss how you can make that determination from the first three paragraphs.

The NWSL will create a $5 million player compensation fund as part of a settlement regarding its role in widespread allegations of abuse.

The settlement, announced on Wednesday, ends a joint investigation by the attorneys general (AGs) of the District of Columbia, Illinois and New York concerning systemic abuse across the league and potential violations of state and local human rights laws.

The three offices, as with the investigation by former U.S. Attorney General Sally Yates and the joint investigation by the NWSL and its players association that came before them, focused on “pervasive sexual harassment and abuse by coaches against players” and systematic failures by the league to “exercise adequate insight, institute workplace antidiscrimination policies, or appropriately respond to complaints,” as listed in the settlement agreement.

That distinction is important because the next story we discussed was Mitchell S. Jackson’s masterclass on pathos and grief, the Pulitzer Prize-winning 12 Minutes and A Life. To those who could not be bothered I said, “If you didn’t read this story this week, you’re missing out and only cheating yourself.” It does so much with tone and depth and grief and trust and anger and history and meanness and meaning and thorough no-nonsense reporting that everyone interested in media, even in the slightest bit, should have it on their list.

On February 23, 2020, a young man out for a run was lynched in Glynn County, Georgia.

His name was Ahmaud Marquez Arbery, called “Quez” by his beloveds and “Maud” by most others. And what I want you know about Maud is that he had a gift for impressions and a special knack for mimicking Martin Lawrence. What I want you to know about Maud is that he was fond of sweets and requested his mother’s fudge cake for the birthday parties he often shared with his big sister. What I want you to know about Maud is that he signed the cards he bought for his mother “Baby Boy.” What I want you to know about Maud is that he and his brother would don the helmets they used for go-carting and go heads-up on their trampoline, and that he never backed down from his big brother. What I want you to know about Maud is that he jammed his pinkie playing hoop in high school and instead of getting it treated like Jasmine advised, he let it heal on its own—forever crooked. What I want you know about Maud is that he didn’t like seeing his day-ones whining, that when they did, he’d chide, “Don’t cry about it, man. Do what you gotta do to handle your business.” What I want you to know about Maud is that Shenice told me he sometimes recorded their conversations so he could listen to her voice when they were apart. What you should know about Maud is that he adored his nephews Marcus III and Micah Arbery, that when they were colicky as babies, he’d take them for long walks in their stroller until they calmed. What you should know about Maud is that when a college friend asked Jasmine which parent she’d call first if ever in serious trouble, she said neither, that she’d call him. What I want you to know about Maud is that he was an avid connoisseur of the McChicken sandwich with cheese. What I want you know about Maud is that he and Keem were so close that the universe coerced each of them into breaking a foot on the same damn day in separate freak weight-room accidents, and that when they were getting treated in the trainer’s office, Maud joked about it. You should know that Maud dreamed of a career as an electrician and of owning a construction company. You should know that Maud gushed often of his desire to be a great husband and father. You should know that he told his boys that he wanted them all to buy a huge plot of land, build houses on it, and live in a gated community with their families. You should know that Maud never flew on a plane, but wanderlusted for trips to Jamaica, Japan, Africa. What you must know about Maud was that when Travis McMichael, Gregory McMichael, and William “Roddie” Bryan stalked and murdered him less than three months shy of his 26th birthday, he left behind his mother Wanda, his father Marcus Sr., his brother Buck, his sister Jasmine, his maternal grandmother Ella, his nephews, six uncles, 10 aunts, a host of cousins, all of whom are unimaginably, irrevocably, incontrovertibly poorer from his absence.

Ahmaud Marquez Arbery was more than a viral video. He was more than a hashtag or a name on a list of tragic victims. He was more than an article or an essay or posthumous profile. He was more than a headline or an op-ed or a news package or the news cycle. He was more than a retweet or shared post. He, doubtless, was more than our likes or emoji tears or hearts or praying hands. He was more than an R.I.P. t-shirt or placard. He was more than an autopsy or a transcript or a police report or a live-streamed hearing. He, for damn sure, was more than the latest reason for your liberal white friend’s ephemeral outrage. He was more than a rally or a march. He was more than a symbol, more than a movement, more than a cause. He. Was. Loved.

I print these out and scribble notes in the margin, on the off chance that someone wants to talk about a particular passage in class. One student wanted to talk about this part, and I was grateful it came up. There are so many rhetorical flourishes in there, so many bits of meaning, so much to learn from in those three little paragraphs. And not just there, but throughout the copy. I’d selfishly like everyone to be as impressed by truly great writing as I am. And I’d selfishly like to know more about Jackson’s process in writing this piece.

In org comm, as a come down, I had a slide deck about … ethics. Some days organizational communication is not the most interesting class. It’s just the material, never the presenter. Today was one of those days. Someone wanted to bring up the newest gambling scandal via the NBA, and I asked them to hold off. I have a particular reading on that which was published just today that we’ll discuss at some length on Thursday. The bracing plunge into the cold waters of ethical behavior can’t be held on just one day, no.

I had to park way up high in the parking deck today, which allowed me to see over the next building. So I took this large photograph. (Click to embiggen.)

I looked down to find myself standing in front of one of those “Feeling stressed? We can help.” signs. Aside from wishing my classes were just three percent more energetic today, I felt fine, so I hustled away from the sign and into the car before anyone came along and worried about me.

On the way home I asked Siri to tell me a joke. I got a bad joke. I asked Siri to tell me a funny joke. I think it misheard me, because I received a pretty awful pun. I asked Siri to tell me a dirty joke, which it consistently refused.

I wondered, what if there’s a big gap in Siri’s performance? What if Siri is great with simple tasks like setting a timer or texting someone, bad at slightly more ambitious things, but has the biggest stuff figured out? At which point I asked Siri to tell me the meaning of life. The second answer was useful.

I liked that one. Many people I admire carry an enthusiasm like that around with them. It seems like a reasonable, and achievable, aspiration. I liked it so much and made a mental note to remember where I was when it said that. I was driving through a cornfield that’s waiting to be chopped down. So I marveled at the burnt up stalks and leaf blades, as if I were experiencing them for the first time.

The third answer was, of course, 42. Feeling that Siri and I had come to an understanding, I stopped asking.

I was almost home, anyway.

I’m feeling better today. Yesterday was lousy. I blamed the back thing, which was 11 or so days ago. After sitting outside in the chilled evening air I did feel better. Ibuprofen probably helped, too. And then I got in bed, feeling fine, and completely forgot about this, right until I tried to wiggle into a better position. And I wiggled so hard that I thought I tore the wound open.

I did not.

It felt sharp anew, though. And so I lay there wondering if I gave myself a setback. But it seems not. And, hey, stitches come out Friday. And maybe I will be able to stop itching. The tape holding gauze in place is not agreeing with my skin.

Anyway.

This is my artistic interpretation of my day. The view of the sunset, through my blinds.

It was up early, work from the home office, and then work at work, and then work back in the home office again. I am, believe it or not, catching up?

In my Criticism in Sport Media class we discussed two stories. I picked them this week. Both of these are pieces I saved from this summer, for just such an occasion. (I have a remarkable folder with stories that can all be useful in making this point or that one.)

The first one we discussed was: How 3 Muslim sisters helped change the rules of American women’s wrestling.

Jamilah, Zaynah and Latifah McBryde never expected to become college athletes, much less change the rules of American women’s wrestling.

The sisters are devout Muslims who were homeschooled and grew up wrestling one another in Buffalo, N.Y.

“We always said we would never be able to wrestle in college,” said Jamilah, 22.

Coaches recognized their talent when they were teenagers, but they couldn’t wrestle with boys, nor could they wear the required wrestling singlet — due to their faith.

Eventually their passion for the sport – and their perseverance – led to rule changes allowing Muslim women to compete in full-body uniforms at collegiate and national levels.

My impression is that more of the people in my class should read these stories. And I’ve now got half a semester to figure out how to make that happen.

I really like this story. There’s so much you can do with it about story structure, quote selectivity, tone, and the pure efforts of reporting. Plus, it lets you talk about youth sports. And it has the added benefit of being ridiculously infuriating. ‘They control everything’: How the Dallas Stars monopolized Texas youth hockey:

Unlike the NFL, NBA and MLB, a handful of NHL teams are intimately involved in running the youth levels of their sports in their regions – perhaps none more than the Stars. In Dallas, the Stars spent decades turning what was once seen as a community good into a lucrative arm of their for-profit enterprise.

Stars executives addressed some of USA TODAY’s questions in a 35-minute interview and emailed statements, but left other questions unanswered.

“We’re really proud of everything we built here, and we’re committed to continuing to grow hockey in the community and across the state,” said Dan Stuchal, the Stars’ chief operating officer. “We’ve become the model for all non-traditional NHL markets that both the NHL and USA Hockey continually point to in terms of how to grow the game, because that’s the focus for everybody.”

At a time of increasing commercialization of youth sports nationally, hockey is particularly vulnerable to capture by corporate interests. Whereas baseball and soccer fields, tennis and basketball courts are ubiquitous in parks and schools, fewer than 3,000 ice hockey rinks exist across the U.S., largely because running them is so expensive.

Plus, I got to make a Kenny joke here. The author is Kenny Jacoby, an extremely well-regarded investigative reporter. And I told my class that all Kennys are fantastic writers. Some of them got the humor. But it’s a story designed to inform and aggravate and shed light on some predatory tactics of people who are sometimes a little too desperate. It’s terrific journalism and there’s a lot to glean from it. Probably because a Kenny wrote it.

In my Organizational Communication in Sport class we talked about media strategy and planning. This is the fun stuff. It’s brain work. It’s a bunch of puzzle pieces in a sandbox displayed on an Etch-a-Sketch, where the real decisions are made and money and personnel are figured out. It’s a bit difficult to just teach it. So I’d run a point out there, and then try to get the class to put this to work in a hypothetical context on their own campus. The best part is that no matter the question, and no matter the answer, there’s another consideration, another possible or additional approach. It demands you limber up your mind before you wade in. It’s a perfect thing to do at 3:30 in the afternoon, when a roomful of people’s post-lunch blood sugar is plummeting.

In first class they’ll have a midterm on Thursday. In the second class, we’ll do a media planning assignment. And after that I’ll have to decide which one was easier to grade.

But that’s a problem for Friday and Saturday.

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