Friday, June 12, 2015

Whiney Sports Writer on the Masters

There must have been a time that sportswriters were real men.  This to me is an example of how entitled these pipsqueak bastards have become.  He throws in some stuff about the terrible terrible history of Augusta but it's really just a rationalization for his anger for not being treated as a VIP himself. 
I finagled a credential in 2014 after months of begging, and I expected to be overcome by emotion and goose bumps when I first stepped onto the hallowed grounds.Instead, the entire experience felt like tiptoeing through a minefield, and it started long before I crossed the border into Georgia. Numerous reporters gave me warnings in the days leading up—don’t you dare take your cell phone on the course, or they’ll kick you out, since the Masters is the one tournament that doesn’t allow journalists to carry phones outside the media center. Don’t get caught running anywhere on the course, or you’re gone. Don’t write anything controversial, because they read everything, and you’ll never be invited back. Make sure you personally thank the key officials before the tournament begins, or your rudeness will be noted. Et cetera, et cetera.

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