Growing up, every Thursday was my own private holiday. That was when the new issue of Sports Illustrated showed up at my door. I would lie on my blue comforter and all the pain of early adolescence would wash away as I read the exploits of my sports heroes, brought to life by epic photography that felt three-dimensional in its vibrant radiance. I found myself gravitating to my favorite writers first, no matter the article's subject—people like Frank Deford, Ralph Wiley, and E.M. Swift.
As one sports journalist of my generation messaged me, “We all grew up—all of us—wanting to write for Sports Illustrated.” A decade ago, I briefly wrote a column for their website—just 10 pieces in all. Seeing my name and face at si.com brought me a unique kind of professional joy; the feeling that, if nothing else, that placement among my heroes could never be taken away from me.
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