There’s no cheering in the press box.
I heard these words plenty in college.
As both a broadcast journalism major and a sports fan, I’d seized just about any opportunity to nab a press credential – either for a class project or for the campus TV station I volunteered at.
My press pass got me a dinner buffet and a prime seat for the action. The only cost was the edict against cheering in the press box.
So, when I scored a credential to a Florida Marlins game – courtesy of a colleague at my internship – I followed the rules. The Marlins starting pitcher hurled a complete game masterpiece that night. But even as the crowd roared below me, I stayed cool as a cucumber.
There’s no cheering in the press box.
After the final out was recorded, my colleague turned to me.
Alright, it’s time to head down to the clubhouse for quotes. You ready?
I was certainly not ready.
I was not on an assignment that evening. I was simply tagging along to shadow my colleague. I was wearing a button down, jeans, and cowboy boots – hardly the look of a serious beat writer. And instead of a laptop, I’d brought a spiral notebook and pen with me.
Still, I only had a split second to answer my colleague. So, I nodded and hustled out of the press box, forgetting my my pen and notebook in the rush.
We made our way to a hallway under the main concourse. The dim corridor was filled with support staff and security.
As we reached a nondescript door, we turned. The door opened and we strode through the Marlins clubhouse to the manager’s office in the back.
The office was small – designed for two or three people. But at least a dozen were in there, flanking the Marlins manager. Most had the same credential around their neck as I did. But they also had a digital recorder or notepad in their hands – and I did not.
I stood close to my colleague and tried my best to blend in. I listened intently to the manager’s responses to reporters’ questions, laughing earnestly with the crowd when the skipper threw in some dry humor. It felt collegial and comfortable. My worries about my missing notebook faded away.
But as soon as the questions stopped, I heard a new one from a redheaded man standing nearby.
Who’s that? Is that an intern?
I saw the man’s badge, which read Florida Marlins PR Manager. And I realized he was talking about me.
My colleague explained that I was shadowing her for the game. But the redheaded man wasn’t having it.
No interns in the clubhouse, he exclaimed sharply to me.
Guilt washed over my face.
OK, I’m leaving, I replied.
I strode briskly toward the door to the manager’s office, feeling the condescending stare of a dozen journalists on the back of my shoulders. I exited into the locker room, making a beeline for the front door.
I had was most of the way across the room when I heard the PR manager’s voice behind me again, harsher than before.
No interns in the clubhouse.
Suddenly, two dozen major league ballplayers were staring at me from their lockers as I finished my brisk walk to the door. I felt humiliated.
Why the second warning, I mused silently, as I waited for my colleague in the dim hallway. I was doing what the PR manager asked. Couldn’t he see that?
The night was ruined. And it was about to get even worse.
On my drive home, I got a speeding ticket. The officer threatened to charge me for having an out-of-state license while maintaining Florida residency. Ultimately, he just gave me a hefty fine.
I was 18 days from graduation, preparing for a bright future in the real world. But this disastrous Monday night was threatening to undo me.
A couple days later, I was back at the local TV station where I interned at. My boss asked to speak with me.
He had heard from the Marlins PR manager about my gaffe, and he was none too pleased.
Personally, I think his reaction was over the top, my boss exclaimed. But it doesn’t matter what I think. You made a mistake, and you brought shame to this news station. That’s something we can’t have.
I hung my head.
Here’s what you’re going to do, he continued. You’re going to write him a letter, and you’re going to sign it. You’re going to apologize completely for what you did, and you’re going to ask him for forgiveness. Hopefully, he’ll accept the written apology – and we’ll put this whole incident behind us.
I was miffed. I’d made a seemingly minor mistake, and I’d already gotten the Scarlet Letter treatment for it. Now, I had to apologize for my own humiliation?
But I wrote the letter with a contrite tone and I sent it off. Then I went home to pay the speeding ticket and spend hours completing an online defensive driving course.
I probably could have gotten away with the basics. I could have written a boilerplate apology and paid the speeding fine. No real contrition. No defensive driving course.
After all, Florida would be in my rearview mirror a month later. There was no need to go the extra mile as I vacated the premises.
But my boss’ words weighed on me. No matter the circumstances, I’d erred. I needed to face the music, fully and completely.
Accepting the consequences of my actions would be my penance. It wouldn’t provide a joyous end to the story for me. It wouldn’t get my fine rescinded, and it wouldn’t lead to another invite to the Florida Marlins press box. Ever.
But it was the right thing to do. So, that’s what I did.
A few years after my apology letter hit the mailbox, I got a message that jolted me.
My former boss from my internship at that local TV station had died.
I stared into space, stunned.
I’d only spent a few months interning under this man on the station’s Internet news desk. But I’d owed so much to him.
I’d learned about the importance of web stories for local TV stations. After all, not everyone could catch the 6 PM news in its entirety. But if the stories were posted online, they could learn about what was covered on their own time.
I’d learned how to source news material. I’d learned how to confirm information from behind the news desk. And I’d learned how to crank out high quality web articles in mere minutes.
All of this had helped me in my first job – I job I was still in when I got this terrible message. I was far away from Florida, serving as an executive producer for a TV station in West Texas. But I was still able to raise the profile of the both the station’s newscasts and its website.
Now, my former boss had left this earth. And in seven weeks’ time, I’d be leaving the news media.
All that this great man had taught me was sure to fade as I switched industries. I knew it in my bones.
And I was flat out wrong.
You see, on my journey through life’s adventures in subsequent years, I’ve made some wrong turns. Nothing serious or irrevocable. But some things that just didn’t work out.
These decisions, however well-intentioned, have carried bitter consequences. Consequences sure to leave a lasting mark on my psyche and my memory.
Even so, it’s none too difficult to sidestep them. To convince myself that I don’t deserve them, that circumstance and misfortune are to blame. To distract, to deflect, to disassociate.
These strategies are hardly novel. The art of dodging repercussions is in vogue throughout society these days. From the powerful down to the populace, we’re well versed at how not to face the music.
But I can’t ride this wave. I couldn’t abdicate accountability.
My former boss taught me better. And even though he’s gone, his words live on.
So, I judge myself on outcomes, not intentions. I try and do the right thing. But when it goes wrong, I make it right. Even if it means putting myself through hell.
I face the music.
Living with the consequences of my choices has made me more pragmatic. It’s made me more well-rounded. And it’s made me better.
These are advantages we can all enjoy. Why don’t we?
It’s time to tear down the curtain of delusion. It’s time to stop running out the clock. It’s time to cease this circumvention of consequences.
For our own good, and for the good of those around us, we must face the music.
Let’s get to it.