What the World Cup and Jill Abramson Have in Common (For Me)
I was a sports reporter, briefly.
16 years ago I finished an internship at a newspaper in Jersey, right outside Philly, the last requirement before graduating college. I’d made my way through rotations in Features, then Photo, and finally, Sports. This wasn't a gopher internship where I got coffee for folks; I had 2-3 bylines a week. Having been a 3-sport high school athlete, that final rotation was my sweet spot, my happy place. And I was good at it.
So much so that as my internship came to a close, the chief sports editor pulled me into the Clips Room—basically, the place where every single article ever written gets clipped out of the day’s paper and gets filed—and said, “You’re writing is fantastic, Kara. You can hold your own with all the guys. I want to bring you on as the paper’s first full-time female sports reporter.”
I was gobsmacked, elated, giddy. After all, I was 22, and while there was one other woman whom they used as a stringer—and I’d always admired her writing, she had a strong voice—it wasn’t lost on me what this offer meant. Sure, there were a few details to sort out, and he had to make it official, but they wanted ME. I was over the moon. I dashed home and told my parents, whose families had been subscribers for decades. They shared my excitement.
While it was sometimes odd being the only girl in a newsroom full of gruffy, trash talking guys, I showed them I could give it just as much as I could take it.
And the guys respected me. I remember vividly the day the assistant sports editor said, “You know, it’s cute that you can cover soccer, but let me know when you’re ready to do a football game like the guys.”
Not missing a beat I replied, “Remind me why I’d want to waste 4 hours on a Saturday covering an 0-5 team with a sorry excuse for a quarterback whose 55% completion rate and absolute lack of a running game means they have no chance of making it out of conference play.” Silence. Then loud eruptions of peals of laughter, followed by, “You’re okay, Vichko.” (My maiden name.)
So I kept on writing my columns, and covering games. My favorite thing in life at that point was having that press pass, standing on the sidelines, being able to go where others couldn’t, getting the good stuff. I’d been playing soccer since I was 5 years old (and later went on to coach as well as work in the pros), so covering that was my wheelhouse.
There’s a fluidity, a cadence to soccer that no other sport possesses (save perhaps the staccato of a solid full-court press in basketball). The way a play unfolds as the players and ball glide down the field. Or how, with one kick, players can switch fields from one side to the other and start a new attack.
Perhaps the most attractive quality is its accessibility: one of the reasons that it’s so popular globally is that anyone can play it, with just a ball and a field and a few simple rules to follow. Those of us involved in soccer know it’s always been way more popular than anyone gives it credit for. There’s joy in simply playing it, and beauty in graduating to new levels of athleticism, agility, and grace. And when it’s good, it’s great. Even kids know that. I knew it. My readers knew it, which is why the opportunity was such a rush.
A few weeks later I got called into Clips again by the editor. I bounded in eagerly, on a high. And why not? I was loving the job, feeling like one of the team, and fired up to prove myself. I stood there, ready to accept the official offer. Except it didn’t go that way. The smile on my face slowly faded as the editor awkwardly, with no eye contact, told me that a former reporter was moving back from Florida and had expressed interest in returning to the paper.
And they were giving him the role. Which meant there was no room at the inn for me, in any role, anymore.
Just. Like. That. It was over.
I’d heard rumors later that the editor had second thoughts about bringing on a woman to the Sports Department, and another one that the former reporter was an old friend so they felt like they owed it to him.
In retrospect, I’m glad they didn’t choose me, even though at the time I was devastated. Because if they had, I’d still be there, in New Jersey, living a quiet, uncomplicated existence in my small hometown. And I wouldn’t have this most awesome life I’ve since led: working on the Oscars, the Super Bowl, and for the White House. Attending the final space shuttle launch (thanks NASAtweetup!), going to TED, or standing in the press box, as part of the press operations team, at Women’s World Cup ‘99 when the US Women’s National Team defeated China in front of 99,000 fans at the Rose Bowl. Or finding the joy of living in my adopted home state of California.
Which is all to say, that sometimes shit happens, and the rug gets pulled out from under you unexpectedly, but you be you, which for me was to pick myself up, dust myself off, and move right along to The Next Big Thing.
I hadn’t thought about this story in years, but the conversation about Jill Abramson and double-standards in journalism brought it flooding back to me in May, and again with the World Cup in Brazil. Vichko would have loved covering it. I love where my life has led me, but just for a moment, I felt a bittersweet twinge of nostalgia that she never got the chance.
Follow Kara on Twitter: @KaraDeFrias.
