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Thomson / Gale

Glazed and confused

Sporting News, The,  Dec 27, 2004  by Kara Yorio

Negotiations are going to resume any moment at the NHL offices in Toronto, so a pack of reporters mills outside, waiting for the principals to arrive. We stand and we wait and we brace against the--OK, unusually warm--Toronto winter. One or two people show up without comment. Then a reporter arrives with doughnuts. In a moment of doughnut distraction, a group from the players' association sweeps past.

No more doughnuts. No more turning around. Of course, no more negotiators come, either. We reporters learn our lesson. We won't be caught looking the other way again, hands sticky with glaze. At least not until lunch.

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Covering labor negotiations has become a part of a professional sportswriter's job. It is also theater of the absurd. Writers sit around, cynically speaking about the players, the owners, our editors. We confidently take sides on luxury taxes and salary caps. Let both sides run the league over a cliff, we'll say. But deep down, we know our lives and our jobs are connected to this sport and this league. Send it over a cliff, and with so many others, we go, too. Then, even worse, we'll be forced to forge new relationships with a different league's players, agents, owners and general managers.

But we'll cross that bridge when it collapses. The current issue is navigating through collective bargaining agreement strife. And here's Rule No. 1: Bring provisions. You never know how long a day might go, so it's necessary to pack some snacks and a beverage or two. Candy is key. I prefer Twizzlers, but in Canada sometimes I must settle for SuperNibs or some other licorice concoction. Whatever it is, bring it, because you can't run off for a sugar fix when waiting for lawyers to adjourn. Leaving the press area for anything is a difficult decision. Every trip for food or to the bathroom could be the moment a settlement is announced or a season officially is cancelled. There are hours of nothing and three minutes of breaking news, but just when those minutes are coming, nobody knows.

And so we sit. In Toronto, press room conversation runs from football picks to new job announcements--which writer is leaving hockey for good for some other beat such as baseball. Congratulations, we say. Good luck to you. Remember us months from now when you're watching games and we're still sitting right here waiting for the same press conference in which the same nonstatements are uttered. Put in a good word for us when the NHL goes under and we're looking to attach ourselves to a new league.

But wait--here it is, the moment we've been waiting for. The commissioner is coming. Any minute. No, in an hour. No, maybe two. When he finally arrives, cameras line up in front of questioners and the boom mike circles the room, smacking writers in their heads. When that is over, it's time to pack and run. Computers, notebooks, tape recorders get thrown into a bag, and a throng of reporters quickly migrates a few blocks to the hotel where the players' association will hold its press conference, proudly outclassing the chaos of the commissioner's.

In the end, there's no resolution, and all we have is the prospect of another day just like this one. We sit and we wait for hours, and then we scramble, as if a long eighth-inning rain delay has given way to the final outs of a perfect game. Of course, at least then we'd be doing what we do best--covering events, not economics. And we'd know when it was OK to go get a doughnut.

COPYRIGHT 2004 Sporting News Publishing Co.
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