I don’t know Jeff Bradley, although I feel as though he is me in many ways.
His excellent blog post the other day about being an out-of-work sports writer, which I include here because it’s poignant and relatable, is too common a story these days.
I just had numerous friends survive the media-company slashes in Philadelphia. I am happy for them, obviously, especially if sports writing remains what they truly want to be doing, if it is still the best thing for them and their families.
A year and a couple weeks ago, my detour met me straight up. There is a lot of angst that comes with such a parting and recalibrating, and Jeff, a much bigger-time sports writer than I ever was, gets at the heart of it well in his piece. He doesn’t write asking for sympathy, as some jerkwood blog commenter offered up from his snake pit. He just writes with honesty, same as I do here . . . and every day in the different word-jockey position I now hold.
I don’t know Jeff, but I wished him good fortune, as you do for fellow travelers. Too many of them on the road.