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Posts Tagged ‘dish pit blues’

Part of the Wall of Fame

Part of the Wall of Fame, where I have collected fan letters and such. The cookies were generally eaten as quickly as possible.

We’re at a crossroads.

Ten days from now a new school sports year officially begins in Coupeville, as the Wolves hold their first football practice. Five days later, tennis, soccer and volleyball lace ’em up as well.

Six days from now I will hit the two-year anniversary of Coupeville Sports. This article is the 2,294th I’ve produced.

For most of that time I was also slaving away at a real job, beatin’ the crud out of my typin’ fingers in the dish pit. It was not an ideal mix, as one made the other harder.

Now, for the past six weeks, I’ve been a free agent, focusing just on Coupeville Sports (which is why I, unlike the newspapers on this Island, have been still pumping out stories on a daily basis).

This is a dry time of the year, but I have continued to publish, day in and day out, with the exception of a four-day period when I was at my nephews.

I would like to continue to deliver like that as we head into the school year.

To be able to hit virtually every home game for every CHS sport this year in person. To continue to cover JV sports as well as varsity. To keep on bringing you features on every kid I can track down, from the stars to the last player on the bench.

They are all bustin’ their tails, and they all deserve a moment in the spotlight.

To do that, though, I need a bit of help.

Many of you have contributed, whether financially, with thank you notes and graduation invitations or with treats (Cookie Wars 2014, a shining achievement in world history!).

If you continue to do so, I can avoid going back to a real job, which would undoubtedly make it tougher to keep Coupeville Sports hummin’.

A new job could very likely make it harder (or impossible) to be at games.

The one benefit of the dish pit was that restaurant’s willingness to work around games 92.7% of the time, but a new job might not be so accommodating.

I think I offer something unique here at Coupeville Sports. Something the News-Times, Examiner and Record can’t, and won’t, deliver.

It’s not a knock on those papers, or the people who work for them. It’s just a reality that their business model doesn’t support the type of super-in-depth coverage of one town that I have been offering.

They have to try and balance their coverage between multiple towns, and Oak Harbor has (presumably) more readers. They don’t cover JV sports. They don’t have access to the sources on the street that I do.

I am not doing Coupeville Sports to get rich.

I’m doing it to get cookies … sweet, sweet cookies.

However, The Man insists I pay a few basic bills (rent/propane/electricity/internet/car insurance). The first three I understand, the fourth is sort of necessary to actually run Coupeville Sports and the fifth is just silly.

Have you seen my car? Why in the world should I be forced to insure it? Against what? Falling apart in mid-drive?

I have been frugal.

I have no cell phone, no cable TV, no Netflix, don’t smoke or drink. My car drives surprisingly well for how it looks. Food-wise, I have stockpiled and am ready for a natural disaster or two.

To keep on paying my basics, though, I either have to go back and get a “real” job or I have to hope you, the readers of Coupeville Sports, value what I’m doing enough to help me keep going without resorting to breaking my fingers.

Unlike the newspapers, I have never, and will never, charge for access to my stories. Information should be free.

So, if you want to read me for free, no worries.

But, if you feel like what I do is worth a fiver (or more), there’s a donation button at the top of Coupeville Sports. If enough of you value what I’ve done over the past two years, my fingers will be eternally grateful.

Coupeville Sports is not going anywhere. But neither is real life.

How we go forward into our third year depends on you, the reader, as much as it does me, the writer.

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The middle finger will join us later...

The middle finger will join us later…

I have one talent, and it is being chipped away.

I write. I write well. I can flat out write most people under the table, out of the room and into traffic, where they will be dodging semi trucks for the next several hours.

If I am confident about anything, it is this — I can beat you in a war of words.

You may get confused halfway through reading what I wrote — how exactly did we end up in traffic in the first place? — but I will carry you someplace special.

Most times. Not every time. Michael Jordan missed a basket or two.

Which is fine, cause Larry Bird never, ever missed a shot when he had to make one. Ever. And I’ve always been more of a Bird man than a Jordan guy.

Call it cockiness. Call it confidence. I have skills.

Of course, I have spent the last 24 years refusing to listen to editors, jousting with those who would tweak my words and basically telling anyone who doubts that it goes from God’s lips to my fingertips to suck eggs.

Which, surprisingly, hasn’t always gone over well.

So, now, instead of making a comfortable living writing pap for The (Canadian) Man, I pound out my prose in a way that makes me happy.

Coupeville Sports has been more, much more, than I anticipated.

It has given me freedom, a chance to continue to fight for independent journalism after The Whidbey Examiner committed ritual suicide and was forever branded as just another punk sell-out.

It has given me a chance to make direct contact with my audience in a way that never existed before.

To build the legend of Cow Town in a way frowned on by the snot-nosed blue bloods who sneer that their papers are superior, while secretly sweating bullets because they’ve lost their readers and they’re not coming back.

But, while I get all hopped up on (probably misguided) moral outrage and fire exclamation points all over the joint (at least two guaranteed in every story!!), the reality is, I still have to do stuff to pay the bills.

And that stuff is killing me, day by day. Or, my fingers, at least.

The fingers that are my one gift are being abused and used, torn apart, ground down, mashed, cut, shredded and beaten to the point where they are a mix of pain, stiffness and soreness filled with an aching buzz.

Being in the dish pit at 18 wasn’t great. Being a few years further down the road now, it’s a lot less enticing to have made a return trip.

I look at my fingers, the things that allow me to tell my stories, and I see a open, puffy slash down one of them, in a place where the water and the steel wool abuses it further with each dish.

I see nicks, bumps and bruises. They stretch across all ten fingers, the cuticles hammered and chipped.

There are mornings when I flex my hands and the middle finger on one hand stays locked down, refusing to pop back up and join its brothers without some real coaxing.

Excedrin is my travelin’ companion in the morning, and the day job is killing me. Physically, and, far more often, mentally and emotionally.

Maybe I should have just shut up and let them mangle my words in the early days, so I wouldn’t be getting my fingers mangled today. Taken the 401K and sold my soul…

Nah.

Better to go into that good night forever flippin’ the middle digits at The Man, even if you sometimes have to smack one of them to get it to stand up at full attention.

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