TBT: The Time Ozzie Guillen Told Me To "Grow The Fuck Up, Motherfucker"
Most of you know me for my time hosting shows at SportsRadio 610. Whether on B-Straw and Pauly G. Gallant at Night. or Mad Radio, I’ve spent most of my time in Houston blabbing about…
The TexansSports- Game of Thrones
- Cats
- My Mediocre Personal Life
But there was once a time where I was SO MUCH MORE than that. In addition to being an update anchor / fill in host / producer / the station's 24/7 on call bitch hero, I was a sports reporter.
That's right people. A long, long time ago, I was a Big J edi. So crack open your finest White Claw, and cue up some appropriate background music. It’s story time.
The day was May 7th, 2012. I was a 23 year old dummy with a Japanese cartoon looking haircut, a side kick cell phone that I'd drunkenly broken two weeks before during an awkward post college trip to Syracuse, and absolutely zero experience as a professional sports reporter. My $15 / hour task? To collect sound from the PRE-GAME of an INCREDIBLE NL matchup between the Houston Astros and Miami Marlins.
I almost didn't even make it to Minute Maid Park. As I was cruising to the stadium in my forest green, sunpeeled, suspension-less 2002 Toyota Corolla, I took a phone call from SportsRadio 610 Sports Director Robert Henslee. To answer any calls with this piece of shit phone, I had to physically slide it open. Not an easy task while you're driving. And while I was looking down to do that, I accidentally love tapped the car in front of me. We both pulled over to the side, and THANKFULLY by some act of Tom Brady there wasn't even a scratch. I got back in my car, angrily threw my phone into the back seat, and scrambled to the Juicebox.
It's rare that you'll get a 101 interview with a player or coach before or after a sporting event. Typically, print, radio, and TV reporters crowd around 1 player or coach and pepper them with questions.
There's no order to it. It's complete chaos. If you want your question asked, you're going to have to [rudely] talk over the other journos. And all the while, you'll be passive aggressively jockeying to put your microphone as close as possible to the subject, awkwardly straining your shoulder.
So here I was, "reporting." And after probably taking the elbow of another reporter just inches above my my clackers, I wondered: "Why the fuck is SportsRadio 610 paying me $15 / an hour to hear what Astros manager Brad Mills thinks about Marlins closer Heath Bell?"
But there actually WAS a story of interest. Marlins manager Ozzie Guillen - well known saying whatever the hell was on his mind - was fresh off a 5 game suspension for saying this to Time Magazine:
"I respect Fidel Castro. You know why? A lot of people have wanted to kill Fidel Castro for the last 60 years, but that (expletive) is still here."
Not the smartest thing to say if you're a prominent figure living in Miami. No matter the context.
I seriously doubt that Castro actually LOVED a murderous despot. Guillen apologized profusely after the fact, saying "it was the biggest mistake of his life." Honestly, that's a crazier statement. The idea that SPOKEN WORDS could be the biggest mistake of someone's life is FUCKING ABSURD.
And to be fair to Guillen, that Castro - the brutal Communist dictator of a small country within arm's reach of the U.S. - had survived that long really was an impressive feat. But when you're living in a city with a MASSIVE population of Cuban refugees who fled Castro's regime, you've got to know better while shooting the shit with a reporter.
Fast forward a month plus to May 12th and my "Why the fuck am I here? / How the hell do I earn that $15?" predicament. No one had asked Guillen about the incident since. "SURELY one of the actual baseball beat reporters will ask Ozzie if he's still under fire in Miami," I thought to myself as my soft ass right shoulder struggled to hold my microphone steady, "I mean, these two teams suck. AND THIS IS THE ONLY REMOTELY INTERESTING GAME RELATED STORY."
So I waited. And waited. And waited for someone to ask the question. Until...
Ozzie stormed away from the media scrum after going Samuel L. Jackson on me, but then paused. He looked back to say “Nice try kid.” I chuckled, went upstairs to the press box, and tweeted this out:
…before opening up Adobe Audition to edit the audio, upload the clip to YouTube, and send the audio back to the station.
It was an amusing “welcome to the media” moment for me. But it’s not the most memorable part of the story.
As I sat at a press box desk editing the audio, a short, older, balding man with beady eyes and a MLB polo approached me. He had a look on his face like he’d just smelled a HEINOUS fart. I had no idea who the fuck he was. But as someone who’d gone to Catholic School, I had a sixth sense for potentially being in trouble. And seeing as:
He was sporting the league’s colors
He had a stocky, respectable build
I’d never been inside an MLB press box before…
I assumed:
That he was MLB security
That I was going to get kicked out of Minute Maid Park
That I was then going to get fired by SportsRadio 610
The man glared at me, and motioned for me to remove my headphones. I did. And I only remember one specific from the ensuing 30 second, Adults in Charlie Brown-esque lecture: “You tried to make yourself the story.”
I responded with a nod, still not knowing who he was as he smugly walked away.
I turned to my right and asked Henslee who he was. He laughed, and told me “Richard Justice. Don’t worry about him.”
Naturally, I did the very opposite, psychotically googling him seconds later. He has quite the impressive resume. But considering ole Dick had worked for The Washington Post, The Dallas Morning News, and the Houston Chronicle, AND had occasionally contributed to ESPN, I was surprised that I’d had to do his job for him that day. All for a measly $15.
Sadly, TO THIS VERY DAY my petty ass is still worked up over this inconsequential moment. And it’s not because my Glory Boy ass (Justice might have had a point, hehe) knows 2019 culture / the blue checkmark brigade would have paraded me around as a hero for confronting someone who’d had a slip of the tongue (and they would have, which is really fucking sad). I’m still pissed because I said nothing. Had I known at the time that Justice was a league schill and NOT a league bouncer, I’d have at least told him to fuck off. Luckily, I’m the bigger man - the most noble of the noble - and would never say something like that in any sort of public forum. Admirable!
But time has also given me some perspective on this. The life of a baseball beat reporter must SUCK. Think about it. You’re constantly traveling, doing the SAME EXACT THING for 3+ hours a night AT LEAST 162 nights a year. Especially when you’re trying to avoid stepping on sensitive toes along the way. No WONDER so many of them are void of personality: how rich of a life can you have when your entire life revolves around mostly meaningless baseball games? Especially when only a few reporters a year see that patience pay off with their team making baseball’s INCREDIBLE playoffs?
“Pawl, you clueless dipshit, they’re covering a sport for a living.”
Fair enough. Whatever the case, now that I’ve shared this back-patting tale with you, it’s time to move on. And Richard, if you ever want to join the Gallant Says podcast - on iTunes, Google Play, Spotify, Stitcher, and Soundcloud - you’d be more than welcome! Slide on in those DMs…