My first two years as a member of the media have been pretty smooth. I’ve worked with dozens of college players and coaches, talked to baseball executives, met scouts, and interviewed a bunch of minor leaguers without so much as a hiccup. But those interactions all came on relatively neutral territory, not the beast that is the losing team’s clubhouse.
I’m new to Durham, so I thought it would be fun to check out the Bulls in their first home series of 2007. And although it was less than 50 degrees for most of Saturday evening, I was so euphoric from the game and atmosphere that I decided it was a good idea to go chat with some of the visiting Syracuse players in their clubhouse after the team had just lost 9-5—my first mistake.
There’s a rule posted on the door of the visiting team’s locker room that basically says, “All media members must wait 15 minutes after the conclusion of the game before entering the clubhouse.” I foolishly strolled in about five minutes after the game—my second mistake.
Syracuse manager Doug Davis met me in the entryway of the clubhouse, and we had a good, friendly conversation, so I continued toward the player’s quarters without thinking twice—my third mistake.
As I attracted dozens of cold looks and saw more naked male silhouettes from the corner of my eye than I’ve seen in my life, I realized that I didn’t know what the player I wanted to talk to, John-Ford Griffin, looked like. No worries, I’d just ask one of the guys working in the club house—my fourth mistake.
He pointed Griffin out to me, but before I could go talk to him, another clubhouse worker pulled me off to the side.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said. “You saw the sign. It’s OK to come in early if the team just won but not after a loss like this. C’mon man. You have no business being here right now.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I’m new at this and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’ll wait a bit longer.”
So I put myself on a timeout until the club house guy gave me the green light.
By this time, Griffin was settled in at a card table with a group of his teammates and I was completely terrified by what I’d gotten myself into. Eyes wide and knees on the verge of shaking, I crept up to the table like a teenager trying to sneak out of the house for the first time.
One of the Syracuse veterans who was sitting at the table could smell my fear.
“Excuse me John-Ford, can I have a second of your time? ” I asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” the veteran who was all too keen on my apprehension exclaimed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said weakly.
“No, I’m just messing with you,” he laughed, as everyone who saw the interaction couldn’t help but snicker.
Bright red and now noticeably shaking, I stuttered through my short list of questions for Griffin. He politely listened before giving me some sincere and detailed responses. I sensed that he felt a little sympathy for me.
As I left the clubhouse—oversized laptop case across my shoulder—and walked up the street to my car, I realized that I’d just been initiated. And I’d never forget what a humbling experience it was.
Adam Foster is no longer petrified of pro clubhouses. You can email him at adamwfoster@gmail.com.