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Politics v. Football
May 14, 2008 - Jody Murphy
Last night I covered my first election.
I've worked in newspapers for more than a decade, but I hadn't been in a courthouse on election night since my sophomore year of college.
Having made the jump to news from sports last year, it was inevitable I would cover an election. Last night was my baptism of fire so to speak.
I've often heard reporters share horror stories about election nights. How brutal and demanding they are. If last night was ANY indication of what I am in for when it comes to elections, it has ABSOLUTELY nothing on a standard football Friday night in the sports department!
My former fellow sports brethern would gladly trade a routine Friday night for an election night.
Friday nights in sports is a zoo.
In addition to covering a game and trying to tabulate stats, write a story and complete the boxscore the phones are ringing off the hook with folks wanting scores from games all over the state and coaches trying to call in their games.
I'm not talking one or two phones, we're talking six to eight phones ringing non-stop for three hours!
Whatsmore these elections have no pep. No zing. No verve. Where are the cheerleaders? The cowbells? The obnoxious parents berating officials? I didn't hear a single person complain about a bad precinct call. These election night gatherings need airhorns, pep bands and the Jamie Six County Clek Cloggers!
It needs atmosphere.
Though I must say election night courthouse food is superior to press box food at the football games. Last night the courthouse folks provided a huge spread of finger foods, deserts and drinks.
The election results were provided in a quick and timely manner and secruing quotes from the victorious politicians of the evening was a breeze.
Is there such a thing as a politician who hates to be quoted? As opposed to trying to squeeze something out a shy, 16-year-old quarterback.
No, a standard night in sports is far worse than any election on the city desk.
Though election nights are a little tougher on my waistline. Curse those darn cocktail weeinies!
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