Mariotti takes on the tough questions

September 14th, 2006 | Posted by PostmanE

You know, the really searing questions that no one else will answer, like Does everyone hate you because they’re jealous of your looks and impeccable writing style? and When did you first know you were “more famous” than anyone else? and What’s your favorite thing about yourself? No sighting of Why are you such a fuck? anywhere in there, but Who do you most identify with - George Orwell, William Shakespeare, or Ghandi? couldn’t have been far behind.

The good gentlemen at The Big Lead have already taken a look at this, but I’m less interested in the ridiculousness of Mariotti’s quotes in the profile and far more concerned with the writer of the piece, Dirk Johnson. See, Mr. Johnson demonstrates a knowledge of the reasons people dislike Mariotti - his petulant writing style, his limitless ego, his quasi-oppressed Jesus complex - but fails to really confront those issues, opting to let Jay imbue the piece with his views of why it’s everyone else’s fault no one wants to sit at his lunch table anymore.

To be fair, the story is relatively close to balanced. At most mentions of Mariotti’s “positives,” negatives are routinely trotted out. The problem, of course, is that Mariotti has no redeeming qualities, making the positives impossible to swallow. If you need an example, chomp on this beaut:

In his 15 years in Chicago, Mariotti - who lives in the north suburbs with his wife and two daughters - has proved himself one of the most prolific sports columnists in America. He writes a dizzying number of columns, upwards of 300 a year. He is so fiercely driven he will sometimes rip up a column between editions and start over. His columns can infuriate, but also sparkle, like fireworks with cinders that fall and burn wherever they land. It’s certainly no fun to be the object of Mariotti’s ire. But he can be a pleasure to read.

Beyond the brutal metaphor, let’s get serious. Mariotti’s columns are never a pleasure to read. He’s verbose, unprofessional, whiny, and what’s worse, he’s the greatest windsock show on Earth. Don’t believe me? Read this. His willingness to switch stances - not for the sake of accuracy, mind you, but in the hopes he can never be called blatantly wrong - is well documented.

In the end, the question Mr. Johnson is missing is a grand one, but one he needed to ask: As such a prominent sportswriter with such a wide realm of influence, what, if anything, have you done, Mr. Mariotti, to genuinely improve your profession?

There’s no doubt Jay would make up some sort of platitude to satisfy his ego for that one, but maybe, after the interview was over, just maybe, he’d go home, clank a few ice cubes into his tumbler, and take a long, slow look at what it is, exactly, he does for a living. And maybe, for only a few columns, Mariotti would try to remember why he decided to spend his life writing, and he’d realize what he’s been doing for a long time is not that at all, really. It’s food-fight instigation, at this point; of course no one wants to sit as his table anymore.