Chapter 18 Declan
DECLAN
Iwrite the column at midnight, which is when I write my best work, which is when the newsroom is empty and the only sounds are the HVAC system and my keyboard and the productive hum of a brain that is operating without the interference of other humans.
The column is titled "The Reapers Effect: How One Team Changed the Rules of Belonging.
" It's not about any one player. It's about the ecosystem.
The culture that four openly queer couples created by existing, by being ordinary, by treating their relationships as facts rather than announcements.
I write about the locker room, where a Russian defenseman's boyfriend brings him tea through the bench door and nobody notices because the tea has been happening for three years and the not-noticing is the point.
I write about the weight room, where an enforcer-turned-forward bakes bread for his teammates and the bread is a language that the team has learned to speak.
I write about the youth program, where a former AHL player teaches children to skate and the children do not care that his brother is gay because the children have never lived in a world where that was unusual.
I do not mention Jamie. I do not need to mention Jamie.
The column is about the water he's swimming in, the culture that surrounds him, the unprecedented, unrepeatable environment in which a nineteen-year-old can exist alongside men who have done the thing he is afraid of doing, and the existing is its own form of permission.
The column is the best thing I've written since the Cole and Mik feature. It's the best thing I've written possibly ever. Sharon reads it the next morning and calls (the phone call metric) and says: "If you don't win a regional press award for this, the judges are illiterate."
The column runs on Friday. The response is immediate and enormous.
Other journalists share it. Two national outlets request permission to syndicate.
A professor at Columbia's journalism school emails to ask if she can use it in her sports media course.
My brothers send emojis. My mother calls and says "your father read it twice, which for your father is a standing ovation and an encore. "
Jamie texts at 11:47 AM.
"You get it. You always get it."
Seven words. I see them at 11:47 AM. The professional discipline that produced the four-hour delay the last time Jamie texted is, I discover, no longer operational.
The professional discipline was a system, like Mars Santos's coffee routine or Mik Volkov's book positioning, and the system has been degraded by sustained exposure to a person who keeps saying things that my professional brain categorizes as "source feedback" and my personal brain categorizes as "he sees me. "
You get it. You always get it.
He's not talking about the column. He's talking about the pattern.
The Volkov feature that he stopped in a hallway to comment on.
The interview where I turned off the recorder and answered the thing underneath the question.
The hallway conversations that keep happening.
The game recaps where his quotes are longer than anyone else's because I ask him real questions and he gives me real answers.
The column that doesn't mention him and is, he understands, about him anyway.
I respond in eleven seconds.
I respond in eleven seconds. Not four hours.
Not forty-five minutes. Not the professionally appropriate interval that communicates measured appreciation for source feedback.
Eleven seconds. The eleven seconds are the collapse of a wall that took weeks to build and that crumbles in the time it takes to type fourteen words.
"Meet me for coffee. Not as a journalist. As a person."
Send.
The word "send" is a small, blue button on a phone screen, and pressing it is the most consequential act of my professional life.
The message crosses the line. Not the physical line (we will not be in the same room for this, there will be no touch, no proximity).
The ethical line. The line between journalist-source and person-person.
The line that Sharon defined in her office and that I have been walking for weeks and that I just stepped over with fourteen words and a send button.
The phone sits in my hand. The message sits in the conversation thread. The eleven-second response time sits in the metadata, a digital record of the exact moment Declan Osei's professional discipline failed.
I put the phone down. I pick it up. I put it down.
The interval between put-down and pick-up is approximately four seconds, which is the shortest feedback loop I have ever experienced and which confirms that the professional discipline is not malfunctioning.
The professional discipline is gone. The system crashed. The wall fell.
Jamie's response comes in six seconds.
Six seconds. Faster than my eleven. The speed of his response tells me everything: he was holding his phone. He was waiting. He was on the other side of the same wall, looking at the same line, and when I stepped over it, he followed in six seconds.
"When?"
One word. The most efficient response in the history of the English language.
Not "really?" Not "are you sure?" Not "what about your job?
" One word. When. The word of a person who has been waiting for an invitation and who, upon receiving it, does not question or hesitate or calculate. The word of a person who wants.
"Tomorrow. There's a place in Decatur. I'll send the address."
"Okay."
I put the phone down. This time I do not pick it up. I sit at my desk in the newsroom and I stare at the screen and I feel the full weight of what I've just done.
I've crossed the line. Not by touching him or kissing him or declaring anything.
By inviting him to coffee as a person. By removing the professional frame that has contained every interaction we've had and proposing that we exist, for one afternoon, without it.
The removal is the crossing. The frame was the boundary.
Without the frame, we are just two men in a coffee shop, and two men in a coffee shop can become anything, and the anything is the thing that the frame was preventing.
The frame is gone.
I should feel panic. The rule is the rule. The career is the career. The line exists for structural reasons and I have violated the structure and the violation has consequences that I cannot yet see but that I know, from Sharon's office, are real.
Instead of panic, I feel relief.
The relief is a surprise. The Cole Briggs moment: setting down a bag I didn't know was heavy until I put it down.
The alone part is what kills you. Wes Chen's words, which I published, which I reported.
The alone part. The distance. The professional isolation that I maintained because the isolation was ethical and the ethics were non-negotiable and the non-negotiable thing has been negotiated by a nineteen-year-old who texts "when? " in six seconds.
I close my laptop. I leave the newsroom. I drive to Decatur and I find the coffee shop (a place on East College Avenue that I've been going to for two years, a place that is mine, a place that I am now proposing to share) and I sit at a table and I look at the menu and I think about what I've done.
What I've done is invite a source to coffee.
What I've done is begin the process of ending my beat assignment.
What I've done is start the clock that leads to Sharon's office, the second visit, the one where I say "I need to come off the beat" and she says "I know" and the best job I've ever had becomes the job I used to have.
What I've done is choose.
Not yet. The choice isn't formal yet. The coffee hasn't happened. The beat is still mine. The glasses are still on.
But the wall is down. The frame is removed. The fourteen words are sent and the six-second response is received and the "when" is tomorrow and tomorrow is the beginning of whatever comes after the line.
I drive home. I take off the glasses. I set them on the counter.
For the first time, I don't put them back on.