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Laura Albanese in Newsday:
Back before COVID, the conversations would take place in baseball stadium cafeterias in between bites of limp salads. Or they'd happen on the sidelines — two women, two sportswriters, speaking low and slow as we watched batting practice. On the road, the stories about inappropriate behavior would occasionally roll out at dinner, punctuated by a sigh or sip of wine.
"Do you know what he did?"
"Watch out for that guy."
"He wouldn't leave me alone."
This would happen at least a few times a year. Sometimes we would be talking about a player, sometimes a team employee and sometimes a fellow reporter. It was always about a man. And afterward, we would all go back to work, some of the women wondering if this job was worth all the sidestepping, the avoidance, the hiding, and more than a few deciding it wasn't.
I've had a few more conversations with my female colleagues since the news of now-former Mets general manager Jared Porter's actions were made public Monday. They have been punctuated by anger, fatigue and the sort of unsurprised resignation common to people who have seen the same dispiriting play acted out too many times. Situations like these are not unique to baseball, but this week's events have put a microscope on the sport.
Five years ago, Porter sent sexually explicit text messages to a female reporter, at one point sending 62 straight unanswered texts, according to an ESPN report. The story included damning details: The woman was a reporter from a foreign country who was afraid of reprisal in her home country, where blaming women for the faults of their tormentors was cruelly common. She did not speak English well. Porter was a source, meaning she couldn't easily block him. She was vulnerable and had to ask a player for help.
I cannot imagine how humiliated she felt. |
Brittany Ghiroli in The Athletic:
I was 26 years old. I wasn't new anymore, but in my third year on the beat, I was still getting beaten to news by the other reporters most of the time. I couldn't believe I was going to get a scoop. On the eve of the biggest game for the Orioles in 15 years! We agreed to meet in the player's room, at his request, so others with the team wouldn't see us together in the lobby. It made sense — you have to protect your sources.
There was no news. I walked in to candles lit and Drake playing. My stomach lurched as he came at me, trying to kiss me. I pushed him away and blurted out the only thing I could think of: What on earth would give him the idea that I was into him? I'll never forget the answer: “Because you were nice to me.”
That line rang in my ears as I raced down the hotel stairs, praying I wouldn't run into anyone from the team. It caught in my throat as I called and cried to my best friend. It's what I think of every time I hear another source-gone-wrong story and — believe me — we all have stories. It's why things like former Mets general manager Jared Porter's despicable behavior toward a female reporter invoke rage, frustration and sadness all over the industry. What it doesn't invoke is surprise. Every woman has a story, most of us have multiple stories, and all any of us truly want is to not stand out and constantly discuss how hard it is to be in this space.
Being a reporter is all about cultivating relationships and protecting sources. It is ultra-competitive and the power structure is simple: No one with information is required to help you. Ruin a source relationship and you only hurt yourself as they move on to someone else. As a reporter, you learn to accept slights, be personable and engage everyone. In 2021, that's mostly texting. And when it crosses the line it's easy to feel like there's only one option: ignoring it.
I didn't tell anyone but my best friend about that night in Texas. Instead, I showed up to work the next day, plastered a smile on my face and prayed the player didn't hate me because I needed him, and the rest of his teammates, not to. How messed up is that? Welcome to being a female reporter. If you're too nice, you are asking for trouble. If you aren't nice enough, you're a bitch. The line is invisible and exhausting and I keep thinking about what one front office member told me my first year. “You want to be hot enough so guys want to talk to you, but not so hot that people think you are f—ing them.” |
Deesha Thosar in the Daily News:
A large part of this job is a guessing game, particularly for women on a baseball beat, within an industry that is dependent on private texts and messages to gain information and, down the line, have a successful career. Working in a male-dominated industry has many layers, many of which are degrading, and it's immediately obvious how singularly unique some of these experiences are. As the only woman on the New York Mets beat, no other person is regularly around to understand the complex heartaches involved in being checked out or harassed when I'm just trying to do my job.
In my fifth year working in baseball, I've lost count of how many sexist comments have been made directly to me while working. Many unacceptable situations that I would, at first, confront head-on as a fresh college graduate have begun to blend together and remain suppressed in fear of repercussions that could adversely impact my career. It can be a lonely place.
It's not simply the Mets beat, of course. This is a universal experience for women working in sports media. |
I can see where diversifying one's references might not have been a priority pre-Porter. I can't see how it won't be now.
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