Musings of an Old Sportswriter

Musings of an Old Sportswriter

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Musings of an Old Sportswriter
Musings of an Old Sportswriter
On the Deion Sanders-Denver Post disagreement

On the Deion Sanders-Denver Post disagreement

I usually defend by media colleagues, but if Sanders doesn't want to answer a critical columnist's questions, I don't see the big deal. I've been there, done that. Believe me. Several times.

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Bob Kravitz
Aug 26, 2024
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Musings of an Old Sportswriter
Musings of an Old Sportswriter
On the Deion Sanders-Denver Post disagreement
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I go into every interview situation understanding that the athlete or coach or sports executive may have little or no desire to talk to me. I’m cool with that. I write a lot of stuff, and not all of it is puppies and balloons. Just as I had no interest in talking to David Portnoy and Barstool after they ran into me at the post-Deflategate Super Bowl, I understand that sources don’t always want to share their deepest thoughts with me, a guy with a tape recorder and, in their minds, questionable intentions.

So what I’m saying is this: The University of Colorado/Deion Sanders decision to deny Denver Post columnist Sean Keeler from asking questions of the head coach is, well, no big deal. As long as the school isn’t diminishing his media access, it’s fine. He can still attend all the games and talk to players. (He can also talk to every other coach in the CU athletic department.) He just can’t ask Coach Prime any questions.

Now, I’ve been in this position. More or less.

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After establishing a healthy relationship with Bob Knight early in my sophomore year, the first year I covered Knight for the Indiana Daily Student, I wrote something that outraged The General. Actually, he was pissed off I was even thinking about writing the story, and then went through the roof when the piece appeared. (My fading memory is I wrote about a couple of players who got booted from the team after smoking weed at the Alaska Shootout; I wondered, whatever happened to those guys?) Well, I found out and when I approached Knight to ask him a question or two, he went bananas, veins popping from his neck, flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth.

“You’re done here,” he told me.

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