![]() “Get me sticky,” Lionel’s editor, Warren, demanded. It was a terrible thing, to be praised this way. “Nice work, Lionel,” Sydney said when she approved of something he’d written. So Lionel had traded candor for access, and loathed himself for it. She was polished and warm, but had no qualms about limiting access if a reporter crossed her. ![]() As if aware of her imperious affect, she often brought in treats-candy, cupcakes, huge bars of artisanal chocolate. Sydney strode around the stadium in beautiful suits, sunglasses embedded in her raven hair. Sydney Coletti saw to that.īrought in to head the media-relations department, she’d drilled the players on verbal discipline, and day after day, they dispensed word clusters that made sense but said nothing: “Trying to contribute.” “Just focused on getting the win.” “Great team effort.” “Happy to be here.” Not that the players were so garrulous in winning, either. The season was effectively over anyway the team had no chance at the playoffs, and the mood in the clubhouse was dour. The paper didn’t have the budget to send him on the road. Lionel covered the Giants for the Examiner-the home games at least. People at the stadium had begun asking him about it. This decreased the sound, but gave him a worrying gait. Lionel had learned to walk on the edge of his left foot. ![]() When Lionel went back to the shoemaker, the old man shrugged. Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read. ![]()
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