Chapter 2
Kennedi sauntered into the News Room and immediately sat her book bag down on top of an empty table. The News Room was the name for the Douglas Weekly’s central headquarters and, to Kennedi and the rest of the staff, it was the place where magic was made. In spite of its significance on campus, the News Room was a rather small place with a very unassuming aesthetic. While it’s square footage was small and its configuration was quite basic, its responsibility was quite large indeed: keeping the students, faculty, staff, and administrators that were the lifeblood of DSU informed, engaged, and connected.
The Weekly’s headquarters was essentially comprised of two rooms. The larger of the two accommodated the newspaper’s staff as they worked, played, and learned. On its’ perimeter, sat tables, pushed up against each of the four walls. All but one of those tables was empty; the table propped against the east-facing wall was, in a sense, decorated with a row of rarely used desktop computers. The empty tables were used the most; the Weekly’s staff would typically bring their own laptops and primarily leverage the common space to bandy about ideas and get second opinions in between classes and during the 20-hours that everyone had committed each week.
To complete the space, a long table sat in the middle of the room. It served as the place where the reporters, artists, photographers, and managers who made the paper run convened for weekly meetings. All combined, the Douglas Weekly’s largest area was both a workspace and a boardroom. Though both, in a sense, were rather makeshift, the dedicated team not only made it work but managed to thrive and provide DSU’s community with award-winning coverage.
The second room, which was much smaller and situated off in a corner, belonged to Dr. Francis Blight, the Editor-in-Chief and Faculty Advisor responsible for overseeing the integrity and quality of the campuses’ 53 year-old ledger. Frank, as the Douglas Weekly staff called him, was a tough, but fair critic and gate-keeper. He held the majority of the power that could propel a story to the front page or quash it before it was fully presented at pitch. As far as Kennedi was concerned, she knew she had an amazing idea but unless she could convince Frank and the rest of the staff, it would never see the light of day.
By the time Kennedi’s book bag had hit the table, she was already en route to Frank’s office. While her pace was quick on the approach, she treaded more cautiously as she got closer and closer to his door. When she finally reached it, she took the time to quietly observe first. Fully aware that what she had to say was only one part of the equation, Kennedi knew she had to deliver her pitch in the best context. Otherwise, as she strategically reasoned, the most eloquent words would be easily dismissed.
Kennedi peeked inside of Frank’s office. Upon initial glance, she noticed that he was sitting quietly, in intense thought. Upon further review, she could see that he was staring attentively at a stack of papers that were fanned out and held into place with his tense thumb. Kennedi had unwittingly stumbled upon Frank in deep decision-making mode. Unbeknownst to her, or anyone else on staff, he had been given a much smaller budget for the upcoming school semester and would need to make a few very shrewd decisions. His mandate: to keep the paper afloat without sacrificing quality. Though she didn’t know it, Frank was in the throes of figuring out what the viable options were and weighing them carefully.
Not fully informed and thinking that now might be as good a time as any other, Kennedi knocked on Frank’s door and waited, in vain, for his gaze to shift from the stack of papers in his grip and over toward her. Despite a valiant first effort, her knock did nothing to rouse Frank from his stance. Unsure if he was ignoring her or too consumed in what he was doing to hear her, Kennedi knocked once again. Even after a second knock, Frank remained still; Kennedi realized that she would have to do more to garner his attention. “Hey Frank,” she said, finally invoking movement, “got a minute?”
Recognizing her voice, Frank lifted his head and shifted his gaze in her direction long enough to reply, “Kincaid.” He then loosened his grip and let the papers that had him so enrapt float down to his desk. As they lay about, still in a fan, he punctuated their escape from his grasp with a sigh. “Yeah, I’ve got a quick minute,” he said, “what ya got?”
Feeling more than prepared to seize the opportunity, Kennedi’s face lit up. “Great!” she said, still standing in the doorway, with only the top part of her body actually inside of Frank’s office. “I wanted to get your insight on a story I plan to pitch at today’s staff meeting, if I can,” she said, cautiously making sure that Frank fully understood why she was there.
“Mmm, OK,” Frank replied, momentarily pushing back from his desk, sliding down in his chair, and crossing his legs at the ankle. “Come on in,” he proffered, ready to oblige her but hoping that Kennedi’s pitch would be short. Thinking ahead, Frank realized that he would need to revisit his new, significantly reduced budget sooner than later. In preparation for that, he put a bookmark on the last thought he had Kennedi’s pre-interruption and prepared his mind to listen to one of his best reporters.
With Frank’s invitation, Kennedi finally brought the rest of her body over the threshold from the larger workspace into Frank’s somewhat cramped, but tidy office. Ready to get down to business, she made a bee line for the light brown, swivel chair that sat directly across from his desk. While Kennedi always thought the tweed chair was significantly outdated, her emotional response to it could change from moment to moment. Whether it was a resting place or a hot seat, a place of respite or a place of reprimand, Kennedi’s perception of the one piece of furniture in Frank’s office strictly dedicated to visitors could change, fluidly, depending on the circumstance and Frank’s demeanor.
“As you know,” Kennedi prefaced while taking her seat, “I spent my summer at Sports Illustrated and…”
“Of course I know,” Frank interrupted, distracting Kennedi from her well-rehearsed spiel. “How’d that go?” he asked, clasping his hands and resting them across his rather round belly.
“Oh, it was amazing!” Kennedi said, rolling with the punches and, essentially, steering into Frank’s distraction. Recalibrating herself, she continued. “I think the experience was hugely beneficial - overall and I learned a lot. But, I’m sitting in front of you right now because there was one very undeniable theme that ran throughout my tenure at SI.” Kennedi inserted a pause to build the momentum of her statement and inject an air of drama. “Anytime someone on staff there – or anybody really – found out that I was from DSU, they couldn’t wait to bring up one name…”
Franks eyes perked up, silently begging, “Who?”
“Dante’ Douglas,” Kennedi answered, leaning forward in her chair.
As soon as the name left Kennedi’s lips, Frank relaxed his eyebrows, leaned back further in his chair, and exhaled. As he inhaled, he drew his hands, fashioned in the shape of a steeple, under is nose with his fingertips nestled comfortably under his nasal septum. “Yes, go on…” Frank said, looking intrigued.
Prepared to do just that, Kennedi continued with the remainder of her pitch. “Well, all of this very real, very energetic interest in Dante’ – outside of our relatively small campus no less – got me thinking! We are missing out on a fantastic opportunity here and by we, I mean the Weekly. We should be covering Dante’ much more actively! I checked, to date, he’s only been mentioned twice in our paper and he’s never actually been the central focus of a feature.”
Frank nodded in acknowledgment of Kennedi’s points.
She continued. “This kid is the first from DSU to ever be considered for the NFL draft – and that’s no small feat. Here it is, we have this amazing talent, a real unicorn of an opportunity, and we’re not really taking advantage of it. I think the Douglas Weekly could be doing more with, what I think, is highly exclusive access to someone who could end up being recognized as a national treasure. I think we should be doing more to educate the campus on what all of this could mean for Dante’ in the near-term and for our entire community-at-large down the line.”
Frank furrowed his eyebrows. “OK, so I’ve got a good idea about your motivation, but I need more information. What exactly are you proposing story-wise, Kincaid?” As Frank probed further, he reclined even further in his chair, leaned his head back, and looked up at the ceiling. Kennedi knew this posture all too well; this was his routine – the way he primed his ears and mind to objectively listen and, ultimately, make a decision.
As if the answer would appear on the ceiling, Frank would always assume this position while listening to a member of his news staff in pitch-mode. Every time, without interruption, Frank would hear out the full proposal, lower his head, and shift his eyes toward the person in the brown, tweed hot seat before delivering his response. With the ultimate poker face, it was never clear what Frank’s verdict would be until he actually revealed it in one of two very predictable sentences. In particular, he would either say “OK, this is a good start,” or, when the situation called for it, deliver a blunt and unequivocal, “No, the idea is not ready for prime time yet!” Frank was very serious about the quality of the paper and had a clear vision for how it integrated into the fabric of the university. He was very selective about the stories he featured and how they were presented – writers who took this into consideration before pitching were often the most successful.
After processing Frank’s question about her actual plan, Kennedi replied in earnest, “I want to profile Dante’ in a way that chronicles his experience – better yet, his journey – of making the transition from a star athlete and undergraduate at a small liberal arts college to, potentially, being a first-round draft pick in the NFL. I want to focus on who he is, get insight and perspective from the people around him, and really give our readers a more informed viewpoint, outside of the obvious reasons, about why he is such a sought-after talent and what that could mean for our university.”
Intrigued by the idea but still a little on the fence, Frank wanted more information before he could comfortably render a preliminary up or down vote. “OK,” Frank said, his fingers still tucked under is nose and slightly distorting the sound of his voice, “give me more insight on how you plan cover this story?”
“Hmm, well…” Kennedi said, stalling as she gathered her thoughts, thinking she was quite clear on her first bite of the apple. She sat quietly, trying to discern what Frank was really asking. Feeling like she was taking a stab in the dark, Kennedi continued. “To be clear,” she said, “I don’t think this story is a one-off piece. I see it more as a series of well-integrated, timely vignettes that each come from different angles. My goal, at the end of the series, is for our readers to have a holistic, multi-dimensional view of Dante’ and a newfound appreciation for him, whether they are into sports or not. For some portion of our campus community, this story may be their first introduction to him; but, I know that there are others who follow him so closely, the probably know what he ate for breakfast this morning. I want to create a series of pieces that everyone can enjoy.”
Kennedi watched for a response but aside from the rise and fall of his chest, Frank’s eyes appeared to be the only other part of his body that was moving. As she patiently waited for either more questions or a verdict, the silence was deafening. Despite her best attempt to put the argument away, Kennedi was still met with a quiet, pensive Frank. Per usual, Frank’s demeanor was no clear indicator of which way he was swinging or what would come next.
Never one to give up easily, Kennedi continued on in her campaign. “I just want to add that featuring this story, both in the paper and online, can have a considerable impact on the Weekly’s reach and recognition beyond this campus. Considering how excited everyone was about Dante’ when I was at SI, by publishing this series, we can be a major, go-to resource from anyone who wants to follow our home-grown phenom’s journey. Most importantly, with all of the newfound attention we garner – and, hopefully, newfound appreciation for what we do – we might also be able to expect newfound cash flow from people outside of the university,” Kennedi added, raising both her voice and her eyebrows.
Though she had no idea that Frank was in the midst of a budget review when she first entered his office, Kennedi had quite intuitively just said the magic words: newfound, cash, and flow. In a rapid, almost elegant, fell-swoop, Frank drew his hands back to his lap, turned his head to face Kennedi and said, “I like it! We’ll talk more about it during our meeting. If you can get it past panel review, you can get started on it today.”
Since he varied from his normal script, in such a significant way, it took Kennedi a second to understand that she’d just won Frank’s support. But, once she did, Kennedi felt, what can only be described as, an electric shock travel from the base of her spine up to the apex of her neck. As quickly as Frank gave her the OK, Kennedi was well-aware that, although she had overcome a major obstacle, she was not quite home-free. Panel review, where she would have to present her colleagues with the story idea and get a majority vote to move forward, was no small feat. But, after preparing so strategically earlier in the day, Kennedi felt ready.
She rose out of her seat, feeling victorious. “You won’t regret this, Frank,” she said, on her way back out to the main area of the News Room.
“Everybody at Sports Illustrated wanted to talk about Dante’ Douglas, huh?” Frank asked, reiterating a critical part of Kennedi’s argument, and catching her before she’d crossed the threshold.
“Everybody, Frank!” she replied, turning back around and flailing her fingers to drive the point home as dramatically as she could.
“Well, then,” Frank started, with a sly look in his eye, “let’s see if we can’t give the people what they want!”