Our bus pulls away from the Media Center Wednesday at 6:35 a.m. We go straight and then left and then we're on a freeway. Traffic on the freeway already is heavy but it quickly disappears. A police escort will do that.
If you're looking for a reason not to like the media, here's one more. Drivers on their way to real jobs have to wait while we pass. We're on our way to the hotel of the New England Patriots where we'll interview coaches and players and eat free food loaded with calories. It's similar to working.
Life is easier with a police escort. There are three motorcycles in front of us, now four. Their lights blink red and yellow in the darkness as they protect our rear, cut off the side streets and rush us to the hotel with dispatch and efficiency.
I sense the police officers are having fun. They speed up and slow down and put on moves. They're good. They protect us like a great offensive line.
Since I am a proponent of motorcycle escorts for me, I can't say that I dislike the media for having one. I have other reasons to dislike us.
The lesser among us love to talk about how good we are and there are days on which the lesser seems to form the majority. On an earlier bus is a radio reporter out of New York who says that when he plays back the interviews he did Tuesday, he realizes he has gold. Gold, I tell you, pure gold.
When I was new at newspapers, I was weak, I admit it. I wanted attention so when I wrote a story I liked I would visit the darkside and all attention to my work.
But I quickly outgrew it. I can't fathom why anybody 30 or older would talk about how good he is. If you're good, people find out. If you're not, they find out. They always know.
The reporter with the gold, pure gold I tell you, is at least 45.
What I really want is a police escort to shield me from the guy's mouth.