Take that money, Billy

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Bill Self is dumb.

Despite a rumored offer from Oklahoma State that would include a $6 million signing bonus, and many more millions of dollars per year in salary, Self is staying at Kansas.

Sportswriters everywhere are happy about this. Except for me (full disclosure: I was booted from the National Sportswriters Association after I set fire to Bill Plaschke's shoes during a conference in 1981).

Sportswriters always get really upset when players and coaches leave their current locales so they can make more money. As if these writers, fat on free pizza and bad metaphors, wouldn't do the same thing. I know I would.

And you know what? I have.

I totally understand Bill Self's situation; I do not understand his decision. Back in 1973, I was working in Arizona as the sports editor of the Bisbee Union. It was a nice little paper, and I worked my ass off getting all the relevant scores, updates and occasional provocative photo of myself in the newspaper.

Late one night, I was sitting at the local pub, The Mono Borracho, when I was approached by a man in a dark overcoat and bowler hat. He had stinky breath and a thin mustache. I immediately suspected a rapist.

"Marv," he said.

Drunk, and still horny from watching high school girls play volleyball, I growled at him.

"Who are you?"

"Let's just say I'm a representative of the Pima Weekly Press, over in nearby Graham County."

I paused. I thought. I responded.

"What the fuck is that?"

I took a long swig of cheap whiskey. It burned like syphillis.

"It's a weekly newspaper. Circulation of about 2,500 people," he said.

I dismissed him. "My newspaper reaches almost 8,000 people. I'm not interested. It'd be a step down."

He smiled at me. He touched my leg gently, but in a manly way.

"What if I told you we could offer you -- how shall I say it? -- a more comfortable lifestyle?"

I farted loudly. Several bar patrons looked in my direction.

He continued, unfazed. "My sources tell me that you're currently making $8.85 an hour here in Bisbee. Eight days vacation per year."

"Uh huh."

"Well, what if we offered you our sports editor position, along with a salary of $10.15 an hour. And 10 days vacation. That's two full weeks, Marv."

I turned to face him. I looked into his beady, rapist eyes. Thoughts of working for a lesser paper filled my mind. It'd be a step backwards for my career. The paper's operation had fewer resources. It'd be a bigger challenge. I'd have to work even harder just to achieve the same results.

But, that gleaming thought of an extra $50 a week. I couldn't get past it. It offered promise. Security. Hope.

And shortly after, I accepted Pima's offer. I was a journalistic whore. But I made a lot more money. And I was damn good at my job. I turned that newspaper around in three short months. Boosted circulation by 20 percent. That was until my managing editor found out I was using the break room freezer to store my sperm bank donations. I was immediately fired.

But the same principle remains: Always take the money. No one can blame you.

You're no different, Bill Self. If T. Boone Pickens is still interested in giving you all that cash, take it. Take it and don't you ever feel guilty.

Don't you ever feel guilty.