ELITE ATE

Navigating the sports media world, cupcake by cupcake.

[eliteate]

Thanksgiving feast

Last Thursday was my third Thanksgiving away from home, and each year I’ve become progressively more willing to tackle a proper turkey dinner. 

My first Thanksgiving on my own was a complete disaster. I cooked a turkey breast — well, actually I didn’t cook it enough — and it tasted horrible to boot, so anything remotely edible has been an improvement.

Here’s my spread from this year’s feast, most of which was cooked the day of (though some dishes can be prepared in advance):

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Pictured (clockwise left to right): Garlic and herb mashed potatoes, Harris Teeter sweet potato pie, sage encrusted roasted turkey, orange bourbon cranberry sauce, herb bundt pan stuffing, Southern style green beans with bacon and macaroni and cheese.

So, yes, it was a massive undertaking that spanned the greater portion of two days (if you include prep time) but there were three highlights for me.

First, the cranberry sauce was phenomenal. Very few people enjoy cranberry sauce, and I think it’s mostly because the slurping, disgusting noise it makes when you coax it out of the can is pretty darn unappealing, but this was otherworldly.

I adapted it from this recipe but tweaked it a bit because I was serving fewer people and also had no bourbon on hand. Jack Daniels, it is!

ORANGE BOURBON CRANBERRY SAUCE

1 12 oz. pkg cranberries

1/3 cup white sugar

3/4 cup brown sugar (I used light; you can probably use dark too)

1 orange for zest and juice

1/2 cup orange juice

1/4 cup + 2 tbls water

Splash of Jack Daniels (roughly 2 tblsps)

INSTRUCTIONS

This is easy: throw everything into a saucepan (starting with your cranberries and ending with your sugars) and cook it on high for about 15-20 minutes until it starts to boil, stirring occasionally. You’ll notice that your cranberries are popping — this is good.

Once the liquid has reduced, remove the saucepan and let the sauce rest for about 15 more minutes to cool.

Zest the sauce with an orange and serve. It’s great both cold and hot.

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The sauce was the perfect complement to my very flavorful roasted turkey which I attended to so lovingly throughout the day that I almost didn’t want to eat it.

I’ll be impressed if you actually have all of these ingredients in your stockpile for this turkey — I had to make several trips —  but man, was it worth it.

I borrowed the base of my creation from Leah Chase’s roasted turkey recipe.

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SAGE ENCRUSTED ROASTED TURKEY

1 turkey (obviously)

1 small pool ball-sized yellow onion roughly chopped

3 to 4 stalks of celery roughly chopped

5 medium-sized fresh sage leaves

1/2 cup butter

1 tsp dried thyme

1 tsp rubbed sage

3 dried bay leaves, crumbled

INSTRUCTIONS

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

Rinse your turkey in cold water and pat it dry. Make sure you remove all of the giblets and the neck (which is usually shoved inside the cavity). Once you do that, fill the turkey’s cavity with your onion, celery and fresh sage leaves.

The key to keeping the meat really moist is wrapping the turkey in a tent of sorts — I tried the Reynolds Wrap plastic turkey bag which caught on the oven and melted. Having experienced that, I recommend lining a roasting pan with aluminum foil, placing the turkey on top of it and then putting another sheet on top to make a turkey tent and sealing all sides.

Roast according to the weight of your turkey. My eight-pound bird took about three hours (mostly because I kept opening the oven and admiring my handiwork).

With about 30 minutes remaining, melt butter in a saucepan and throw in the rubbed sage, dried thyme and the crumbled bay leaves. Turn burner to low and use the herb butter mixture to baste your turkey roughly every eight minutes for the duration of the cooking time. 

NOTE: If you want really crispy skin, Leah Chase recommends bumping up the temperature of your oven to 500 degrees. I didn’t, and it still turned out fine.

Your bird is done when its internal temperature reads 165 degrees on a meat thermometer. If you’re not sure how to check that, here’s a how to. 

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The third discovery shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows that I am all about mashed potatoes. But after a day full of cooking and dishes and chopping and more dishes, I really didn’t want to spend a bunch of time on mashed potatoes.

Enter crockpot mashed potatoes. I’m going to be making these all the time.

CROCKPOT GARLIC AND HERB MASHED POTATOES

2 lbs mini red potatoes, washed and quartered

1/2 cup sour cream

4 tblspns butter

1 tblspn minced garlic (I used roasted minced garlic)

1 tblspn dried (or fresh, if it’s available) parsley flakes

1/4 cup milk

INSTRUCTIONS

Turn on your crockpot and grease that puppy up. Throw in the potatoes. Let them cook for 2-3 hours on high, until the skins start peeling off and the potatoes get soft.

When your potatoes are tender, throw in the butter, sour cream and milk. Blend with a hand mixer until combined and add garlic and parsley flakes. Blend again until combined and serve.

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[eliteate]

Spread the wealth

I’m fortunate to have been surrounded by successful, ambitious people in all aspects of my life — friends, family, colleagues. Seriously, that popular saying about being in the wrong room if you’re the smartest person in it is something I try to abide by every day.

But learning to be patient while everyone else around you appears to be hustling their way to bigger and greater successes is not easy. Especially if you’re impatient like me. Sometimes it’s hard not to feel jealous of another person’s success if they’re accomplishing something you’ve been working toward.

But I realized something the other day: success is not a finite resource. 

It doesn’t get used up when one person gets promoted or wins an award or gets a raise. Don’t let it drive a wedge between you and the people in your life. There’s enough to go around if you worry less about it and relegate that energy toward making yourself better. 

So hop on the #CongratsTwitter without hesitation. You’ll be up next. There’s plenty of success to share.

[eliteate]

Offseason goals

“Be stubborn about your goals but flexible in your methods.” 

After an exhilarating, stressful, exciting, frenetic whirlwind in my first season at the helm of SN’s college basketball team, I took a week off. I may not have survived to type these words if I hadn’t, because after months of planning, writing and going going going, there was suddenly nothing pressing to do. And that feeling... it hit me like a tractor-trailer. It was a relief in ways, sure, but I felt guilty that I — and my body particularly — needed this time to decompress.

Five days into my week off, after I’d recovered from an awful cold (the direct result of long nights and little sleep at the Final Four), I sat on our little deck overlooking the city and wrote down all of the little things I told myself I wanted or needed to do more of when I was busy. It felt fulfilling to realize I had time now to do some of the things I’d been neglecting. Those things became my offseason goals.

I’m proud to say that in the last few months, I’ve accomplished five of the six goals I’d written down.

Part of what makes one successful is the ability to constantly assess progress — in order to understand where you are and why you’re there, you need to be able to see how far you’ve come.

So, five months later, here’s how I fared:

✓ Goal 1: Blog more regularly (You’re reading the product of that goal right now).

✓ Goal 2: Build a personal website (This was my No. 1 priority and took me the longest to complete...but it’s done!)

✓ Goal 3: Experiment with video (I’ve fully embraced the live-streaming app Periscope, for better or worse.)

✓ Goal 4: Travel once a month or more (Indianapolis, Philly, Ocean City, San Diego, Bloomington...phew)

X Goal 5: Read a book a week. (This used to be so easy when I was a kid. I’ve read a few this summer, but not nearly as many as I’d hoped. So this one is still in progress.)

✓ Goal 6: Join a softball team (An emergency room visit later and getting a bone contusion and a hairline fracture in my right arm later...I earned that damn checkmark.)

Everyone chases his or her goals differently, but one thing I’ve learned from this summer’s exercise is that having a reason for each goal — one that’s backed by a clear motivation — helps make them easier to achieve. Seeing each of these in writing helped keep me accountable.

There’s one goal I left off this list. It’s a professional goal, and one that I’m incredibly proud of. You’ll get to see the fruits of that labor (and it was definitely a laborious project at times) in two weeks. Until then... trust me :)

How do you guys keep yourself accountable for your goals? Drop me a comment and let me know.

[eliteate]

Coach-in-waiting

I spent a few days in San Diego last week at the Associated Press Sports Editors conference. I was in town to graduate from APSE’s Diversity Fellows program which is a mid-career scholarship designed to push diversity candidates into sports newsrooms, but we spent time in the classroom as well.

On the first day of learning sessions, I sat in on a panel about coaching writers with SI’s Mike Harris, Opelika-Auburn’s Dana Sulonen (a fellow) and The Buffalo News’ Tim Graham. Mike passed out a handout offering up the best writing advice members of his crew at SI had received. It featured writers from all sport backgrounds and various lengths of time in the industry. What resonated with me most, though, was how so many tidbits of advice were worded differently but had the same root idea: use your access to tell readers something they wouldn’t otherwise know.

It got me thinking about the best piece of advice I had ever received. I don’t remember exactly who told me, but I’m thankful to have learned it fairly early in my journalism career.

Spend 25 percent of your time watching the game or event and 75 percent of your time watching what’s happening around it. Look at people’s reactions, listen to the fringe conversations, watch the crowd. Talk to the guy in the locker room who doesn’t have 15 reporters at his locker. Ask why that fan is dressed as a Teletubby.

Some of the best stories I’ve written were about moments that readers couldn’t see on the broadcast. They happened when everyone was looking for the obvious story, the headlining or seminal moment. That’s not to say that you should ignore the main story, because that’s not advisable. But know that something small like a hug in the locker room or a new tattoo may hold a story just as interesting as the game-winning shot.

When you find one, use your story-telling prowess and your access to give your readers as much detail as possible. Set the scene that they couldn’t see and show them why that moment matters.

I know it seems counterintuitive — “I got credentialed and I’m sitting courtside and you want me to stop paying attention?!” — but in most cases, you and your readers will be rewarded for paying less attention to the game and more to your surroundings.

Reply and let me know about the best writing advice you ever got.

[eliteate]

That time I accidentally auditioned for the Bachelorette

As most things in my life do, it started out as a joke on Twitter. I tweeted one Tuesday morning that the Bachelor(ette) casting call was coming to Charlotte that week, and if I got some absurd amount of retweets, I’d go to the open call and audition.

And then, as I’m wont to do every now and then, I completely forgot about it. 

My college roommate, Jen, was in town and in the spirit of wanting to show her the best parts of Charlotte, I took her to the Epicentre’s Alive After 5 weekly post-work bar crawl. One of the bars there was hawking free champagne all night, so naturally venturing there became a priority.

Another priority for me should be to learn how to get to places, because we ended up at an entirely separate bar than the one we were trying to go to and a producer from the show immediately accosted us.

“Are you here for the Bachelorette open casting call?” she asked, shoving a fist-full of application forms in our faces.

Damn. Now I guess I am. I mean, what the heck. We’re already here.

Jen and I ambled over to the bar, where a couple dozen other poor suckers (male and female) were leaning against it, frowning over their six page application forms.

There were women teetering precariously around the room in heels so high they could do nothing but shuffle awkwardly (not cute) and dresses so tight you could see the outlines of their Spanx underneath. Here’s the thing about Spanx: they’re great for formal occasions where you like to feel your organs on the precipice of rupturing to look marginally thinner. I get it. But there’s a whole new level of desperation involved in wearing Spanx to try out for a TV show, because then you’re going to have to wear them all the time or you’re not fooling anyone.

Anyway, I digress.

The six page questionnaire was like an online dating profile for the clinically insane. It posed questions like “Why would you want to find your spouse on a television show?” (My answer: Because Tinder is too hard) and “What’s your secret talent?” as well as asking applicants to describe their entire dating history.

Not a chance I was going to answer any of these seriously so nearly all of them were answered in bitter sarcasm. After we turned in our annotated life histories, Jen and I were escorted up onto a stage where a dorky looking guy made us write down our name/phone number on a whiteboard and hold it up like a mugshot. This is where I decided I was going to get really obnoxious. One of the first questions in application asked about your nickname. Mine from college was (and still is) “Killa Kam” for a number of reasons that are continually evolving. I wrote that on my whiteboard, posed for a series of head and full body photos and then moved along.

My favorite part of this whole process was watching the women preening, posing and sucking it in (for the non-Spanx crowd) while desperately trying to look natural. You’d think, based on the pained looks on their faces when they discovered there was no mirror readily available, that they were heading to their own executions. Also, many opted to flirt with the producers’ helpers — I guess hoping to better their chances at maybe faking having some kind of personality.

Next we were shuttled to the center of the bar where a group of about 20 chairs were set up. It was like the DMV for reality TV, and subsequently where many of these girls’ dreams went to die. One by one, producers led us to curtained-off stations where we were fitted with a mic, directed to hold up that dang whiteboard with our information again and asked some of the dumbest interview questions I’ve ever heard. “What are your hobbies?, Describe your serious relationships,” blah blah blah.

And three minutes after getting mic’d up, that was it. The process was done.

I laughed and laughed and laughed. That night was one of the most depressing circuses I had ever been a part of. It was soul-sucking because — and I’m not exaggerating here — nine out of every 10 of the Bachelorette hopefuls had the personality of a wet paper bag.

I don’t watch the show, so I’m not sure if that’s the case for the folks casted as well, but man was I happy to get out of there.

As Jen and I walked out, the woman handing out the applications at the entrance said to us “We hope to see you in L.A. for the next round!”

Not a chance in hell, lady. Not a chance. 

[eliteate]

How to save a bunch of money on travel in 30 seconds

I am a bargain hunter by nature, especially when it comes to travel.

This morning I was trying to book a trip and the price of airfare was about $100 more than the average cost of that trip normally. I know I can expect to get to New York from Charlotte last minute for about $240. The price I was originally shown through Priceline (in regular browsing mode) was $313. Way too much — even for a holiday weekend.

Then I realized I wasn’t using incognito mode in Chrome. I completed the exact same search terms and found a $270 ticket on the exact same flight. You’ll notice, too, that the above search says there are only 56 options, while the incognito search below offers 58.

MORE: How to get to your destination cheaper by flying somewhere else

So what’s up with the $43 difference?

Everything you do on the internet — what you search for, what types of websites you visit, even whether you’re using a Mac or a PC — is stored on your computer and accessible to online retailers. What they do with that information is something that Kiplinger’s calls “differential pricing” and it’s a way that websites use your personal information to target or organize certain pricing data. 

You may have seen examples of this on Facebook, where a product you’ve just Googled suddenly appears as an ad in the site’s right rail. That’s no coincidence.

Here’s another example: if you’ve searched a few times in recent weeks for airfare to New York City, airlines know that you’re seriously considering a trip. Instead of showing you the cheapest price available as the first option, the website may instead choose to show you the cheapest option on the second or third page and bank on you assuming the first option listed is the cheapest. Bumping up the price, offering fewer options or including the “2 seats left at this price” warning increases a customer’s sense of urgency to buy tickets for fear of further surge in pricing, and industry insiders know this. That may explain why the exact same search in two different browsers returns two different total remaining flights (or it could be that two flights suddenly sold out in the 30 seconds between searches).

The Wall Street Journal investigated three years ago and found that some websites will even reprioritize search results based on the type of computer you’re using!

Thankfully, the Chrome browser offers an “incognito” browsing option that temporarily disables your browsing history and storage of data (otherwise known as cookies). What this allows you to do is essentially approach a retail website with a clean slate. The retailer ostensibly doesn’t know if you’ve purchased luxury items, where you live or what you’ve searched for in the past, so it can’t tailor its results to any prior personal information.

That doesn’t mean that you’ll always find a cheaper price like my example above, because there are a ton of variables that go into calculating airfares (which are constantly changing), but the extra 30 seconds of comparison shopping might save you some extra cash. 

One more thing: If you want to cut out the middle man altogether, you can search for cheap airfares through Google’s ITA flight Matrix. You have to be pretty saavy because it uses its own “language” but offers way more search options that occasionally result in rock-bottom airfare prices. One caveat though — you can’t book directly through the site, so you’ve got to call an airline to get your deal. Here’s a how-to guide for using the ITA Matrix.

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Hope Solo may represent the U.S., but she doesn’t represent me

I should preface this by saying that I don’t give one single damn about soccer — I’d much prefer to get four root canals in one sitting than watch 90 minutes of the friendly game or whatever it’s called.

But I do care about women’s representation in the world of sports, as well as the way the public and the media address instances of domestic violence, so here we are.

Let me not mince words here: the fact that Hope Solo, even one year removed from her arrest on two counts of domestic violence, gets to wear a jersey on behalf of the United States of America and represent the women in her sport is an absolute disgrace.

And what’s even more disgraceful is that hardly anyone seems to care. 

It’s difficult to pinpoint precisely what makes everyone more content to gloss over the sordid details of her domestic violence arrest (which were recently detailed in an Outside the Lines report, which you can and should watch here). Is it because she’s a woman? Because there’s no public video of the incident? Because women’s soccer doesn’t draw even an iota of the revenue that the NFL rakes in?

Tough to say, exactly. But Ray Rice and Greg Hardy and Adrian Peterson, we can definitively say, should have had their livelihoods taken away (temporarily, at least) for their wrongs, because the public outcry was far-reaching and exhaustive. They complied with demands from the NFL to undergo counseling, and while that’s a bandaid on the Grand Canyon of psychological issues, here’s Hope Solo threatening the police officers trying to book her into jail.

But no one cares. And no one’s mad. And she puts on a jersey and represents women all over the country without much fanfare. The insouciant attitude toward the details of the accusations surrounding Hope Solo is scary for a number of reasons.

First, that she truly believes, based on the story she’s spun to the media, that she was the victim in her situation, despite sworn depositions that detail her actions as the aggressor, even reportedly slamming her then-17-year-old nephew’s head into cement, according to the testimony. 

“From here on out, no matter what happens, I'll forever be associated with domestic violence," Solo told espnW. 

To me, that sounds like a statement from a person who is not in the proper mental space to appropriately comprehend her actions and their consequences. I can’t help but think about the onslaught of outrage we’d hear if Rice, Hardy or Peterson failed to accept the role in an incident and instead opined about the public muddling of their reputations.

It’s also incredibly troubling that the USWNT’s manager, Jill Ellis, doesn’t seem perturbed in the least by any of the allegations.

"That [case] was a long time ago,” Ellis told reporters earlier this week. “I'll be honest, we've moved on, and she's been a fantastic player and teammate. None of that has even resonated with us, and I'm sure some of the players aren't even aware of it."

None of that has even resonated with us. That statement alone is a terrifying and irresponsible approach for Ellis to take. Solo’s actions should resonate. Not because she’s a woman. Not because she was reportedly the aggressor, but because domestic violence is an issue that affects one in three women in their lifetime.

The USWNT uses slogans like “One nation, one team” that are meant to empower women to achieve their goals and support each other. But the administration’s preference to absolve Solo of her transgressions alienates women across the board by suggesting that talent far outweighs even a shrivel of ethics when one is in pursuit of a gold medal. 

Hope Solo may put on a jersey that allows her to represent the United States of America, but as a woman, I’ll never let her represent me.

[eliteate]

Guarding the perimeter

There are two definitions for the word perimeter that I’ve heard frequently in the last year. The first and most obvious, a basketball term, is a description of the space beyond the foul circle. It’s a place where the game’s most talented shooters, when left unguarded, are the most lethal.

The other — the jagged circumference of a mole. Another place, albeit much smaller, when left unchecked that is also deadly.

During a routine skin check last year, my dermatologist stumbled upon a spot on my upper right bicep. It was roughly the size of a pencil eraser and looked normal enough, but somehow gave her pause. She took a scrape of the spot with a razor blade, sent it to a lab for a biopsy and assured me she didn’t think it’d require any further attention. 

A few days later, I got a call from the dermatologist’s office. She was wrong. The biopsy came back as “severely dysplastic,” meaning that the mole was on the verge of becoming melanoma (though dermatologists tend to disagree about this — some consider it Stage 0 melanoma). 

“You need to come back,” the receptionist said. “And you need to do it soon.”

I’d been through this before, having had a moderately dysplastic mole excised from my upper back a few years prior. I got the sense from the tone of her voice on the phone call, though, that this time would be different. There was more urgency.

The mole with its now-dangerous perimeter had to go.

About a week later, I took the morning off of work and settled into what looked like a dentist’s chair and waited. 

After getting prodded about 12 times with a local anesthetic in a large needle (hey, they had to get through these massive biceps of mine somehow!), I had to wait again — this time for about 30 minutes for the anesthetic to spread.

There was nothing to do but watch as patches of my upper arm became white as the drug seeped in and took hold.  The necessary needles, cautery tools and bandages sat on a rolling tray right at eye level — enough to cause a full-blown panic attack for the needle-averse (which, thankfully, I am not).

Finally, the doctor returned and thus began a 45-minute process of cutting my skin down to the subcutaneous fat layer and removing the abnormal tissue. How do I know that’s what he was doing? Because I could see him carving away in my peripheral vision. Again, not for the faint of heart.

Cut. Cauterize. Cut. Cauterize. Cut. Cauterize. The process felt like it took four hours. I felt no pain but I could feel the cold tugging of scalpel across skin. Smelling the burning of my own flesh was equally as unpleasant.

Some time later, I got sewed up like a broken doll with two rows of four stitches — one row buried underneath another on top. 

The doctor packed my forearm full of bandages to cushion between the sutures and the giant bandage he applied before circling my upper arm with an Ace bandage. 

I left with some ibuprofen, strict instructions to stay out of the sun and to apply Neosporin frequently. My arm throbbed for two days.

All that, I thought, for a little 3 cm cluster of pigmented cells.

Ten days later I returned to have the stitches removed. In its place, I sported a raised four-inch-long diagonal slash. What should have felt like a win — I’d gotten out ahead of something that kills nearly 1/7th of the 70,000 people it affects each year — felt more like a weight.

Fortunately, mine is more of a cautionary tale, at least for now, though the large scars across my back and upper right seem to indicate more of a fight than was necessary. 

The weight came from knowing that I’ll have to return every year and hope that the sunscreen I’ve begun to use recently will ward off any future surgeries. It came from knowing that, more than likely, the damage is already done. 

According to SkinCancer.com, the average person’s risk of developing melanoma doubles if he or she has had five sunburns in a lifetime, and increases your lifetime risk by 80 percent if those sunburns occur as a kid.

I’ve had summers — thank you, travel softball — where I’ve gotten five sunburns in a month. Blistering, lobster red sunburns. I used tanning beds frequently in high school to be tan for prom season or softball season or because it’s-the-dead-of-winter-and-this-feels-great-right-now season. I can’t change that now, and that’s what frustrates me most. 

It could have been worse. But it could always be worse, too, and that’s what I worry about every time I schedule a yearly appointment.

I'm telling this story not to lecture, but because none of the warnings I read felt real until I lived it. Now those two scars remind me that I live it every single day. You might not have to. Go get a skin check. It's 10 minutes that may save you 10 years.

[eliteate]

To the homestretch

"What’s your ultimate career goal?"

Strung together in that order, those are my least favorite five words.

Mostly because I don’t have a clue. Partially because the answer changes every day. And entirely because I don’t believe one singular goal really exists.

I’ve gotten more and more adept at explaining away my hesitancy to commit to one “perfect” job.

The world is changing minute-by-minute, and you want me to predict what will hold my interest 10 years from now?

Maybe the job I want is one that doesn’t yet exist. Hell, 10 years ago, social media barely existed.

But that’s only a fraction of my unease in trying to predict the future.

Part of me just wants to enjoy the ride, to soak in a bunch of different experiences. I don’t ever want to lose that curiosity.

I’m not afraid of the things I don’t know.

I am afraid of getting complacent. Of being too comfortable.

A few years ago, I wanted to learn how to make baseball bats, so I helped out and worked for a bat factory for a few months. I stepped outside of my area of expertise. I got my hands (and my favorite pair of Nikes) dirty. And I know that even if I never use that knowledge again, I am better for having learned it.

When I was in college, I interned at the district attorney’s office. The day I was assigned to the juvenile unit, I was crushed. I wanted to be assigned to the homicide unit. I don’t like kids, I told my parents. Why would they assign me here?

But the experience I didn’t think I wanted changed the way I viewed my own life.

Every morning, I’d walk through metal detectors as I entered the building. Men and women were screaming at each other in the lobby. Parolees were paraded in and out of the building by their parole officers. I was barely 21, a doe-eyed suburbanite with no concept of what life outside the bubble was like.

But all day everyday for those 12 weeks, I learned quickly.

I spent mornings reading horrific written accounts of the things done to children. The afternoons, observing the pageantry (and sometimes pure insanity) unfurl in courtrooms. At night, I watched some of their stories play out in the local news.

The experience changed me in a lot of ways. Some I could have predicted from the onset. Some I probably wouldn’t have.

Maybe neither of those experiences directly correlate to my job right now, but they’ll always be a part of who I was then, who I am now, and who I’m yet to be.

My dream job isn’t a dream job. I'm not embarrassed about it or shy to admit it.

It probably doesn’t exist as one singular profession or area of expertise.

I don't know where I'll be 10 years from now. I'm not going to stress about it. I'm not going to try to predict it.

My dream job — my ultimate career goal — is to learn as much as I can from every experience. And that’s one career goal I’m damn sure I can achieve.

[eliteate]

Monday Morning Quarterback

All throughout high school and college, I blindly doodled my signature everywhere. The margins of my notebooks substituted as an experimental proving ground for those twelve letters.

Over the years, their shape and size would morph, almost as if they were reflecting the changes I was making to myself.

On May 31, 2013, I placed those carefully crafted loops and swirls on the dotted line and agreed to join Sporting News.

A year later, I know I'm not the same person I was the day I signed that letter.

I know that because I've fought and challenged myself to become a better version of me.

Not of anyone else. Of me.

There's plenty of pressure on women in sports to be the next Erin Andrews or Rachel Nichols or Molly McGrath. Don't get me wrong -- these ladies are talented in their own right.

But I never aspired to be "the next" anyone.

I'm doing this my own way.

If I've learned anything about myself over the past year, it's that I am exactly who I present myself to be, and that's something I refuse to compromise.

I'm sarcastic. I'm occasionally witty. I like terrible puns. I tweet about my dog a lot. I will air you out if you tell me to "get back in the kitchen." I will stand up for what I believe in. I'll debate you until the sun goes down. I'm fiery and feisty when I get passionate about something -- for better or worse.

I'm not content with settling. I set what I thought were lofty goals and wholeheartedly committed to them. And then, when I accomplished some of them, I set more.

I am forever a work in progress, but I'm happy with the progress that I've made over the past year.

Last year, I was a girl with two suitcases and a dream. Now, I'm Sporting News' youngest-ever topic editor (with a lot more suitcases and a dog).

I'm thankful for landing in a place that allows me to be who I am, no matter how many times I change my signature.

--K

[eliteate]

Moving the goalposts

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about what kind of woman it takes to succeed in the sports journalism industry. 

This is an open letter to any woman or girl who is considering a career in sports journalism.

Let me throw some statistics in your face (from the recently-released Women's Media Center study) before I even begin here.

Ninety percent of sports journalists are male. NINETY PERCENT.

Got all that?

Good. Forget all those statistics.

People will only use those numbers to intimidate you, to make you doubt yourself. They'll quote those figures to dismiss your worth and they'll do it right to your face.

But that's only if you let them. You won't.

You need to have conviction. You need to tell yourself that you are capable of not only doing this job, but exceeding your own expectations because those are the only ones that matter.

You need to acknowledge that while the odds may not be in your favor, one no is not a lifetime of nos. 15 nos is not a lifetime of nos. A hundred nos is not a lifetime of nos.

The only no that will prevent you from accomplishing anything is the no you tell yourself. And you will not stoop to that level.

It only takes one yes to cancel out a thousand nos. And you will take advantage of that yes and use it to the best of your ability. If you do that, you have the power to turn it into dozens of yeses. But only you can do that.

No matter how hard you work, there will always be people that will disagree with you, even if you're indubitably correct. You will learn to accept these criticisms gracefully and then you will turn around and laugh at the naïveté. That is the only way to survive. Your value as a person is not subject to public opinion, even if it feels that way sometimes. Don't ever let yourself believe that.

Recognize that while other women in the media may be your competition someday, we're all in this together. Be nice. We can learn from each other and you'll appreciate having a support system in the trenches.

Develop a sharp tongue and the discretion to know when to use it. That alone will get you through all types of interesting situations.

Learn something from every experience. Learn as much as you can and never stop. 

Soak in every opportunity. You'll be afforded the type of access that many sports fans can only dream of. Don't abuse it. You're there to work. The players are your colleagues, not your friends.

Reach out to the people that motivate you, inspire you, the people whose work you admire. Ask them questions about their experiences. Send them an email. Meet them for coffee. Build a relationship.

Realize that everyone has a story to tell and no one person's story is more important than another's. Treat everyone with respect and kindness. If you think the venue's janitor can't do anything for you, you're clearly forgetting who has access to all the rooms in the building. You never know when you may need a favor.

Be comfortable being alone sometimes. It's weird to go from being surrounded by tens of thousands of fans to a quiet hotel room.

Know what you're worth and fight for it. You can compromise on a lot of things in your career, but this isn't one of them. Speak up before you become resentful. Be genuine and tenacious. And if you're scared or unsure about how to do that, read Mika Brzezinski's "Knowing Your Worth." It's a $10 investment into your future.

Chase what excites you. If you make mistakes, remember them as lessons.

Have a goal in mind, but know that the path to get there may not be what you envisioned. Embrace it anyway.

If nothing else, strive to be a better person than you were the day before. It's an ambition that can be as big or as a small as you make it.

Godspeed.

Together we can keep the goalposts moving forward.

--K

[eliteate]

Roll with the punches

Because I'm a social media editor who spends at least 90% of an average day on Twitter and Facebook, I've seen more than my fair share of those "23 things to do before getting engaged" posts.

As a result, I've learned some important things about myself and my generation.

We are obsessed with two things -- trying to one-up our friends/enemies/casual acquaintances/competition and these damn lists.

And, though this platform may be small, I'm about to hop up on my soapbox for a minute.

Lists are great for things like organizing items to pack or for buying stuff at a grocery store.

But for trying to sum up your goals or plans or pipe dreams?

Not so great actually.

Sure, it's so convenient to be able to compartmentalize parts of your life -- "hey, check off No. 17: Get a full time job!" -- but in doing so, you're missing the point of being young.

You're supposed to make mistakes. You're supposed to experiment. And you're supposed to not know what comes next sometimes.

To me, life isn't about doing something to say you did it because you felt obligated by some unwritten "rite of passage" rule.

I'm here to do things my way, and to experience what I choose to experience.

I'm 25. I have friends that are married, some that are engaged and some that already have kids.

I don't feel pressured to do any of those things because I made the choice not to, and I'm okay with that.

So what if I don't have a house crawling with babies?

I don't need to. I know myself well enough to know that that's not an experience I would enjoy right now, so I'll focus my efforts elsewhere.

Knowing yourself is the most important part, and somehow, as a generation, we've lost that sense of self.

We're less interested in enjoying the moment than we are about how we present that experience to others through social media or, even better, some stupid list on HuffPo/BuzzFeed/EliteDaily.

What's more interesting to you? That your friend has done 17 of the 25 things you're "supposed" to do before turning 25, or the stories behind those experiences?

Would those stories be less interesting if they weren't No. 5 on "the list?"

I doubt it.

With that said, there are two important things you should be doing at any age.

Find yourself. Find what makes you happy, sad, frustrated, angry in whatever way you choose. Embrace it. Learn from it.

Be you. Unabashedly. Without exceptions. Without regrets.

-- K

[eliteate]

Restricted free-agent

Getting gutsy is all about stepping outside your comfort zone to reach your goals. I’m participating in Jessica Lawlor’s #GetGutsy Essay Contest. To get involved and share your own gutsy story, check out this post for contest details.

I stood in at Gate 6 in Philadelphia's cavernous 30th Street Station with a massive blue floral suitcase (borrowed from my mother) and a smaller, understated maroon suitcase (my own) huddled at my feet.

In my hand I clutched a one-way train ticket to BWI, rumpled from me nervously wrinkling it in attempt to distract myself from the inevitable goodbye looming in the background.

The departures tote board clicked and shuffled every few minutes as commuters swirled around behind me. 

"I'll miss you" were the last words I was able to stammer to my mother before we both succumbed to tears.

As we hugged each other in a dramatic goodbye in the moment my life as I knew it forever changed, other people were going about their daily routines.

Sometimes being gutsy means being alone. 

And that's how I was this past June when I moved to a city where I knew no one.

**

Everything changes when you become a visitor to the place where you were once a permanent resident.

After I got the phone call that I had gotten the Charlotte job, I spent 10 days packing up whatever bits and pieces of my life I could cram into two massive, 50-lb. boxes and two suitcases.

I signed a lease for a place I found online -- one that I never saw in person until the day I actually moved in. 

I plodded my way through difficult goodbyes to many of the people -- friends, family members, teachers, coaches, mentors -- all of whom helped guide me through the first 24 years of my life in a number of different ways.

And then, on the morning of June 10, I sat in the passenger seat of my mom's car driving away from the only house I've ever lived in equipped with just that one-way train ticket, two suitcases and blind faith that everything would work out.

I didn't know anyone in Charlotte, or anyone within two hours of the city, really.

"You're crazy to do this," I remember my friend (who has both jumped out of a plane in the Swiss Alps and bungee-jumped off the tallest bridge in Australia) telling me.

Maybe I was crazy.

But I knew that taking a risk isn't crazy -- it was gutsy. And being gutsy, well, that's how you grow.

I knew I had outgrown Philadelphia.

Its jagged skyline, once so formidable, became a reminder that I was too comfortable.

The gridlocked streets, so many with memories of times past, became souvenirs of places I had lived or visited or simply already been.

And souvenirs become extra baggage when you gather too many in one place.

Tired of being weighed down, I was ready to fly.

So I did.

**

When United Airlines flight 2323 touched down at Charlotte Douglas Airport, I was home.

Later that afternoon, the leasing agent handed me a set of keys to my very first apartment and there, looking out my window as the sun refracted off of the downtown skyline, I realized that I was going to be okay.

Not just okay.

I was ready to become a better me.

And six months later, I can say that I have.

-- K

[eliteate]

Fluffy Vanilla Bundt Cake

I made this blog with the intention of posting a recipe or two in addition to my commentary and I've under-delivered. Until now.

I made this vanilla bundt cake for a co-worker's birthday and it didn't even last 10 minutes before it was gone.

INGREDIENTS:

5 egg whites

3/4 cup unsalted butter (room temp.)

1 1/2 cups sugar

2 1/2 cups cake flour

2 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp salt

1 cup milk (I used 2%)

1 tblsp vanilla extract

FOR DECORATION:

Confectioner's sugar

Milk

1 lb. fresh strawberries

__

1) Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

2) In a large mixing bowl, beat together the butter and sugar until creamy. Add in egg whites (here's a tutorial if you're unsure how to separate the egg whites).

3) Stir in milk and vanilla extract.

4) Sift together flour, baking powder and salt in a different bowl.

5) Fold the flour mixture into the large mixing bowl with your wet ingredients in small amounts, beating well until your batter is free of lumps.

6) Pour into a GREASED bundt pan.

7) Bake for 40 minutes or until cake is golden brown and toothpick in center comes out clean.

8) Allow your cake to cool for about 10 minutes before inverting it onto a plate.

9) Once cake is completely cooled, stir together 1 cup confectioners' sugar and 1 tablespoon milk until you form a glaze. It should look like a slightly runnier and more granule version of Elmer's glue.

10) Drizzle on top of the cake. (You may have to do this multiple times depending upon how thick you make your sugar glaze.)

11) Top with fresh sliced strawberries.

VOILA!

[eliteate]

Traveling Violation

Anyone who knows me knows that my most prized possessions are all of the media credentials I've collected in the past couple of years.

I have a strange attachment to these laminated pieces of paper, not for their aesthetics, but because they're tangible ways to hold onto some of the hundreds of sports moments that otherwise may get lost in the crevices of my mind.

Some people mark their journeys with pinpoints on maps. Me? I document my travels in media passes and couple them with memories.

I recently sat down and created a Pinterest board with all of the sports venues I've been to.

It's not nearly enough, but it's a start.

I've never been in love with the idea of traveling because I'm impatient. Because I hate flying. Because I don't do long car rides. 

But something about entering a new stadium and being cognizant of the fact that, at some point in time, something crazy or unexpected or historical had taken place within its confines was beautiful.

I wanted to absorb every aspect of it. I wanted to absorb all that emotion and synthesize those feelings for everyone that couldn't be there in those moments.

Some nights I left these venues long after the bright lights over the big stage had been shut off for the night, embedding myself in the blanket of calm that wraps itself around empty stadiums -- trying to linger for just another moment longer.

The hardest part of not being on the road, in the media room or sitting courtside has been accepting the fact that I won't be making these memories.

I'll be watching from afar, for the time being. I hope I get the opportunity again.

I know that's where I belong.

--K

[eliteate]

Leading off

I guess you could call me one of the fortunate ones.

I have a college degree and a dream job 18 months after graduating, and it's even in the field I studied (which is better than 37% of my peers).

I've conducted interviews in NBA locker rooms, sat on the field during major league baseball games, gotten behind-the-scenes access to one of the nation's winningest college basketball programs.

I've met some incredible people with fascinating stories that I've been fortunate enough to share with the world.

I packed my entire life up and moved to a city where I knew no one -- a city I had been to only once before -- 500 miles from the house I grew up in.

And it's the best decision I ever made.

At the end of the day, though, it all sounds a lot more exciting than it really is.

I'm just a 24-year-old who loves baking cupcakes, bad reality TV and chasing my dream of becoming a prominent sportswriter.

So why this blog?

I love Twitter and interacting with my followers, but 140 characters isn't enough sometimes.

I want this to be a space where I can tell my story, cultivate sports discussion outside the confines of a 140-character box, and, every now and then, post a cupcake recipe or two.

And if I can help someone along the way by answering a question or offering some guidance, then it'll be even sweeter.

Let's do this.

--K