The Competition

"187." The very sight of that number made me wince. But then I reasoned that his latest letter was published in the Washington Post. And how many other newspapers were included in his total? This was not a level playing field. I met Hank only once. He and I were two of the few invited to the offices of the New York Times for a gathering of letter writers who most often appeared in the pages of this paper. When the moderator asked who had been published in excess of 50 times, he and I raised our hands. There were more who may have responded in the affirmative, but even then I knew he was my main rival. Actually, there was one who was the Babe Ruth of this sport. I believe she may be approaching 250, in the Times alone. She was not there that evening. Maybe she was writing another note that would add to her total. It was like she had hit 70 home runs a year for an entire career. Without the benefit of steroids. Steroids is kind of how this obsession began. In 2008, the Congress of the United States was conducting a hearing involving Roger Clemens and the rampant use of artificial stimulants that was making our national pastime a subject worthy of their scrutiny. Actually, I thought this was a waste of precious time, what with our economy on the brink of seeming collapse. I sent a brief email to Time Magazine expressing my thoughts. The next week there was a pull quote with my name attached to it. I literally autographed a copy for a work colleague. I was off and running. Later that year, our nation moved closer to the abyss. As we were in apparent free fall, Warren Buffett wrote an op-ed in the New York Times suggesting this was a wonderful opportunity to buy stocks. I responded to the Times that I was sure Mr. Buffett was well intentioned but who still had the funds to invest as our net worth was disappearing quicker than a hamburger in front of Wimpy (those were my sentiments, not my exact words). When I received a response later that day that the New York Times was considering publishing my comment, in an edited form, the hook was planted firmly in my mouth.  I was an indifferent student. Lazy, I believe, was the one word that most aptly described my academic career. The first semester of my freshman year in college, I majored in not attending class. I flunked philosophy, but in an act of apparent kindness, the school allowed students to try to raise failing grades during the intercession period. I managed to climb the ladder to D-. The rest of my undergraduate career was nearly as unspectacular. I did however eventually elevate my standing to a place where law school beckoned. Once there, I muddled through despite my worst intentions. My career as a lawyer has certainly been conducted under the radar. I have left virtually no mark on my profession. I may soon slip into retirement without anyone even realizing I have left the room. And so I would pass quietly into the night, virtually an entire lifetime having been spent in somewhat perfect underachievement. But for this one odd little hobby turned obsession. No one has willingly taken this  journey of 12 years and counting, fully alongside me. My family at first was enthusiastic about my success, listening to me as I reported of my ever increasing number, managing to insinuate oblique reference to something accepted for publication into as many conversations as possible. As the years have passed, their attitude is more of tolerance for my eccentricity than any other overriding sentiment. I say this not by way of criticism for I long since have stopped finding my achievement more than a parlor trick, a kind of three card Monte. I keep waiting for someone at the Times to tell me the jig is up. But still I persevere. My one true abiding passion has been sports. Playing, watching, reading about games that people play. The New York Times in years past had many outlets for letters to the editor, and I sought out as many as I could. On any given week I might write a letter to the editor on the opinion page, to the sports editor, even to something referred to as "Metropolitan Diaries", mini-tales of personal trials and tribulations in the city. Just on the hope that my name would appear in print. And so it has on about 80 occasions now. On topics as diverse as turning 60, on watching the New York City marathon the year after the Boston bombing, on the death of Muhammad Ali, on the pressure Joe Biden must have felt on November 3, 2020, even on a dog being interviewed by a condo board. And, of course, myriad indictments of Donald Trump and everything he did to diminish and endanger this nation. To what end has this been done, and why, knowing what I know, do I continue this endeavor? I have announced on more than one occasion that I was putting all this aside. I recall that after the 10th letter had been published I informed whoever was still listening that I was turning in my quill. But like Al Pacino in The Godfather, they (or more accurately I) keep pulling me back in. So it is when ego overcomes reason. I would hope that I possess none of the qualities that make President Trump the most desperately despicable human being I have ever witnessed, but I do understand that terrible need to be perceived as being good, at being great, at some task. And no matter what the reason for this to have occurred, what serendipity brought me to this point, it is clear that I have an aptitude for writing interesting letters to the editor of the New York Times. I know Hank is way ahead of me and that I will likely never get within a Bryson DeChambeau drive of him. But if I can get to 100 and then subtract out his letters to collateral papers, and then if I squint and click my heels three times. Well, I have to stop this piece now. I have a letter to write. ReplyForward