I ended a 25-year relationship this week with something I loved dearly

It’s sad to walk away from something you’ve loved. Especially if it’s something you’ve cherished for more than 25 years.

But I couldn’t keep denying how I felt. It was time to move on. Time to cut the cord. Time to go our separate ways.

I said goodbye to Sports Illustrated.

My subscription was up for renewal. I asked my wife if she had renewed it, thinking maybe it was a holiday surprise.

“No, I haven’t,” she said.

“Good. Don’t,” I said. “I’m done.”

News broke earlier this week that SI was using AI-generated articles on its website. This once proud pillar of American journalism had filed these “stories” under fake bylines. They even invented bogus bios and headshots for fake “writers.”

Backlash was fierce. SI quickly backpedaled, saying that the content had been removed from the site, trying to dig up some semblance of an explanation for not only using artificial intelligence, but also misleading readers.

In recent years, some media companies have jumped on the AI bandwagon, using the new tech phenomenon to conjure up what they believe is journalism. Gannett started using AI a few months ago to create high school football recaps. The results were embarrassing. Corny phrasing that didn’t make sense. Frequent errors. Clunky structure that didn’t flow.

Readers noticed. They thought something was odd and they were right.

Gannett pumped the brakes on using AI but I’m sure once the bugs are worked out and the technology improves, the media giant will return to using the platform. I would expect that type of short-sighted, do anything to save a buck, who cares about our readers-type behavior from Gannett.

I didn’t think SI would stoop this low.

Sure, the venerable magazine that’s been around for nearly seven decades has endured dramatic changes in recent years, but I didn’t see this coming. SI cut back production from a weekly to a monthly edition. Staff has vanished as layoffs are a regular occurrence. A few years ago, the magazine was purchased by a group of greedy venture capitalist that seem content on proudly running this institution of sports journalism into the ground.

Shame on them.

I fell in love with SI in 1997. I was 16. The Green Bay Packers had just won the Super Bowl. Desmond Howard splashed across the cover. I had to subscribe.

I couldn’t wait for Thursdays. That afternoon the magazine arrived in our mailbox. I never cared about walking down our long country driveway to retrieve the mail on any other days, except Thursdays. Who’s on the cover this week? What stories did they cover? Will Rick Reilly’s back page column make me laugh or cry?

Excellent writing. Awe-inspiring photos. I devoured the journalism that unfolded in those magnificent pages. Consumed it cover-to-cover. Talk about the 1927 Yankees and their “Murderer’s Row” lineup? New York had nothing on SI back in the day. Reilly, Frank Deford, Steve Rushin, Phil Taylor, Ralph Wiley, Jackie MacMullen, Jack McCallum, Chris Ballard, Tom Verducci, “Dr. Z” Paul Zimmerman, Peter King, Selena Roberts, Austin Murphy, Michael Farber, Richard Hoffer, Tim Layden, Jeff Pearlman, Tim Crothers, S.L. Price … and the legends who came before: George Plimpton, Rick Telander, Tex Maule, Dan Jenkins, Alexander Wolff, Robert Creamer, Leigh Montville … so many more that I’m forgetting, not to mention amazing photographers like Walter Iooss and Neil Leifer.

Then there’s Gary Smith. One of the best magazine writers in America, I could only dream of being half as good as Gary Smith.

I was a farm kid. I lived several miles outside a small town. Our idea of excitement was when a Subway opened. Outside of school, my life consisted of milking cows, feeding calves and bailing hay. But, man, I LOVED sports. I could open up a crisp, new SI and be immediately transported to the drama of the World Series. The passion of the Final Four. The grit and grace of the Olympics. Boxing’s brutal ballet and the blood, sweat and tears of the NFL and college football. The magazine opened my eyes to sports that don’t get much mainstream coverage. Hey, that Gretzky guy is pretty good. So is Pete Sampras. Can you believe that Tiger Woods kid won the Masters? Women basketball players are finally getting their own pro league? Awesome!

SI inspired me to become a journalist. It was my north star. It persuaded me to read newspapers and realize there’s great writing inside those pages, too. My dream was to one day work for SI.

As I embarked on my own journalism career, I was pleasantly surprised at how nice and accommodating some of the magazine’s writers were. I interviewed Reilly for a touching feature story I was working on. I bravely emailed Rushin, a Marquette University alum, seeking advice only weeks into my career as a novice sportswriter for the Huron (South Dakota) Daily Plainsman. I never expected him to respond. A few weeks later he did. He provided valuable direction at a time I sorely needed it. Tattered, coffee-stained and a bit crumpled, I still possess that email from the fall of 2006.

Two years later, I was in a deep funk. Blindsided by my employer. I was working for a paper in northern Wisconsin that laid me off with no prior warning. Down and out with a recession looming, I called just about every paper in the state, inquiring about sports reporting jobs. Most of them had nothing to offer. A very grumpy but honest editor from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel told me “We have no openings what so evah!”

I decided to take a chance. I called SI.

Heart pounding and palms glazed in sweat, I nervously dialed the number to Richard Demak, the magazine’s editor. I got through to him. Lump stuck firmly in my throat, I barely knew what to say but told him about my situation and that I was searching for any and all opportunities. Unlike the MJS guy, he was polite and took time to answer my questions. He encouraged me to send some of my best work to SI and maybe they’d take a look and consider me for future employment. He explained that you don’t necessarily need a background in journalism to work for SI; some writers have law degrees and medical and science backgrounds. My chat with Richard boosted my spirits at a time I felt my dreams being crushed.

In more recent years, I’ve struck up a bit of a friendship with Jeff Pearlman. His kindness and willingness to help fellow journalists shows no bounds. I read his work in high school and now he’s interviewing me for his Substack!? I couldn’t have imagined that when I dove into this crazy world of journalism two decades ago.

And I never would have become a writer without SI.

AI is pretty amazing. It can do a lot. But there’s a lot it can’t do. It can’t replicate the soul of a writer. It can’t stress about tight deadlines and anxious editors. It’ll never experience the joy of a packed gym and a hotly contested sectional basketball game. It can’t feel the chilly November air whipping across your face as you roam the sidelines of a high school football playoff game. It’ll never know the feeling of blindly stumbling down steel bleachers from the press box at 9 p.m., company laptop clutched to your side, after the maintenance crew turned off all the lights around the stadium. It’ll never know the feeling of cautiously approaching a deflated coach for a few quotes after a devastating, season-ending defeat. It’ll never see seniors with tears streaming down their faces knowing their athletic careers are over. It’ll never hear cheers from parents or see a team’s sheer euphoria from winning a state championship.

A machine can’t get choked up sitting in the Camp Randall Stadium press box, watching the “Where the Streets Have No Name” video montage realizing how far you’ve come. Despite layoffs, shitty part-time jobs, maniacal editors and publishers, and being told “maybe you’re not cut out to be a journalist,” you’re here. Covering the Wisconsin football team. One lucky bastard.

SI isn’t the dream destination for young writers it once was, but there are still plenty of journalists who’d kill to work for the magazine. But to save a few bucks, they would rather use machines.

So long, old friend. I’ll always cherish the memories.