Postcards: Where Bad News is GREAT News (And Worse Journalism is Rewarded)

Before we go rollerskating on Sunday, let's dig into the week ahead... and discuss basic economics and inflation.

“The head of state, has called for me, by name.

But I don't have time for him.

It's gonna be… a glorious day!

I feel my luck could change.”

Radiohead, Lucky

Dear Fellow Expat:

It was 9:30 on a Friday night, out in Monkton, Maryland.

The air was cool, and the sky was clear on this farm. My friend Nick was playing guitar at a campfire. Two other friends were singing “The Sweater Song” by Weezer.

The only other rustle was the crackling of the fire.

It was the fall of 1999; I was 18 years old.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the host of our party, James – a friend of a friend.

“Do you want to meet my grandfather,” he asked.

I stuttered for a moment. “Yes.”

We jumped into a car and rode up the hill of this long manor. Then, we walked into the house, and one of the rare media heroes stood. He was the face of the Triple Crown and the marathon voice of sobriety during the 1972 Munich Olympics.

It was Jim McKay, arguably the greatest sports journalist of all time.

For the next 15 minutes, we discussed…