Stories' Stories: Sports Illustrated's Thomas Lake on Pop Herring, Making It In Journalism, and More

Today I am totally stoked to bring you this interview with Thomas Lake. Lake is a senior writer at Sports Illustrated. He is 31 years old. He wrote a good story in a recent issue of Sports Illustrated. ("Did This Man Really Cut Michael Jordan?") Only by "good" I mean "phenomenal" and other such over-the-top adjectives. I asked him some questions about it over email. Which was great, because it let Lake do what Lake does best, which is write, and he writes—as always—really, really well down there. Lots of smart thoughts, lots of good sentences. Just good stuff all around.

Since it's pretty long, I'll shut up now and just let the interview go. So ladies and gentlemen, Lake on making it as a journalist, coffee, how and why to get yourself good at what you do, and, of course, Pop Herring. I'd say "enjoy," but I know you will anyway, because Lake responded to everything just amazingly, so I'll just stop saying things and let you finally get to reading.

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Missed Opportunities

I'm pretty happy with the way the past two years of my life have gone. I've gone from writing stories for $50 a pop for local papers to writing lengthy features for ESPN The Magazine. I've had a lot of great breaks, and I've gotten them by hustling and working my a** off. But a story came out this week that made me realize I definitely missed an opportunity, and I've been reflecting on it a lot today. Figured I could share. Might help some other young journalists out there.

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Excerpt from The Edge of Legend - Chapter 30: "Wilson"

At the corner of Nash and Pearson streets in Wilson there sits Dick’s Hot Dog Stand, a restaurant that has been a city landmark since it was founded in 1921. Back then, Nash Street was gravel and Pearson Street didn’t exist at all. Neither did Lee Gliarmis, who owns the place now. His father did, though. His name was Socrates, but everyone called him Dick.

The restaurant is a small building made of red bricks. It has parking space for about ten cars—although when at its busiest, cars line the sides of streets nearby—and it aptly personifies the city of Wilson.

Around 9 p.m. one Saturday, as he does most Saturdays around that time, Lee wiped down the last of about two-dozen tables. Around Lee, a mere mortal, are images of men whom sports have made godlike. Filling nearly every inch of wall are autographed pictures of countless sports legends. Some are heroes, some are notorious, and some are just famously comical—“Bob Uecker sat right there, right in this booth,” says Lee, pointing to the corner he just cleaned—but their memory will live on as long as sports last. Stan Musial. Harry Caray. Roy Williams. Jim Thacker. Arnold Palmer. Bones McKinney….and so many more. A storeroom out back holds more autographed pictures than Lee can hang up.

Lee wouldn’t change a thing about his life. He loves Wilson. He loves Dick’s. But this wasn’t his dream. 

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