The first time you step onto the grass at Yankee Stadium, you will feel unworthy. Remember: You are unworthy. The guy at the plate spent nine years in the minors trying to get here, and you spent 90 seconds faxing in a press-credential application. So stand up straight. Tuck in your shirt. Show some respect.
And some pity. You already know that you're going to the World Series. You're also going to the Super Bowl, the World Cup, the Olympics, the Masters and the Final Four. That's just in 2002. The world's greatest athletes will see fewer spectacles than the world's worst journalists, and that is something you can take to the bank—in lieu of actual money, of which there will be little.
Journalism has other rewards. You'll comfort the afflicted. You'll afflict the comfortable. You'll ask impolite questions of powerful people without physical repercussion.
Whatever other wonders you'll witness in this glorious profession—the crowning of champions, the changing of history, a man eating spaghetti with his hands—are known only to God.
But trust me on the sunscreen.