The 5 Words That Didn’t Change My Life

In October 2007, I was a 22-year-old graduate student at Ohio University. I was pursuing a master’s degree in journalism, and I was as excited as could be.

A representative from a major sports outlet was coming to campus to interview candidates for an internship, and this was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I had wanted to be a sports journalist since I was 14, and this internship would jumpstart my career and change my life.

Or so I thought.

I polished my résumé, gathered writing samples, threw on a suit and tie, and ventured to campus, arriving as I always do: early. I stood outside the interviewer’s door, which, to my surprise, was wide open. I could hear every word that he and the current interviewee said to each other. The interviewer seemed nice, affable. There was dialogue; there was laughter; there was rapport. Whoever this kid was, he was having a darn good interview.

But I wasn’t worried. I was confident.

When the interview ended, the student walked out and exited the building. He looked like a freshman. Sophomore, at best. I waited a few seconds, stepped into the doorway, and knocked.

“Yes, come on in!” the interviewer said.

This was it. I was ready. Game time. Let’s do this.

__________

Interviews are like the first drive of a football game: Both sides need time to feel each other out. The offense isn’t throwing a Hail Mary, and the defense isn’t sending an all-out blitz. You’re both just trying to settle in.

Well, this interviewer settled in pretty quickly. He looked at my résumé for about 30 seconds, leaned back, and rubbed his chin. It was at least another 30 seconds before he said anything. First drive of the game? It felt like fourth down in the fourth quarter. I felt like a patient waiting for a diagnosis. And then finally he gave it.

“It’s too late for you,” he said.

I was confused. Too late for me? I arrived 20 minutes early…

“Yeah, it’s too late for you," he said. "You don’t have any experience. You don’t have any clips.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, reaching into my folder. “I brought some writing samples for you. Here are some articles and columns that I wrote for my college newspaper.”

I slid them across the table.

“Those don’t count,” he said.

“They don’t?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Those don’t count.”

“Oh…”

That’s when I knew I wasn’t getting the internship.

Over the next 30 minutes, I sat and listened as this gentleman explained why I was unqualified for the position. I didn’t have any “real” experience, I didn’t have any worthwhile bylines, and there was no way that he—or anyone—could trust me with such a competitive internship that required writing on deadline.

The interviewer didn’t stop there. He advised that I drop out of grad school, accept any unpaid internship that would have me, and then maybe, hopefully, one day find a paid gig somewhere doing something related to journalism.

And that’s when he said it. Five words that I will never, ever forget.

“You’ll never be a sportswriter.”

I sat with clenched teeth, stunned. I had wanted to be a sportswriter for eight years, I had dedicated my life to achieving that goal, and now—at my first journalism interview—I was told none of that would be possible.

I felt like I had just been pummeled by the ’85 Bears.

As the verbal undressing continued, as this gentleman explained why my career was destined for failure, I heard the next interviewee arrive. He was standing outside the door, waiting. I could only imagine what he was thinking. Well, I don’t have to worry about this one, he probably thought, trying to hold back laughter.

When the interview ended, I stood up and reached my hand across the table.

“Thank you for your feedback,” I said. “And for your honesty.”

He shook my hand as if offering condolences. I’m sorry to crush your dreams, his body language explained, but somebody needed to be honest with you.

I walked out, silent, the Southeast Ohio twilight upon me, and headed home.

What now? I thought. What now?

__________

The most poignant scene from The Pursuit of Happyness doesn’t take place in an office or boardroom; it takes place on a basketball court. Will Smith tells his son, Christopher, in no uncertain terms that he a) is not good at basketball and b) will never be good at basketball. Dejected, Christopher stops shooting baskets and puts his head down.

This, of course, was a test—a test that had nothing to do with basketball.

“Hey, don’t ever let somebody tell you you can’t do something,” Smith tells his son. “You got a dream, you got to protect it. People can’t do something themselves, they want to tell you you can’t do it. If you want something, go get it. Period.”

This film, which I had seen a few months prior to my interview, was on my mind that night. That scene, in particular.

Fifteen years later, I can recall that interview in vivid detail. But I’d be lying if I told you it changed my life. Was I bummed to not get the internship? Yes. Was I frustrated that someone had written me off so quickly? Absolutely.

But there was zero chance—absolutely zero chance—that I was going to let one man's opinion alter my life path.

As you may have gathered, I did not drop out of grad school. I remained at OU, wrote my thesis, and graduated on time. About six weeks later, I accepted a full-time position as—yup, you guessed it—a sportswriter. A few years after that, I became a sports author. And I’ve been self-employed for almost a decade.

Had I done what the interviewer advised, none of that would have happened.

When I speak at colleges and universities, I tell aspiring writers about the challenges they will face in the field. But I also equip them with the tools to overcome those challenges. If you want to succeed in this business, you—at the very least—need to have thick skin and swallow your pride. Whatever you do, don’t burn a bridge. You never know who could be a resource for you down the road.

A few years into my career, I tracked down the interviewer’s email address and reached out to him—not to defiantly tell him he was wrong, but to humbly ask him for advice. I reminded him of his critiques, explained how I had addressed them, and asked for advice regarding my next professional steps.

It was clear from his response that he didn’t remember me, but he put me in contact with someone at that major sports outlet.

I wound up freelancing for them.

__________

In journalism—and in life—it’s so easy to let criticism get the best of you, but you can’t let it define you. That said, you have to be willing to look in the mirror.

Was it madness to tell a 22-year-old that it was “too late” for him to become a sportswriter? Without question. But some of the interviewer’s critiques had merit. There were holes in my résumé that needed filled. So I filled them. I didn’t take all of his advice—in fact, I took very little of his advice—but that experience has stuck with me through the years.

How did I go from “You’ll never be a sportswriter” to journalist, author, and self-employed for a decade? It was a lot of trial and error and two steps forward and one step back and taking big chance after big chance. But I never stopped believing in myself. I worked. I hustled. I never quit.

A lot of aspiring writers desperately want to succeed in this field. They want to stand out. But many of them do not know how to get from Point A to Point B. Truthfully, there is no magic formula. There’s no, “If you do A and B, then C will happen.” But there are things you can do to push the odds in your favor (more on that in a future post). More than anything, though, you have to believe in yourself.

If you don’t, who will?

Will Smith was right. If you want something, go get it. Because no matter what anyone tells you, the ball is always in your court.

Tony Meale is a Chicago-based author, ghostwriter, and guest speaker. He has a master’s degree in journalism from Ohio University and is the author of “The Chosen Ones: The Team That Beat LeBron”. He can be reached at info@tonymeale.com.