FOXBOROUGH — Let me take you into the world of sports journalism, my friends. Our business — mine and Greg’s and Chris’s and Sean’s and Brian’s and Anthony’s — is a weird one. We can sit in the press box, or stand on the sidelines if it’s a high school game, and we can watch the action and, while doing so, mentally start writing our stories. I can’t speak for my colleagues, but I know I’ve done it countless times.
However — and this happens a lot — there are times where the action on the field — or the pitch, or the ice, or the diamond, or the parquet — takes an absolute drastic turn, and that incredible lede graph which you so lovingly crafted and molded with your own fingers is utterly worthless.
That’s what happened on Blue Level for myself and my fellow scribes Saturday night.
Let me tell you what I wanted this column to be about, what I wanted you to read about on your laptop or tablet or phone while you sip your coffee and pound away on your morning Cocoa Puffs: I wanted to write about the maturity of the New England Revolution.