Free Thumbsucker by Walter Kirn

papers. The media needs to look inside itself.”
    I felt the words rise up. I made my move.
    “I think we’re confusing tone and content here. Content isn’t negative or positive. Content just
is
.”
    “You’re missing the point,” said Mark.
    I looked at my coach. He was dozing, eyes half shut, powdered sugar sprinkled on his chin.
    “
Tone
can be negative, though, and that was Kim’s point. Maybe the answer is: lighten up the tone but let the content stand,” I said.
    “Report on rapes and murders with a smile. That’s absurd,” Mark said.
    He was right; it was. I’d cornered myself. My brain spun like a tire in mud as Mark leaned over the table and slashed away at me, his lips forming vicious shapes. I glanced at Mr. Geary for a prompt, but he was napping, his doughnut on the floor. With time running short, I tried to push Mark back and mount a defense of the nonsense I’d slipped into, but when I opened my mouthno words came out. My throat closed tight like a fist around a coin.
    When the judges called time and Mr. Geary woke up, I sneered at him and hurried toward the door.
    Mark blocked my exit with his outstretched hand. “Nice discussion,” he said.
    “You, too.”
    “You’re good.”
    “Shut the hell up.”
    “
That’s
gracious.”
    “Kiss my ass.”
    I packed my bag, turned my key in at the desk, and stood outside beneath a dripping awning, smoking a menthol bummed from a bellhop. Gray shreds of cloud were falling with the rain.
    Mr. Geary found me. “Back inside. The ceremony’s starting. Show some class.”
    I grunted. No clever comeback, just; a noise. Forming whole words seemed pointless suddenly.
    “None of us win all the time. Get used to it.”
    Another grunt.
    “You disappoint me, Justin.”
    After the prizes were handed out Mr. Geary drove me home. I rested my head against the passenger window as he reviewed my performance for the season. My strengths, he concluded, were drive, intensity, and an understanding of group dynamics. My weak points were glibness, resentment, sloth, and arrogance. Mr. Gearybecame so absorbed in the critique that he let go of the steering wheel now and then, nearly driving us into a ditch while waving his hands and fluttering his fingers to illustrate my lack of discipline.
    For almost an hour I sat there, taking it. To lose a gift I might never have known I had felt worse than not being gifted in the first place.
    “I’m sorry if I sound cruel or blunt, but somebody’s going to tell you these things someday. You can’t just bob and weave your way through life. Fakes get found out. At bottom, the world is
fair
. A knack for ad-libs is a bonus. It’s no foundation. If it’s true that someday you’d like to be a commentator, what you need to develop are reasoned opinions, not clever tactics for winning brownie points.”
    By this time we were parked in front of my house and the car had been idling for a while. I could have left at any time, but I was letting Mr. Geary finish. I’d decided to grant him his dramatic wrap-up speech, if only because I knew how good it felt. To know what you’re saying and know you’re saying it well, to speak with momentum and confidence and spirit, is no small pleasure, he’d taught me. It changes everything.
    When Mr. Geary was done condemning me, he shook my hand and let me out of the car. We waved to each other and he rolled down his window.
    “I forgot. I got your third-place medal for you.” He held it out for me. “To show your father. And don’t letmy little critique just now discourage you. There’s always next year.”
    The medal went into my pocket. When Mike asked me how I’d done, I didn’t show it to him. Placing third was nothing to be ashamed of, and I was pretty sure that he’d be proud of me, but it would require a bit of explanation, and I was tired of hearing my own voice by then. Instead, I just told him I’d lost and saved my breath.

5
    The speech team had been an experiment in