WhatsApp, Ivan, and the need to hack
I still remember the day I encountered a chap in class from a specific ethnic group, openly cogging from the man in the seat next to him in a communications lesson for would-be software engineers.
I put on my sternest expression: “Ivan, you can’t do that. It’s copying.”
His facial expression in response could have been an entry in the dictionary for the term ‘no whit abashed’.
“Is not copying. Is collaborative analysis.”
Ever since then, I’ve been very fond of the good people of Russia. The reason I refer to them here is not related to current low jinks connected to Donald Trump, though I do sometimes wonder if Ivan (not his real name) returned to his home country and, armed with the dazzling skills gleaned under my, ah, strict supervision, rose to the top of the Russian counter-intelligence community, and deployed those skills as per ...
I refer to those days and people, because hacking is, of course, the way to uncover someone’s embarrassing past and present.
Its applicability to the sports world is simple. No, not accessing data on players and tactics, or even wages and general finance, which dwell in devices which coaching and administrative staff use. The interconnected modern stadium and support staff are clearly open to such interference, and I have no doubt it happens, but what I refer to is far more simple - — and more prurient — than that.
The odd time you get a glimpse of it. A player will say he first learned of a colleague’s retirement there, or confess to venting a little bit there about something that was written about her, and getting such-and-such a reaction...
I refer to WhatsApp, the modern sportsperson’s guide to staying in touch with his or her colleagues.
It’s confined and specific and walled off against threat.
Or is it?
In idle moments — precious few, of course — I sometimes wonder about my old pal Ivan and whether he kept going with his computer studies, if he or one of his mates would be bored enough to open some WhatsApp accounts for me (please do not bother to point out the gross national stereotyping here; if it weren’t for gross stereotypes I’d be out of a job).
The sheer nosiness factor would be enough of a motivation for me, frankly, though I have noted in recent days that in some jurisdictions there’s a good deal of legal uncertainty about whether or not abuse or slanders on WhatsApp are actionable. (If you have ever been privy to some of the exchanges on the social media platform, you’ll understand.)
I’m joking, of course. I have in no way reached out to any former students or friends now living in a different jurisdiction who may or may not have the necessary technical skills to access hitherto private communication networks. Who am I, the president of the United States or one of his highest-ranking executive officials? This is just a bit of fun, nothing more. I have no-one specific in mind with this. Honest. Though some people who find the sheer freedom to unburden themselves in a private setting with none of the traditional checks and balances would clearly want to watch themselves, without naming any names here. (If you want to find out who I’m talking about, just catch me on WhatsApp. Where else?)
Breslin went out on the beat to get his stories
I wrote earlier this week about the late, great Jimmy Breslin, and a point I should have made then was that Breslin’s columns were almost invariably reported - based on getting out and talking to people.
That’s journalism.
Not re-heating third-hand opinions and posting same online, or recycling ‘banter’. Reporting is the difference - ‘going around’, as another great columnist, Murray Kempton described it.
A great figure in an allied field also passed away this week: Robert Silvers, founder and long-time editor of the New York Review of Books, an unashamedly high-brow journal, and absolutely essential reading.
If that seems jarring after Breslin, it shouldn’t be.
Highly literate and challenging work is as necessary as searching examinations of the everyday.
There is no contradiction when it comes to excellence.
Broadcasting deals in GAA
There was a telling moment during the week when eir Sport announced that it had secured TV rights to club GAA games. The news didn’t provoke a rousing cheer for the broadcaster in question, but rather a worried question which was repeated ad nauseam: what does this mean for TG4’s coverage of the club games?
There’s a whole other set of questions being raised here about the GAA and its broadcasting deals, of course.
It was interesting to hear the snorting and harrumphing when the vast majority of Irish TV viewers missed out on live coverage of the classic Tipperary-Kilkenny NHL game a couple of weeks back because it was confined to eir Sport. It was as though the vague notion of what league rights meant suddenly solidified into reality - a reality which could only be quantified by what was absent, compared to the magnificent job done by TG4 for many years, which is free and freely available, the two not being necessarily mutually exclusive.
The eir Sport situation is something I intend to return to at a later date. It forms part of a growing mosaic in Irish sports media, one with other panels, such as the expansion in sponsored coverage such as The Toughest Trade and the Irish rugby documentary produced by the international team’s sponsor, not to mention dedicated broadcast channels being run by clubs and organisations themselves.
Fragmentation, if not actual Balkanisation, is happening apace in sports coverage. The obvious question is what it means for you when you sidestep the cheerleading.
NBA Jam... with jelly and peanut butter
Many thanks to the pal of this column who sent on a classic slice of American sportswriting last week about the secret ingredient in the NBA player’s diet: the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.
If those exist only in memories of Sesame Street long ago, then stop and direct yourself to Baxter Holmes’ fantastic expose of this new addiction in pro sports, which goes back to Boston Celtic great Kevin Garnett about ten years ago. Asked if he’d like a PB&J, the star apparently said, “Yeah, let’s get on that.” The rest is history. With jam stains on chins all over America.
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