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I’ve got more fire in my belly now than ever.
No more choir boy stories. No more press releases. No more safe, polite journalism written to keep the gatekeepers happy.
Yesterday I turned 71 — and somewhere between the cake and the coffee, I realized I’m writing better than I ever have. Sharper. Freer. Hungrier.
And that’s when the whispers started.
The rumor floating around town is that I’m not the one doing the writing anymore. That I’ve handed the reins to “AI.” That the reason my work has suddenly improved is because I’ve got some robot ghostwriting for me.
Let me make this crystal clear: These are my words. My voice. I don’t need AI.
I’ve been doing this for more than 50 years. Five decades of reporting, editing, interviewing, publishing — through every era and every excuse. I’ve written with typewriters that jammed, computers that crashed, and coffee that could strip paint. I’ve covered council meetings, championship games, and civic scandals before half my critics were born.
For years, I coasted. I’ll own that.
There was a long stretch where I took the easy way out — publishing press releases instead of stories. Filling space instead of breaking news.
Once, I even ran a release that turned out to be plagiarized. That mistake haunted me. But it also humbled me. It taught me that cutting corners comes with a cost — not to your reputation, but to your craft.
So when I hit 71, I made myself a promise: if I’m going to keep writing, I’m going to be the best version of myself journalistically. I’m going to care again. Sweat again. Labor over every word, every punctuation mark, every rhythm of every sentence.
Because at this point in life, I don’t have decades left to get it right. But I’ve got this moment. And I’m not wasting it.
That’s the truth the whisperers can’t handle. They see an old dog writing like a man reborn and assume there must be a trick. But there’s no trick — just work. I’m not a machine. I’m a man who rediscovered the spark.
Nobody questioned my authorship back when I was banging out box scores for three bucks an inch, or sitting in a frozen press box at Public Schools Stadium in November. But start improving in your seventies and suddenly you’re suspicious? That’s comedy gold.
Let’s call this what it is. It’s not about technology — it’s about control.
The same people who feed reporters pre-packaged talking points can’t stand that I write freely, without needing their quotes, approvals, or favors. So they whisper “AI” to make independence sound dirty.
That’s fine. I’ve been called worse by better people.
Here’s the irony: I do use technology — just like every modern journalist. Spell-check. Word processors. Research tools. But those are instruments, not authors. You don’t get fifty years of Duluth under your skin from an algorithm. You get it from living here. From talking to people. From caring enough to notice.
What you read under my name is still me. It’s the old-school journalist with ink under his nails, just writing like he means it again. Readers know the difference. They can feel it. You can’t fake a lived voice. You can’t automate the truth.
If I’m guilty of anything, it’s refusing to fade away quietly. I’m too stubborn for that. I’m still here — sharper, louder, and more unfiltered than ever.
So, to the rumor mill: take a hike.
To the readers: thanks for sticking with me through the evolution.
And to the craft that’s kept me alive this long — I’m still chasing the story, still trying to get every line right, still finding ways to surprise myself.
My words. My voice.
Still burning.
