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Sportswriting is, among many other things, a terrific ego trip. Perhaps all forms of journalism are in their own way. But there’s something about the purity and the passion that sport generates: that vast reservoir of emotion and yearning you’re tapping into, the buzz of a full arena when you enter it for the first time, plastic lanyard clacking around your neck, complimentary programme (retail price: £8) tucked underneath your arm. Put it this way: to be a sportswriter you don’t have to be a narcissistic, thrill-seeking freeloader hooked on the dopamine of likes and retweets and the kick of seeing your name in print. But, um, it doesn’t necessarily hurt.
Then again, when you work somewhere as renowned as the Guardian, you are frequently reminded that your fragile self-esteem is built on the labours and love of others. The page designer who fits your words perfectly into a pre-assigned slot and surrounds it with pictures and fancy graphics. The subeditor who gets in touch shortly before deadline to politely point out it is generally customary for sentences to contain a verb. The web publishers and social media bods who make sure your article will actually be seen. The in-house lawyers who make sure you haven’t accidentally libelled Roman Abramovich.
Related: My cross to bear: what it means to support England in these divided times | Jonathan Liew