In a crowded Wall Street office — full of black suits, stuff shirts and, in the case of Carmelo Anthony, a top hat — Syracuse men’s basketball coach Jim Boeheim basked in Manhattan’s bright spotlight as he prepared to ring the New York Stock Exchange opening bell.

Interrupting the fray, my proud father strode up to Boeheim and started dropping names.

‘Do you know my son, Pete Iorizzo?’ my father asked. ‘He writes for The Daily Orange.’

‘Yeah,’ Boeheim answered .

‘Well,’ dear-old dad continued, ‘he didn’t write too much bad stuff, did he?’

‘I don’t know,’ Boeheim said, smiling now. ‘I don’t read that stuff anymore. They’re trained to write bad stuff up there.’

An hour later, my father happily relayed this tale to me, noting how charming Boeheim was. I, meanwhile, was befuddled. Trained to write bad stuff? Could it be that, during a year-and-a-half stint at The Daily Orange, I have morphed from a burgeoning journalist into a bitter hack? I had to find out.

I turned to my right, toward the desk of Darryl Slater, my assistant by title but partner by reality. Slater’s bitterness has been well documented. Just ask the poor SU Athletic Communications guy he nearly decapitated after a relatively minor gaffe.

‘Hey Slater,” I asked, “do you think I’m bitter?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not as bitter as I am.’

That’s a relief. Still, it’s not saying much. I sought further persuasion.

I called up my mentor. If he’s Socrates, I’m Plato. He’s brilliant. He’s witty. He’s profound. And best of all, he writes for the New York Post. He’s Phil Mushnick, The Post’s sports media critic.

Talk about bitterness. Mushnick once wrote, ‘If there really is a special place in hell, it’s gonna be far too crowded to remain special.’ On the bitterness scale of one to 10, this guy’s a 100. He’s a walking bitterness barometer.

‘It serves you well,’ Mushnick said of bitterness. ‘If you cover sports, especially college sports, and don’t become cynical, you’ve got a problem.’

Wait. I should be proud of my bitterness?

‘Damn proud,’ Mushnick said defiantly. ‘You show me a journalist who isn’t cynical, and I’ll show you a budding public-relations guy.’

Ugh. I felt bitterness dripping off the phone. I needed a respite, so I decided to look up SU tennis coach Mac Gifford.

When my D.O. career started, and I was far more naive than bitter, I covered women’s tennis. Sessions with Gifford made writing for the paper enjoyable. He’s easily the most affable Syracuse coach. Gifford went out of his way to make himself available, and he never failed to fill my notebook with dynamite quotes.

‘Mac,” I asked, “do you think sportswriters are bitter?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they wish they could’ve been athletes,’ Gifford said, tongue firmly implanted in cheek.

That certainly could apply to me. As a youth, I was the fat kid. Now, I’m the skinny kid. And in between, I’ve always been the sports dork. I can recite every Stanley Cup winner since 1892, but damned if I can ice skate.

‘I don’t think (you’re bitter),’ Gifford reassured. ‘I think you sort of like your job. I think you’ve gotten to grow. As we all grow older, we grow more realistic as oppose to idealistic. When you started out, maybe you thought maybe journalism was cool. Then you realized, ‘Hmm, this has its drawbacks.’ Everyone wants to do what they love. But then you realize there’s so many things attached to it that you don’t love.’

Don’t I know it. I sit in this stinky office 45 hours a week. I relieve myself in a toilet that’s been clogged since this rickety old house was built. I drive everywhere the men’s basketball, men’s lacrosse and football teams fly (yup, New Orleans, too).

‘And,’ Gifford said, ‘who would want to talk to a journalist? They only misquote you.’

But even the most bitter hack has to admit a couple perks. I sat courtside for the Final Four. I scarf down all-you-can-eat media buffets before every game. (Unless it’s a men’s basketball game at the Carrier Dome. C’mon guys, the budget isn’t that tight, is it?) I drive everywhere but don’t pay a dime for trips to places like Pittsburgh, Boston, Auburn, Ala., and, of course, New Orleans.

Most important, I’m on a first-name basis with a laundry list of interesting people.

‘It’s a grind trying to drag people up here to create a tennis program when it’s snowing in April,’ Gifford said. ‘But I work with great people and have great friends. That’s what’s important.’

So, I suppose it’s only appropriate that I thank a few people who have been important to me.

Like Slater, who’s been a great assistant and an even better friend.

Like Scott and Adam, who interjected a host of new ideas that help keep this section fresh. Remember the secret, Adam — delegate. A box score is the quickest way to bitterness.

Like my parents, whose pride in me has let me be proud of myself. Thanks for letting me brush aside academics for three semesters and follow my dreams.

Like my friends not employed at 744 Ostrom Ave., who helped me maintain sanity — sort of. Monday Night Football and chicken wings await.

Like Jen, who waded her way through all my nonsensical stories. Thanks for reading. Now that I won’t be getting anymore D.O. paychecks, how about picking up dinner once in a while?

Now I’m off to bigger and better things. (Namely, bigger and better media buffets.) The bittersweet life rolls on.

Pete Iorizzo was the sports editor at The Daily Orange, where his bitter nonsense appeared far too regularly. E-mail him at pniorizz@syr.edu.

Published on April 27, 2003 at 12:00 pm