The True Life Of Reilly

Rick Reilly is a very successful man who's made a career out of being a co-mingling hanger-on well before it was a standard media practice. As a columnist, he's always come off as the zany features reporter over at your local television newscast. Even when he puts on his serious face, like when he writes about a handicapped polo-playing teenager and his relationship with his cancer-riddled father (his real coach in life!) or whatever, you get the sense he wrote it just so he could have a few teary-eyed readers hug him on the street. One of the best descriptions I've ever heard about him was when a friend of mine ran into him at some golf tournament a few years ago and said he was genuinely nice, but "he comes off like a guy who really, really wishes he wrote the screenplay for Fletch." That works.

That's why this week's column is so astounding. For those of you who have not read it, it's an attempt at self-deprecation which somehow still manages to be perversely vain:

In one stretch this month, Alex Rodriguez's name was on the front page of the New York Post eight days out of twelve. Paparazzi even followed him to Pittsburgh. Who knew life could suck at $27 million a year?

Madonna once said, "I won't be happy until I am more famous than God," but right now A-Rod is probably wishing she wasn't—and that he'd gone into dentistry. None of this is new. When John Elway was at the height of his powers, he told me, "I'd give $100,000 just to have one day where I could go to the mall and not be noticed. Just be somebody else."

I knew exactly how he felt. People constantly think I'm somebody else.

He goes on to list all of his recent run-ins with people who've confused him for someone else. The whole column stinks of shameless embellishments for the sake of the narrative (800 words and out, baby) but it is also an exercise in sublimation. Are we honestly to believe that Rick Reilly — multi-millionaire sports media personality, jock-holding extraordinaire — actually feels like an unimportant nobody? Let's translate.

What Reilly said: At this year's U.S. Open in San Diego, for instance, I was minding my own business, walking and eating a ham sandwich, when a thirtysomething man with caterpillar eyebrows suddenly stepped in front of me, clomped two meaty hands on my shoulders and yelped, "Oh … my … God!"

"I can't believe it's you!" he gushed. "Well," I said, "I'm not really all that…" "Your book changed my life!" he roared. "Really? Because I don't really write the kind…" "Tuesdays with Morrie! Greatest book ever written!"

My face must've fallen like a drum-factory soufflé.

"Didn't write it pal," I snipped. "Wish I had." (I meant it. It sold more than 12 million copies.)

What Reilly meant: " I could've written Tuesdays With Morrie. Could've typed that sanctimonious drivel with my feet. If Mitch Albom were here right now, I'd stuff that Star Trek-looking little freak up this clown's ass. "

What Reilly Said: At the recent Lake Tahoe golf tournament, I was walking through a gauntlet of autograph seekers—unbothered and unmolested—when a tall, saucer-eared man in his fifties thrust a blue Sharpie and a program in front of me.

"You signing today, Rick?" "I'm signing everyday, pal," I said. "Nobody ever asks." "Hah!" he chortled. "Surrrrre. You won this thing six times, right? Or is it seven?" "Uh, no," I said. "You're thinking of Rick Rhoden. The ex-pitcher. Different guy." "Yeah, Rick Reilly, the pitcher! You're the best! I have your rookie card!"

Sigh. I signed my name over Rhoden's face and left it at that.

What Reilly Meant: "I hope Rhodey appreciates the fact that I do this stuff for him. I'm making that guy famous. I should invite him to play with me at TPC Sawgrass. He'll love it. It'll give him some good ink. "

What Reilly Said: The other day a blogger wrote the most amazing email to me regarding the column I wrote about the recent passing of my father, Jack Reilly. The piece included a picture of the two of us at my wedding in 1983.

"I have good reason to believe," this guy wrote, "that the man in the picture is, in fact, golf commentator Bob Rosburg. What I'm trying to figure out is why you would do this."

What I was trying to figure out is how I could find this hairball and pull his spleen out with corn tongs. First of all, why would Rosburg, ABC's long-time on-course shot reporter, be at my wedding? Had Jack Nicklaus' Titleist rolled under the shrimp table? Secondly, wouldn't I be able to recognize my own father in a picture? And thirdly, what possible benefit would I get from pulling this ruse over on the reading public? Had the man somehow uncovered that I was the illegitimate love child of Bob Rosburg? I wrote him and suggested that he borrow, steal or purchase a life.

What Reilly Meant: "I really fucking hate Bill Simmons."

What Reilly Said: The capper, though, was Katie Couric, late of the Today show. I was in the green room, waiting to go on and plug a book, when she came running up to me like a long-lost sister, 1,000-watt smile and open arms.

"I am SO happy to meet you!" she cooed, giving me a big hug. "Oh, well, me, too!" I said, flummoxed. "I'm really looking forward to our segment!" she said. "I loved it as a kid! Do you have the recipe?" "Yes! No. What?" "The recipe! Which recipe will we be making?" "Uh, no. I'm a sportswriter. I really don't do, uh, recipes." "You're not the Easy-Bake oven guy?" "No, sorry."

And with that, she spun on her five-inch heels and left me behind like a roadside San-o-let.

What Reilly meant: "I don't care who she thinks I am. Katie Couric has calves I could gnaw on for days."