Barber: A new role for a familiar face from The Press Democrat

One of my primary activities between 2003 and 2007 was trying to convince my mother that I did not, in fact, work for the Raiders. “Mom, I'm a beat reporter for The Press Democrat,” I would tell her. “I work around, behind and frequently in spite of the Raiders, but never for them.” I think she found it more interesting to believe otherwise.

If Bea were alive today, I'm pretty sure I'd be working overtime to explain the difference between a sports reporter and a sports columnist. I imagine wasting a few lungs' worth of breath talking about “opinion” and “voice” and “perspective” before cutting to the chase: “My picture will be in the paper four times a week.”

(That's me at the top.)

I am the PD's newest columnist. I succeed the legendary Lowell Cohn, my longtime friend and colleague, who was forced to resign after admitting he had brunched with the Russian ambassador.

Now that the ink is dry on my new contract, I can admit that I was not entirely forthcoming with my interviewers. I did not, for example, recount the following stories.

Scene One: It's a few months after the 49ers won their fourth Super Bowl championship, and I am at the team's facility in Santa Clara to interview Joe Montana for a story in an NFL magazine. I am 25 and working for the league's publishing division in Los Angeles, and I have strayed far beyond my weight class.

It's hard now to grasp the magnitude of a Joe Montana encounter in 1990. Here in the Bay Area he was some combination of Johnny Unitas, JFK and Jesus.

Needless to say, I am palm-sweat nervous as the meeting arrives. A 49ers PR guy leads me to a conference room, and there is Montana. He rises from a long table to greet me warmly, and we sit down to talk. I unwrinkle my list of opening questions (scripted like Bill Walsh's plays), set my recorder in front of Montana - it uses actual cassette tapes, that's how long ago this is - and turn it on.

Nothing happens.

I inspect the recorder. I try again. No signs of life. I apologize. I remove the batteries and rearrange them, that old parlor trick. The little red light goes on when I push RECORD. But the wheels do not turn the tape.

My young professional life passes before my eyes. I am on the verge of turning to a career in auto upholstery when this three-time Super Bowl MVP, arguably the greatest player in the history of football, reaches over and gently takes the device from me.

“I've got one like this,” he says with a smile. “You probably have it on PAUSE.”

One flick of his finger, and Joe Cool has saved the day again.

Scene Two: It's February of 1993, and I am in Hawaii to interview players for propaganda stories in upcoming NFL publications. It's a perk of working for the league. Mai tais at 6.

So I am driving Sterling Sharpe to practice at Aloha Stadium. The Packers wide receiver has just set the league ablaze with a 108-catch season. He is also a sullen, embittered player who hasn't conversed with the local Green Bay media in months. Sharpe begrudgingly agrees to talk to this young NFL emissary. And while the word “pleasant” doesn't come to mind during our drive, he does provide enough answers to support a basic feature story.

As we motor along the Moanalua Freeway, though, I convince myself that I have missed the exit for the stadium. I had driven there and back the previous couple days, but now I can't remember exactly how long it had taken. Suddenly, nothing looks familiar. Shouldn't we have gotten there by now?

I say nothing to Sterling Sharpe, but I'm certain I am about to make the orneriest player in the NFC late for practice. Will he be fined? Will he be removed from the starting lineup? Will I exit my rented Nissan Sentra through the windshield?

Finally, the Aloha Stadium exit appears. We were fine all along. Later I will make an offering to Pele, the fire goddess.

Scene Three: It's 2008, and I am covering an appearance by the USA Softball national team on a hot day at Sonoma State. I am reporting and writing for The Press Democrat now. I'm more experienced. Savvy. Poised, even. Alas, I have not achieved perfection.

Before Team USA plays the Nor Cal Assault squad in an exhibition, I duck into a porta-potty to relieve myself, while balancing pen and spiral-bound notebook and water bottle. Folks, there is no delicate way to describe what happens next: I drop my notebook into the potty. Into that place of nightmares. This is not a blank slate of paper waiting for future jottings, either; it contains all of my notes from the previous couple weeks, including some key phone numbers.

You know how there's a five-second rule that applies to kitchen floors? For porta-potties it's a five-millennium rule. You're supposed to wait until volcanoes cover the earth's surface with a new stratum of soil and the world is run by robots before picking up the fallen object. But my reflexes take over. I reach in without thinking and snatch the notebook. I know, I know.

The pad is miraculously unharmed. I tear out a couple of pages and there is no evidence that it's the most humiliated notebook in the world.

Why would The Press Democrat hire such a doofus to write columns? My only guess is that the bosses know I balance my natural absent-minded klutziness with effort. I may not be the slickest guy in the room, but I try like hell.

I have covered Super Bowls and World Series and NBA Finals and NASCAR races in my nearly 14 years at the PD, but I have spent just as much time at high school soccer matches and swim meets. I never once phoned it in. Bringing you informative, accurate stories has been my pleasure and my imperative, and crafting columns with “opinion” and “voice” and “perspective” will be no different - whether I'm writing about the pros or our major colleges or the gems of Sonoma County.

So a big thanks to my employer for this opportunity, and to you for accompanying me on the journey. Heads-up, though, I may ask you to navigate from time to time.

You can reach Phil Barber at 707-521-5263 or phil.barber@pressdemocrat.com. Follow him on Twitter: @Skinny_Post. His blog, 110 Percent, is at http://110percent.blogs.pressdemocrat.com.