Stunt Man

Ever since I read George Plimpton’s Paper Lion in high school, I’ve been a huge fan of “stunt journalism.” This is the type of feisty reportage where a writer tries out for a professional football team, or takes a crack at conducting a symphony orchestra, and then writes a lighthearted article about his experiences.

The trajectory of these stories never varies: Ever since he was a kid the writer always wondered what it would be like to (fly an F-16/belt out “Nessun Dorma” at La Scala/hand-feed famished tiger sharks); but now that he’s finally gotten the opportunity to play (jai-alai/the viola da gamba/King Lear), he realizes how much talent and hard work go into (sumo wrestling/ aesthetic dentistry/repossessing cars in Detroit). And so, he comes away from his experience with heightened respect for (wheelchair samurai/door-to-door Torah repairmen/one-armed baristas).

The authors of these articles always portray themselves as earnest klutzes, and never fail to describe the despair they felt when they couldn’t get the bandilleras to stick in el toro’s flank, or when they realized they could never return Maria Sharapova’s serve even if she was blindfolded and playing with a teacup. But at some point, there occurs the moment when the writer gloats that, while he would never be mistaken for Picasso or Mike Tyson, he still feels that he acquitted himself reasonably well in the Comedy Store/Ecole des Beaux-Arts/Navy Seals, and has nothing to be ashamed of.

Obviously, there is no way for the reader to ascertain whether this is true.