Sucking up to the Sports Editor

I never expected to fall in love with the Sports Editor. I was surprised that I did. It started one day when he called me into the hallowed sanctum, what IT insiders call the Rugby Ball-Shaped Office. He was puffing a cigar and I felt a tightening in my gut. I could feel him undressing me with his eyes. But I get that a lot around the office, especially when I wear polyester.

He felt that day that we should be more controversial. He told me he was throwing his weight behind Proposition 123 which demanded that all columns be very controversial. This measure would put an end to whimsy, reminiscence and what the Sports Editor aptly termed "that old shitetalk you go on with".

I thought it was the most sophisticated thing I had ever heard.

There would be no more sentimental cider with Rosie columns, no more painful stabs at humour, no more pieces dedicated to the purpose of conveying that Johnny or Mick or V.H.F. (no derogation for rugby, even) were great fellas altogether.

He rolled his piquer smoothly on his lap as he expanded upon this new policy. I could feel the static rise on my shirt. Sport had being taking the controversy war to the newspapers. Especially hurling. Beating us over the heads with controversy. The Sports Editor was getting tough. The light shone in on his face. He looked tough.

I suggested an idea I had borrowed from one of the really big hitters on the New York newspaper scene.

"What about a hero and idiot of the week?"

"With your picture at the top of the column, it kind of takes half the guess work away," he drawled. We laughed together, and I realised then that something was happening.

The Sports Editor would encourage me to do things which I didn't feel comfortable with. Work. Making phone calls. Checking facts. Attending to personal hygiene. He asked me to stop having tequila slammers in the morning. For a while I lost my confidence. I felt isolated from my colleagues.

We took risks. Once he was taking an important call on the phone when I did it to him. I got down on my knees and begged him to sign my expenses slips. He did. I later learned he had been speaking to somebody about golf at the time. I felt soiled and dirty.

This stuff is extremely tough for me to talk about. Once, in August, I went all the way with him. It just happened. You might as well know, you'll find out anyway. With two other men present, I played golf with him.

He urged me to do it. He assured me that this was a kindness disguised as cruelty. He gave the impression, without stating it explicitly, that it would help me to get a job later. I said, "What do you mean, `later'?"

It turned out to be a cruelty disguised as a charity outing. He forced me into an expedient alliance with one of the other men. I felt insignificant. I asked him not to do this with me. He said, well, you're both crap and you won't score too many points. So we played off the ladies tees and they didn't write down any scores in the high two-figures range.

The Sports Editor performed wonderfully, and when he made mistakes he covered them up with persuasive argument. We did the whole lot that day. Eighteen holes in every position. I was tired, but I tried not to laugh in the wrong places. We shared a cigarette afterwards. The worst thing was I had to give him £25.

There was an understanding between us that if we were ever asked if there was golf between us we would both deny it. The Sports Editor said that if people play golf and never hand in their card and then deny that they ever played golf, well even if their shoes have spikes and tassles, and their trousers are naff, the golf just never happened.

Despite the Sports Editor's warnings about secrecy, I told the GAA Correspondent (in confidence) that there had been golf between us. The GAA Correspondent asked me to tell him every detail of what had happened. What had the Sports Editor worn? What had his demeanour been? Where had the golf occurred? Had I worn anything special? I told him that the Pringle sweater I had worn for the occasion was destroyed, what with the Sports Editor spitting tobacco juice at me.

The GAA Correspondent told me not to get it cleaned, just to keep it. He asked if I had worn anything else that day. I told him no. He just nodded and said, "Nothing else at all?"

He asked if the Sports Editor had put this idea in my head. I said not exactly. But maybe. Everyone else did it. Everyone knew he had a huge appetite for golf.

We never played full golf again, but at times the Sports Editor would allude to it in company. I would see him with the other two men from that day and feel uncomfortable. I felt they were laughing at me.

Not much else happened between us. Once, coming back from the shops, he made me carry his orange. He ate it and said, "Tastes good". I thought that a little strange.

Not long afterwards he broke off all contact with me, but I continued to pay money into his account just to get my columns into the sports section. Proposition 123 has forced me to reconsider.

This has been very difficult for me to talk about and I have done so only in the hope that it will fill a column and I can go off to lunch. I am sorry if I have brought shame on the man I once loved.

There's no way my family can find out about this, is there?