I’ve spent years writing about the intersection of technology, culture, and policy. When social media is increasingly used to create events, rather than report on them, I find that work increasingly relevant.
It is one thing to write an essay here or a newsletter there. Given the potential harms, utilizing adding additional forms, like narrative, seems warranted. Moneyballer Americana is a seven-part novelette about a struggling bluegrass musician who accidentally ignites a sports-betting media frenzy.
Come back each day for the next installment. When all seven parts are published, they’ll be compiled into a single downloadable version.
~Matthew
Scene 7 - Victory Formation
The windowless interior cabin was small enough that, if he laid out crosswise on the narrow bed, Eli could touch both walls if he stretched. And there was the constant, low-frequency vibration of the ship’s engines. The air was humid, and smelled faintly of salt and industrial floor wax.
Eli was smiling.
He sat on the edge of his bed, cradling his mandolin. After briefly retuning his high string, he resumed a steady chuck in time with the rhythmic beat. The notes rang out and echoed in the small space; a warm reverb not dissimilar from what one might hear in a nicely proportioned bathroom.
The song he had been working on was coming along. It was probably time to work out the parts with the rest of the band during sound check.
On the wall, opposite the bed, the flat screen television was on, volume muted. Idly, Eli picked up the remote and began cycling through the channels.
He continued clicking until something caught his eye. He backtracked to the previous channel - one of the myriad of sports channels that didn’t even have their own names, just a brand appended with “04” or “99” - the ones that aired stuff like cheese rolling or chess boxing.
Here, among the dregs, were Ty and Lance, trapped in a split-screen, their faces contorted into the same masks of performative enthusiasm. Ty pointed aggressively at the camera, likely shouting, “LOCK. IT. IN.”
Eli thought Ty looked tired. Lance dutifully swigged from some new energy drink. It looked like he had gained weight.
They were small and one-dimensional, swamped by the visual noise in the set behind them. They were peddling some rumor as the next big thing, trying to predict the next line and keep the hamster wheel rolling.
There was a knock on the door, and then Rupert stuck his head in.
“You about ready?”
Eli turned the TV off.
“Absolutely.”