NON MONSIEUR: IF I EVER MOVE TO PARIS, I’LL SEND POSTCARDS TO CHICAGO MEDIA

I love fun junk in my former city, where a columnist thinks I might be moving my operations base to France, which does have Notre-Dame — um, I’m focused on Notre Dame and stopping fires in Los Angeles

Weird stuff happens to me in the desperate wilds of Chicago media. Once, I returned a guaranteed $1 million because the editors couldn’t post our columns and stories from the Beijing Olympics. Once, my ESPN producer removed nosy news columnist Neil Steinberg from our “Around The Horn” studio space, never mind that the program brought national attention to the Sun-Times.

And once, twice and three times, I saved teammates Mark Potash, Brad Biggs and Greg Couch when writer-turned-talker Mike Mulligan picked fights with them. A fourth time, I smirked at Rick Telander when he wanted to go outside. I was the Lady Byng Memorial Trophy winner, only losing my cool when people lied, which was often.

This week, it was written in Chicago that I might be moving my operations base to Paris. Hot damn! Does that city have a Reinsdorfian figure? Victor Wembanyama would read me. Kylian Mbappe would read me. Pepe Le Pew would read me. I love visiting the city and taking a quick train to London. And someday, who the hell knows if Notre Dame becomes Notre-Dame? But at the moment, I’m fighting fires not at a restored cathedral — but five miles north of where I live in Los Angeles.

The man who says I’m moving to Europe also called me — trumpets, drums and a fun nod to Billy Corgan for meeting Bill Burr — “without question the most impacting Chicago sportswriter of the past quarter-century.’’ Jim O’Donnell could be correct about that, at least, but who am I compared to Marc Ventouillac? In France, I would attend Paris Saint-Germain football matches and watch Wembanyama when he returns with the San Antonio Spurs. The people love rugby and wear roosters on jerseys. The restaurants are magnificent. The wine is better. Nothing is better than Roland-Garros on a June afternoon. Did someone take a Metro from Team USA’s basketball semifinal to the beach volleyball game outside the Eiffel Tower?

But …

O’Donnell, generally an excellent columnist, either misread what I wrote about Paris or hopes I go away. Or perhaps he wants me to join the Sun-Times, which wants voluntary buyouts from staff members. I don’t write columns on Substack for Chicago purposes, though I occasionally bring the city’s media problems into national play because I worked there for 17 years. Currently, I’m trying to get rid of sports fanboys. Those people would like me to disappear somewhere in Paris, all right.

Paris, Illinois.

It’s 165 miles south of Chicago and 90 miles west of Indianapolis. The population is 8,039 people, more than what is expected at a White Sox game.

For now, I’m planning a meal at Petit Trois on Highland Avenue in Hollywood. Ludo Lefebvre makes a precious Big Mec.

A double cheeseburger.

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Jay Mariotti, called “without question the most impacting Chicago sportswriter of the past quarter-century,’’ writes general sports columns for Substack while appearing on some of the 1,678,498 podcasts and shows in production today. He is an accomplished columnist, TV panelist and talk/podcast host. Living in Los Angeles, he gravitated by osmosis to film projects.