Grantland chronicles the rapid rise and fall of The National, an attempt at producing a national daily newspaper dedicated to sports that became infamous for spending money, shall we say, frivolously:
[Editor-in-Cheief Frank] Deford: Oh, Christ. John [Feinstein] was overseas. The French Open ends. It’s another three weeks before Wimbledon. He calls me up and says, “Listen. Can I come home? It’s cheaper for me to fly home — and not on the Concorde — than to stay over here. I haven’t been home for a month.” I said, “Sure.” Where that crap came from about the cats, that’s one of those great urban myths. No way in the world did he come home to feed his cat. That is so much bullshit: that he’d come home on the Concorde to feed his cats or because he missed his cats or because a cat died. The cats weren’t in the conversation. I can assure you.
The National began publishing when I was three years old, and ceased publication before I turned five. Also, someday, perhaps soon, I will stop linking repeatedly to Grantland. (It probably won’t be soon.)