Red Sox ace pitcher Josh Beckett recently turned down Jordan's request for an interview for New York Times Magazine story. But even big stars in the 70s wouldn't dream of such a thing. Here's how he got a story on (now Hall of Famer) Catfish Hunter of the Oakland A's:

I checked into the A's hotel and went right down to the pool. I watched as Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando, Rollie Fingers, and Rick Monday eyeballed the chicks laying by the water. I asked one of the players which one was Catfish Hunter. He pointed to a shy, North Carolina country boy barely into his 20s with a chew of tobacco puffing out his cheek. I introduced myself to Catfish and said, "I'm here to write a story about you for Sports Illustrated." He nodded. I said, "Can I drive you to the park?" He nodded again.

Another current Hall of Fame pitcher, Tom Seaver, wasn't any harder to get:

I called the Mets, told them I was an SI writer, and asked for Seaver's home number. They gave it to me, gratefully. I called Tom, told him what I was doing, and he invited me to his home in Greenwich for lunch. We ate in the afternoon on the porch of Tom's farmhouse. He barbecued a huge T-bone steak, cutting out the filet for me and the sirloin for himself. Then I drove him to Shea Stadium in a rainstorm in my old Corvette with the T-top that leaked. Water dripped on Tom's forehead. He looked up and said, "Why don't you buy a Porsche?" I said, "Because I'm not Tom Seaver." Water dripped on his head. He laughed. "That's a fucking fact."

But today, even jerks like steroid fan Jose Canseco screw with him!:

Jose was, well, Jose, reneging on our arrangement only after I'd flown to L.A. at his request. Why should he have wanted to talk to me? He had by then written his second magnum opus and was scheduled to appear on David Letterman and Howard Stern.

So he wrote a story about what a jerk Canseco was, and Will Leitch ran it on Deadspin. Blogs win!

[Slate]

I don't know how long this dude was living there, or how he listed his address on magazine subscriptions, but I do know the whole thing blew up in his face after he allegedly brought woman employees back to his corporate pad. One of them blew the whistle and the apartment was quickly dismantled. I mean fast.

True, we were running out of office space. However, they had my department working out of "the apartment" within a week. In fact, no one would ever guess that this room was once a place where a man cooked eggs, had sex and laid his head at night.

There was one problem though: FOX refused to remove the toilet. And that's where yours truly was stuck working.

The bedroom became my supervisor's office, complete with a closet and hanging mirror on the back of the door. The living area (which housed a makeshift kitchen) was divided between myself and three co-workers. It wasn't the tightest working quarters ever, but it sure was awkward. Maybe because we all knew what it once was. Maybe because there were no windows. Or maybe, because the toilet reeked.