I’m heartbroken. For four years whenever I didn’t want to do what I was doing, my muscle memory had me type in ctrl+T, G, enter. Grantland was what Slate used to be for me: a collection of talented internet-savvy writers having a conversation with each other we all got to peer in on, except with a bigger budget more tailored to what I liked.
The writers were the cool older sibling I never had. They told me what culture I had to check out and how to appreciate it. After every big new album or game the next day I would hit up grantland and compare my impressions with theirs. I got to grow up with them, watching an incredible stable mature and develop their own voices.
Zach Lowe you showed me how beautiful basketball could be. Rembert I hate-loved you and your year end brackets were brilliant (you inspired me and my college buddies one 4/20 to spend six hours on a best Kanye song one). Philips you made me cry on multiple occasions. Morris and Pappademas you pushed me to think more critically about American culture. Concepcion your game of thrones recaps stopped one girlfriend from thinking I was a complete idiot for not being able to follow the plot.
Bill Simmons you’re great and also a selfish jerk for killing this. Having to bend the knee a tad is necessary if you run an unprofitable prestige project. Medicis aren’t going to cut Da Vinci checks if he’s writing screeds about the evils of trade. In 2015 at the end of the day we really don’t have any reason to expect something like grantland to exist so it’s best to be thankful it had the run it did.
So here’s to Grantland. Thanks for the memories.