The Curious Case of Patrick Iversen and the Needless Introduction

Illustration of man who looks nothing like Patrick Iversen

The world is on fire. The ice caps are melting, the banks are stealing, and somewhere right now, a hedge fund weasel is celebrating his fourth divorce by snorting Peruvian-grade cocaine off a supermodel’s collarbone. And yet, here I am, frothing at the mouth over an email newsletter.

Not just any newsletter—The Athletic’s Prime Tire, a finely tuned, well-oiled machine of F1 journalism that keeps the motorsport junkies well-fed and blissfully ignorant of the greater existential collapse happening all around them. And it’s good, goddammit. Too good. Patrick Iversen, the primary architect of this digital joyride, has a gift—concise, engaging, well-researched pieces that make a man believe, however briefly, that life is about more than mortgage payments and the slow death of rock and roll.

But the problem—the stick in my eye, the grinding stone against my molars—is his opening paragraph. Every single time, without fail, he must reintroduce himself.

"Hi, I’m Patrick. Madeline will be along shortly."

Christ almighty. Who the hell is this for?

Your name is on the byline, Patrick. We know who you are. We came here for your work, not for the warm pleasantries of a second-rate cruise director. This is F1, the pinnacle of motorsport, a world where men hurl themselves at corners at 200 mph, where sponsors wage war on every square inch of fabric, where Toto Wolff prowls the paddock like a Bond villain waiting for his moment. And you want to start this sacred transmission with the literary equivalent of knocking on a bathroom stall and politely announcing your presence?

This is journalism, not the spa at Sandals.

Now, let’s be clear—Iversen is a talent. You don’t get a seat at The Athletic’s table unless you can write like hell and file copy without embarrassing yourself. The man’s insight is sharp, his analysis airtight. But this one tic, this insufferable, self-announcing, faux-humble prelude—it gnaws at me. I see the words forming before my eyes and already my blood pressure spikes.

"Hi, I’m Patrick."

I KNOW, PATRICK.

It’s not just unnecessary—it’s an affront to the reader. It assumes we lack the cognitive ability to recognize continuity, that we need to be gently led by the hand and reassured that the great minds of The Athletic are, in fact, still working as a team. I don’t need a buddy-cop introduction before reading about why Ferrari managed to screw themselves yet again. Just get to the damn point.

And yet—I won’t unsubscribe.

Because I’m a junkie. A slave to the content. And Patrick, the bastard, knows it. He could start every edition by reading me the ingredients of a shampoo bottle and I’d still scroll down like a starving man clawing at an empty fridge. Because at the end of the day, the work is good. And good work is rare.

But I swear, if I ever meet him, I’m opening with:

"Hi, I’m Joe. Patrick will be along shortly."

Let’s see how he likes it.