Michael Smith On Leaving ESPN and His New Entertainment Company, Inflection Point

Michael Smith spent his adolescence in New Orleans rummaging through his grandparents’ VHS collection, which included classic movies like Coming to America, All the President’s Men, and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Quality family time often revolved around the TV. Then Smith grew up to occupy the television screen in various roles at ESPN for 15 years, starting as an NFL reporter at 25 and culminating as co-host of His & Hers and the 6 p.m. edition of SportsCenter alongside Jemele Hill. The latter role lasted just over a year, from February 2017 to March 2018, when it was canceled amidst a culture war over ESPN’s approach to the politics of sport and leadership changes that resulted in a change of direction for the network. Smith spent the next 18 months in what he describes as “pretty much professional purgatory” before leaving ESPN last September.  

Over the last 11 months, Smith did a brief stint as executive vice president and chief content officer at the now-defunct sports entertainment startup (co)laboratory, then spent the next nine months as a partner at sports storytelling outfit game1. In mid-September, he landed back on the air, co-hosting Brother From Another on NBC’s streaming service Peacock with NBC Sports Boston personality Michael Holley, whom Smith met when he worked at the Boston Globe before ESPN. “I had zero intention of returning to TV,” he says. “I was more than happy focusing on developing and producing content, but I guess you could say I had a bit of unfinished business.”

A key factor in his decision to return was the development deal Peacock gave to Smith’s production company, Inflection Point Entertainment, which Smith co-founded in August with his lifelong friend and ex-Microsoft executive Dwayne Bernal. Now he’s devoted to developing the kinds of movies and TV shows he would have been excited to find in his grandparents’ collection.

Smith’s goal for Inflection Point is very much influenced by his ESPN experience: “Our objective is to tell stories of change within the journeys of influential individuals, industries and institutions, because the good part is when the shit hits the fan,” Smith says. “That’s the good part of the story because, well, what comes next?” GQ called Smith to talk through that very question.

When you were sitting on the set of SportsCenter about to host “The Six” for the first time, what were you feeling?

I remember that day being real chaotic. I don’t know if I stopped and looked around and took it all in. I think what you’re asking me for is when I realized the magnitude of it, and I’ll say the day that we finalized the contracts and made the announcement. This would have been late 2016. The first floor of our house had flooded because the waterline in our refrigerator gave out, so my family and I were living in a hotel for a while. The only time that I’ve ever really been overwhelmed with emotion about a career accomplishment was at that moment when it went public. I allowed myself to cry. I did not feel that way when I went to the Boston Globe out of college. I did not feel that way when I went to ESPN at 25. I didn’t feel that way when we started Numbers Never Lie or even when we renamed it to His & Hers. I felt that way for SportsCenter because it was a brand, a legacy, an institution. It was the culmination of a journey, and it was a recognition of a job well done to that point. The honeymoon was short-lived, as we all know.

Do you think you could have been content doing His & Hers forever?

I wish I would have appreciated what we were doing more while we were doing it. I let my ambition get in the way of my appreciation. It’s what happens when you’re in that Bristol bubble. I was always focused on what was next. Frankly, I was focused on a form of external validation that should not have mattered to me. I knew what we were doing was groundbreaking. I knew we were trendsetters, in many respects. I felt like what we were doing was better than what anybody else was doing. But it wasn’t enough for me to just feel that way. It was, I need to be in a better time slot. We need a better-looking studio. We need more staff. We need promotion and commercials.

I wasn’t content because I wasn’t wise enough at the time to realize that what we had was special whether it was on ESPN, ESPN 2 or ESPN Ocho. It’s like somebody feeling like they gotta play in a big market. Nah, man. You can win a championship in a small market. You can make All-Star teams playing for a small market. That’s when I really wish I would have stopped and smelled the roses, that stretch from 2014 to ‘16. Could I have done it forever? No, I don’t think so. I don’t think either one of us wanted to do that forever.

Do you ever think about the fact that the type of show you did with Jemele, two black hosts focusing on black perspectives and stories, is something that ESPN is now fully leaning into after this summer of protests?

I don’t think you could pick up His & Hers circa 2014 to 2016 and drop it into 2020 because I think everything that happened in between set the stage for 2020. The climate right now has a lot to do with not just ESPN but every network — sports or otherwise — leaning into Black voices, stories and content. I don’t know that there’s a world in which we’re doing His & Hers, and we survived the last four years, and then everybody else came to join the party. I don’t think it could be linear because His & Hers was ahead of its time. Yes, there are more shows like it now. But the shows that are doing it now are doing it because of what happened to us. I don’t mean to make us sound like martyrs, but we had to go through that and sacrifice for it. Those who know, know. If there is a regret related to that show, I wish somebody else would have stepped in and kept it going.

If you had the space—like, right here, for instance—to say your piece about how everything went down with your ESPN departure and then never be asked about it again, what would you want to say?

I really love the way you phrased that question. I’d say ‘thank you’ because, like with most stories, we focus on the end or the beginning and the middle gets overlooked. I spent 15 years there. I have a lot of good memories. I feel like I did a lot of good work. I worked with a lot of great people. I provided for my family. Let’s keep it real: I’m sitting in a house, driving cars and living a lifestyle that I was able to achieve working at ESPN for 15 years. 

And it set me up for the sequel. Maybe that movie didn’t have the happiest ending, but the sequel has a chance to be really good. It’s like Avengers: Infinity War, that ending was painful [laughs]. Maybe ESPN was my Infinity War and this next chapter is my Endgame. 

I also just don’t want to be one of those people who makes a living talking about their former employer. I’ve seen too many people leave ESPN, and every time you look, they’re talking about ESPN. I don’t want anybody having that kind of power over my narrative. You can’t go into a new relationship talking about what your ex used to do. They have moved the fuck on [laughs]. That show kept going. ESPN could give two shits about what Michael Smith is up to right now. My intention is for this to be the last time that I look back.

Well, if it’s the last time, let’s go a little further. What was that inflection point like, from your last SportsCenter in March 2018 to actually leaving ESPN in September 2019?

It was a mentally and emotionally difficult stretch. I’ll be honest, and as much as I hate to admit it, I spent a lot of time worrying. And about the wrong things, frankly. I spent a lot of time wondering whether my career had been reduced to one controversial episode. I spent a lot of time replaying what happened. Not only did I question what I could have done differently, but I questioned whether I was actually as good as I thought I was. Whether I was ever that good. At that time, I was of the mindset that it was some kind of loss or setback. I wasn’t mature enough in my thinking to realize that wasn’t a setback; that was a setup.

In time, I came to find out that my insecurities and paranoia was just that: mine. As a friend told me, I was viewing myself through ESPN’s eyes. Looking back, I’ve come to realize it really was for the best because if not for the way it ended, I don’t know that I’m here now. Some people take the leap of faith, some people have to get pushed, and I had to get pushed. The how of it all made me miss the what. What was happening was I was being freed from these limitations and pushed into a better creative outlet for me. My faith taught me that sometimes something really painful can be good for you. But, man, did I struggle with that belief. It wasn’t easy to see that while I was going through it.

How has starting a company helped you reclaim your self-worth?

Number one, time. Time and distance have given me clarity. Now that I have found what it is that I really want to do, I realized that [ESPN] wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing anyway. It’s a lot easier to let go of something that wasn’t for you in the first place. How everything went down made me bitter at the beginning. It’s clear now that not only is there something better for me but I’m better than that, and I’m also better off. 

Inflection Point helped me realize I don’t need to be on somebody else’s platform anymore. It’s brought forward what I always had in the back of my mind, that I needed to create the platform—for me and for others. Nothing was taken from me. It just got replaced with something better. Inflection Point definitely changed my perspective on the situation. Part of my insecurity and self-doubt stemmed from me trying to anticipate how potential employers or the outside world would see me, as opposed to ‘nah, man, I am the employer.’ As an entrepreneur, I dictate my destiny. I was letting them dictate my destiny and, therefore, how I saw myself. I attribute part of it to me literally growing up there. I got there when I was 25 years old. 

Inflection Point is about telling stories that need to be told by the people who need to tell them. How do you identify those stories?

Our objective is to tell stories of change within the journeys of influential individuals, industries and institutions, because the good part is when the shit hits the fan, because, well, what comes next? The change point in the story is where the drama occurs. What was happening, what did you expect to happen, what really happened, then how did you respond?

One of our goals is to empower—in no particular order—Black people, women, the LGBTQ community. People whose voices and perspectives and stories have been historically marginalized if not ignored, people who haven’t always had control over their own stories. To put it simply, I just want to make cool shit. I’m trying to do the type of stories that I would sit down and watch or that I’d want my kids to watch. And tell them in whatever form that takes, whether it’s a film, TV series, documentary, podcast. I want to tell stories that speak to me, and I want to achieve representation in the process.

Somebody asked me before, how do you know if what you’re making is gonna be well-received or successful? I don’t think you can make content from the standpoint of, are people going to like this? I think you gotta trust your tastes, your sensibilities and vision, and just be like, you know what? This is the story I want to tell. And if it’s a story I want to tell and am passionate about, chances are that there’s somebody out there who feels the same way. 

Which storyteller or genre of storytelling played a pivotal part in molding you and your tastes?

I think anybody who paid attention to my sports broadcasting and journalism career probably knows this: I love film and television more than I love sports. I always have. There’s no source of storytelling quite like sports, but in my free time, I like watching movies. That’s why I quote ‘em so damn much. It’s the art that I’ve always gravitated to. Don’t tell anybody this, but there are sporting events I skip because I’d rather watch a movie again for the fifth time. Some of the highlights of my sports broadcasting career were when I was able to—especially on His & Hers—bring my love of film to my sports commentary or to the show. Those are the moments that I cherish. 

You’ve mentioned the pride you take in your ability to reinvent yourself. It seems to me that Inflection Point is more a return to who you’ve always been.

I think it’s not only a return but the final form. It’s taking everything I’ve done, everything I know, every skill set that I either have naturally or developed along the way, and applying it to something that I have ownership and autonomy over. I’m still a storyteller. I was a storyteller when I was covering the NFL. I was always doing this, but now I’m trying to do it at a different level.

This is fun when I say this: I am starting over from the bottom. I’ll ask myself my own question: what have I learned so far as a content developer and producer? I learned nobody gives a fuck about what I did at ESPN. There ain’t no rollover minutes. This is not, like, Oh, you’re the guy from ESPN? Great! We’ll buy this from you. Bullshit. Most of these people in this world I’m now trying to learn have never heard of me. And so, this is fun, believe it or not, to try and start over literally from scratch. It’s not even reinvention. This is invention. I feel like I’m out of college again.

I’m curious about any misconceptions about Black storytellers or storytelling that you may be experiencing now that you are running a studio. You once said you’re looking to tell human stories, and you happen to be a Black man with a Black lens.

There’s the part of celebrating my Blackness and showcasing my Blackness, but when I say I’m telling human stories, that’s how white people need to see it. Yeah, we have a different experience, but there’s also a lot of aspects to our stories that are universal. The working class does not only mean white. We have coming-of-age experiences. We’re fathers, we’re mothers, we have healthy marriages, dysfunctional marriages. We’re geeks. We’re nerds. There’s just so much more to the Black experience. We have experiences beyond systemic racism, oppression, poverty, criminal justice or the police. That said, we never escape those realities. Those are always ever-present realities in our existence in America, that this system is set up for our demise. We know that. But all of our stories don’t have to be limited to that reality in order to have so-called broader appeal.

It’s a reality, and a very important one, but not the only one.

Plenty of people have told and are telling stories reflective of the breadth and totality of the Black experience. I don’t want to make it seem like everything that’s out there is a story about police brutality, oppression and struggle. For years we have produced great art that reflects the whole spectrum. I want to do my part in celebrating the experiences and amplifying voices that speak to me and people who look like me and come from where I come from. Even though there’s so many amazing people telling Black stories, there are still so many untold Black stories out there—stories that people don’t know need to be told yet. So many perspectives and experiences that remain underrepresented, and I’d love to do my small part in bringing those stories to life.

I haven’t figured this out at all, which is the fun part. I’m at the inflection point. I believe in showing results not plans. But why I love talking about this right now is because rarely are the stories told from a place of uncertainty. Usually, we tell the stories when we know how they ended and we’re looking back with the benefit of hindsight.

Like how this started, with us talking about ESPN.

Yeah! I don’t know when or if I’m ever gonna make a movie. I don’t know when or if I’m ever gonna make a great TV show because a lot of things have to come together for that to happen. But what I do know is I’m gonna enjoy the process of trying to do it. I do know that the challenge fulfills me. I do know that my days look a lot more like I want them to look than they did before.

I love the potential. The fulfillment is in brainstorming with Dwayne while we’re driving up to Maine. It’s in a whiteboard in front of me and me scribbling down ideas on a notepad in the middle of the night. Watching something and being inspired. Pitch meetings. I love the “next steps.” I use this quote a lot: Love Jones, 1997, I believe. Larenz Tate has a line when he’s spitting poetry where he’s like, “Romance is about the possibility of the thing.” This, for me, is about the possibility of the thing. I’m not like I used to be. Looking back one last time, I think there was a part of me that was very much just trying to establish myself and climb the ladder and stay there. Now, I’m just trying to come up with a good idea and bring it to life.

Why did it take the other two startups to fall through for you to take the leap and build your own company?

Great question. I had to learn. I needed (co)laboratory to get me out of ESPN. That was the type of opportunity that made it worth it to me to leave. Up until that point, nothing internally at ESPN or externally anywhere else was available to me that represented growth. The opportunity to be an executive vice president and chief content officer, it was another form of reinvention. I had nothing to do with what transpired at (co)laboratory The dysfunction that led to it folding predated me. I was never a fit, even though my title looked good on paper, but I learned a lot at that stop. Just as I learned a lot while helping to stand up game1. I learned not just about the business but about myself and what I wanted and what I didn’t want. Those two experiences stacked together brought me to a place of, OK, now it’s time to do this my way and not conform to anybody else’s blueprint.

And I can’t stress this enough: I haven’t done shit! Not yet, anyway. I’m just getting started with Inflection Point, but I’m encouraged. I got some projects in development, some projects in production. I’m pitching a few things. I feel like Dwayne and I have got a real chance to be successful. Even that word, successful, means something different to me. I used to define it the way the rest of the world defines it. Do I have my own show? Is my show on ESPN? Am I making a lot of money to do my show? Now, it’s, Am I waking up and going to bed every night feeling good about what I’m doing? In this venture, do I want to make money? Sure. Would I love to win awards? Absolutely. But right now, for me, my biggest measure is, can I succeed in getting stories told that I want to tell, the way I want to tell them and with the people that I want to do them with? I think I now know what people like Kobe talked about when they talked about the process. It’s being in the gym. It’s getting better. The championship is the result of the process. You’re hopeful that that’s the result, but that’s not the driving force. The process of creating is the driving force for me. 

Originally Appeared on GQ