Ah, participatory journalism. I’m a big fan, you know. I enjoyed getting the hair yanked out of my leg, getting a high-energy goose from a taser, getting plugged with paintballs, walking around downtown in girlish, orange crocs.

My editors keep trying to convince me to try more of this immersion reporting with the assignment: “Go Out and Find another Job, Loser.”

They sure like me over here.

If you’re a reporter, you can take one of two approaches to your work. You can handle most of your assignments by phone and simply imagine what the scene might have been like. It worked for Jayson Blair for a few years, after all. (I will never, ever stop tooling on Jayson Blair.)

Or you can get the hell out of the Guantanamo newsroom and go out and play like a ten-year-old. I recommend this approach because A. anything, even a latte enema, is better than hanging out in a newsroom. And B. getting into the middle of things presents the reporter an opportunity to become a stud.

Take Rebekah Metzler, a talented statehouse reporter who by now is sick of seeing her name in print.

When I approached her in the hospital, like a predatory bird with a notebook, Rebekah groaned, covered her eyes with an arm and said: “Aw, I don’t want to be that guy.”

That was pre-morphine, but I understood what she meant. She didn’t want to be the journalist remembered for taking a fateful ride in a fraudulent Zorb and busting her back. She didn’t want to be the poster girl for shoddy amusement gizmos and corporate wrangling over the Zorb name.

Yet Rebekah was overlooking the silver lining within the cloud she had bounced into. She wasn’t just some sucker who took a bad spill during a Wily Coyote-esque run down a mountainside. She was a superhero, bouncing crazily like a ping pong ball on concrete, taking a hit to expose dangers and protect others from pain and misery.

The way I see it, if Rebekah hadn’t taken that bone-jarring Zorb ride, a couple of trusting kids might have done so a few days later and they might have broken in two. The pain in her back, on display in the morning newspaper, demonstrated that the ride wasn’t safe. It was a lesson in headlines and high resolution photography that warned hundreds of parents to steer clear.

Superhero stuff. And she handled it like Clint Eastwood, with gritted teeth and complaints sucked down into the gullet and kept quiet.

A funny thing: when she first went to the hospital, the CMMC folks naturally quizzed Rebekah about the origin of her injury. The answer, I imagine, sounded something like this: “I fell out of the sky in a giant plastic ball.”

Shared glances among the hospital staff. A nurse speaks quietly into a microphone at her lapel. Code green, people. We’ve got a live one. Thinks she’s a spaceman. Get out the sleeveless coats.

But I digress. Rebekah went for a tumble down a hill and ended up serving as canary in the coal mine. She may have saved the bones of others from getting mashed and she did so with the boldness of Geraldo Rivera, only without the giant ego or hideous mustache. Rebekah Zorbella Metzler is a stud.

A day after the Great Zorb Tragedy, the news staff circulated a card for her. Aspiring comics take note: nobody is funnier than a journalist when he or she gets the opportunity to scribble in a sympathy card for a colleague. We had so many witty comments, in fact, we had to give her two cards. “You’ll bounce back, Rebekah.” “Your job sure has its ups and downs, Rebekah.” “You’re on a roll now, Rebekah.”

And so on. The fact is, while we exploited the hell out of a chance to flex our comedic muscle, we’re proud of her. Proud because she didn’t just take some Zorb New England press release and call it good enough. Proud because she was tough and cool and diplomatic when the whole world seemed to be watching.

When the time comes that I get hurt participating in one of these things (I know you’ve got a pool going, fiends) I hope I handle it with as much grace. And anyway, you’ll never hear about it when it happens. There will be no bold headlines and no detailed photographs of the horror.

I have a strong suspicion that I won’t be wearing pants.