There's a chill in the air.
I suddenly realize I forgot to restock my
supply of toe and hand warmers, the ones that are air-activated and stick to
socks or fit into gloves. I scour
through last spring's pile of junk that I stuffed thoughtlessly away when the
season ended. I find several packets of
Toasty Toes and silently pray they are still chemically viable.
I take out the camera, still loaded with
summer's soccer pictures, and prepare to erase the saved files. I have another epiphany: I haven't restocked
AA batteries since July. In season,
restocking batteries is a full-time job.
Taking pictures at a rate of two hundred to a thousand action snapshots
per week, depending on the season and competition level, I manage to keep our
local supermarkets and pharmacies in close contact with EveryReady, Panasonic,
and Duracell. I am simply trying to do
my part in keeping people employed at many different levels.
I'm no pro, but I am diligent. I accidentally showed up to a freshman soccer
game years ago with a brand new digital camera, and the "coordinator"
(militant parent) dubbed me "Team Photographer," a job no one ever
thought I would take seriously.
But they were wrong. Frighteningly wrong.
One hundred thousand pictures later, my
camera's counter has reset itself several times, and I have even managed to get
several hundreds of shots on credible websites.
Many of my photos have been used to make banners, collages, videos,
DVDs, recruiting films, and team website pages.
I still can't work every aspect of my camera seven years later, but
every so often I manage to take a picture that's so clear and so fresh and so
right, it's damn amazing.
There are two positive notes about my
action-snapping obsession. The first actually
benefits the coaches. As a way-too-vocal
sideline ref-wanna-be, taking pictures and videos forces me to keep my mouth
shut, especially when I'm alone on the sidelines. If someone yells, "That call
SUCKED!" and I happen to be the only one standing there, no camera is
going to talk me out of being guilty as charged. My loner-hobby forces me to be a quiet
spectator.
The second positive note is that I am
losing my vision, like most middle-aged people, and I cannot see the camera
screen clearly even with my glasses on.
I prefer to have the camera to my face, peering through the viewfinder,
snapping away at semi-blurry action, snap-snap-snapping away on sports mode as
if I know what I'm doing. When I get
home and download the pictures onto the computer screen, where I can actually
see them, I am always amazed at the results.
Often after a game while I am still on the
sidelines, a player will ask, "Did you get a shot of my
goal/hit/pass/somersault/penalty…?" I usually answer no, believing in my heart
that I didn't. Then I see it… on the
screen. The exact moment the player
twisted his knee and blew out his ACL, the grimace of pain as he falls but
hasn't quite hit the ground; the jubilant celebration as the number
thirty-three seed takes down the number three seed and knocks them out of the
NCAA tournament; the airborne bicycle kick as the soccer player manages to
score out of nowhere to tie the game; the movement of the lacrosse players as
they are airborne, seemingly standing on nothing while their feet move several
inches off the ground; the incredible save, the impossible goal, the
bone-crunching hit, the thrill of victory and agony of defeat.
Fall-ball lacrosse starts today. I am obsessed. I am addicted. And I'm ready.
