Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
The super bowl
Even before the distant kick-off hundreds of miles away I felt the gnawing sickness of a man awaiting a certain death.
I have never made sense of my paradoxical, obsessive-compulsive relationship with the sporting world, and it's likely I never will.
In 2001 I was the only person in my sixth grade class that 'wanted' the Patriots to win the Super Bowl. Two years later I nauseatingly watched Tom Brady and Co. beat my beloved Carolina Panthers, who yo-yo'd me through a playoff run that at one point had me entering a comatose state of anxiety before my Mother told me that "the game isn't over" right before Jake Delhomme chunked some massive TD to Steve Smith to win the game and send them to the conference championships.
I went to school the next day after the Super Bowl a few weeks later wearing a shirt that I had scrawled "I hate Tom Brady" on. I wish I still had it.
He just threw a TD to give them the lead before half against the Giants. I want to cry I'm so pleased for him. The same person I hated so much.
When the Patriots beat the Eagles in 2004 I don't think I really cared. I woke up a few minutes after the game had ended, it being 3 am in England after all. Good for them, I may have muttered.
When they lost the chance at 19-0 in 2007 I punched a hole in the upstairs wall.
When the Broncos handed Brady his first loss in 2005 I posted a photo on my Myspace elated that the Broncos had finally turned the corner and beaten the tyrant that was Brady. "Finally", was my caption. The Patriots played the Broncos this year in the divisional round and I laughed as Brady destroyed them. I don't get it.
In 2006 I rooted for Peyton Manning to beat the Patriots in the AFC championship game. I hate Peyton Manning, and now whenever I read about that game and how the Patriots threw away a 14 point lead at half I cringe and curse the world. I don't get it. They would have gone on to crucify the Bears in the Super Bowl. It makes me sick. Yet I wanted them to lose.
In 2010 the Pats lost to the Jets in the first round after a week of Jet trash talk. I drove my car later that night and could only think about how meaningless life seemed at that point. "They just lost to those assholes. What else do I have to look forward to now?" I drove aimlessly. I didn't even watch the game.
The Patriots went to the Super Bowl in 2012 on a missed Ravens filed goal that I saw not on TV, but on a line of text that flashed up on my phone as I followed via Gamecast sitting in my car 9 blocks away from my house. I couldn't watch the game. I didn't watch the game. I screamed in happiness and drove home at 60 mph, through the neighborhood.
I could barely sleep last night thinking about today.
In 2003 Kobe Bryant and the Lakers beat the Houston Rockets in the first round, and I was livid. When the Lakers beat the Spurs in the next round, basically on Derek Fisher's 0.4 second 3-pointer, I (in classic form) fashioned up another shirt, this time saying "Derek Fisher Makes Me Angry" and I cheered when the Pistons 'swept' the Lakers in 5 games later in the Championship.
When the Lakers blew a 24-point lead to the Celtics in game 4 of the 2008 finals I sat in my downstairs living room and stared at the wall for an hour. I sent my girlfriend home. I never let it go.
Tom just threw another TD. I am calm.
in 2010, in the finals rematch, the Lakers won in & and it was one of the most exhilarating feelings, moreso for all the pain that seemed to vanish in the face of some odd exorcism.
The anxiety is so overwhelming I can hardly breathe.
_________________________________
Postscript : I stopped writing because at that point the game was swinging out of balance. I wasn't even watching it, and I'm glad I didn't. The Patriots ended up losing that Super Bowl to the Giants because of a few botched plays and I sat in the car almost dead. I realized then, however, that it wasn't so much a team I "like" losing that hurt as much as it was knowing that I would have to read all the critics bullshit for years to come: and then it hit me, that the agony I would feel was all because of stuff that had nothing to do with sports, just media garbage. I refused to look at ESPN.com for the next 3 months and instead started experiencing sports firsthand, photographing over 30 sporting events and seeing what it felt like to actually be there, not read about it. Now whenever I check to see a score or something it just feels like some distant thing that never really was that important. This doesn't necessarily mean that the flip-flopping waY i cycle through teams makes any sense, but I think that has to do with trying to exist through something else, through the performance of perfection, a notion I'm too lazy to try and entertain on my own. Once I overcome that it will be all the more easier to stomach the loss of others. I'll be back for the Patriots but I should promise myself that it will be simply for the spectacle and not for the instant gratification, the vicarious nature of living through something else for an idea of self-importance lost because you yourself can't beat the resistance that they did to be able to compete at the highest level.
I have never made sense of my paradoxical, obsessive-compulsive relationship with the sporting world, and it's likely I never will.
In 2001 I was the only person in my sixth grade class that 'wanted' the Patriots to win the Super Bowl. Two years later I nauseatingly watched Tom Brady and Co. beat my beloved Carolina Panthers, who yo-yo'd me through a playoff run that at one point had me entering a comatose state of anxiety before my Mother told me that "the game isn't over" right before Jake Delhomme chunked some massive TD to Steve Smith to win the game and send them to the conference championships.
I went to school the next day after the Super Bowl a few weeks later wearing a shirt that I had scrawled "I hate Tom Brady" on. I wish I still had it.
He just threw a TD to give them the lead before half against the Giants. I want to cry I'm so pleased for him. The same person I hated so much.
When the Patriots beat the Eagles in 2004 I don't think I really cared. I woke up a few minutes after the game had ended, it being 3 am in England after all. Good for them, I may have muttered.
When they lost the chance at 19-0 in 2007 I punched a hole in the upstairs wall.
When the Broncos handed Brady his first loss in 2005 I posted a photo on my Myspace elated that the Broncos had finally turned the corner and beaten the tyrant that was Brady. "Finally", was my caption. The Patriots played the Broncos this year in the divisional round and I laughed as Brady destroyed them. I don't get it.
In 2006 I rooted for Peyton Manning to beat the Patriots in the AFC championship game. I hate Peyton Manning, and now whenever I read about that game and how the Patriots threw away a 14 point lead at half I cringe and curse the world. I don't get it. They would have gone on to crucify the Bears in the Super Bowl. It makes me sick. Yet I wanted them to lose.
In 2010 the Pats lost to the Jets in the first round after a week of Jet trash talk. I drove my car later that night and could only think about how meaningless life seemed at that point. "They just lost to those assholes. What else do I have to look forward to now?" I drove aimlessly. I didn't even watch the game.
The Patriots went to the Super Bowl in 2012 on a missed Ravens filed goal that I saw not on TV, but on a line of text that flashed up on my phone as I followed via Gamecast sitting in my car 9 blocks away from my house. I couldn't watch the game. I didn't watch the game. I screamed in happiness and drove home at 60 mph, through the neighborhood.
I could barely sleep last night thinking about today.
In 2003 Kobe Bryant and the Lakers beat the Houston Rockets in the first round, and I was livid. When the Lakers beat the Spurs in the next round, basically on Derek Fisher's 0.4 second 3-pointer, I (in classic form) fashioned up another shirt, this time saying "Derek Fisher Makes Me Angry" and I cheered when the Pistons 'swept' the Lakers in 5 games later in the Championship.
When the Lakers blew a 24-point lead to the Celtics in game 4 of the 2008 finals I sat in my downstairs living room and stared at the wall for an hour. I sent my girlfriend home. I never let it go.
Tom just threw another TD. I am calm.
in 2010, in the finals rematch, the Lakers won in & and it was one of the most exhilarating feelings, moreso for all the pain that seemed to vanish in the face of some odd exorcism.
The anxiety is so overwhelming I can hardly breathe.
_________________________________
Postscript : I stopped writing because at that point the game was swinging out of balance. I wasn't even watching it, and I'm glad I didn't. The Patriots ended up losing that Super Bowl to the Giants because of a few botched plays and I sat in the car almost dead. I realized then, however, that it wasn't so much a team I "like" losing that hurt as much as it was knowing that I would have to read all the critics bullshit for years to come: and then it hit me, that the agony I would feel was all because of stuff that had nothing to do with sports, just media garbage. I refused to look at ESPN.com for the next 3 months and instead started experiencing sports firsthand, photographing over 30 sporting events and seeing what it felt like to actually be there, not read about it. Now whenever I check to see a score or something it just feels like some distant thing that never really was that important. This doesn't necessarily mean that the flip-flopping waY i cycle through teams makes any sense, but I think that has to do with trying to exist through something else, through the performance of perfection, a notion I'm too lazy to try and entertain on my own. Once I overcome that it will be all the more easier to stomach the loss of others. I'll be back for the Patriots but I should promise myself that it will be simply for the spectacle and not for the instant gratification, the vicarious nature of living through something else for an idea of self-importance lost because you yourself can't beat the resistance that they did to be able to compete at the highest level.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Journalism's razor edge
Sitting here outside Central Market. May or may not be deluding myself that this is still my favorite spot in Austin. In a way it is, but only at around 6pm: soft breeze, scattered children, maybe the swing/jazz band with people dancing, the theory of mañana, That Twilight Hour. It's still nice, though, at 4, I guess. Yeah.
I managed to turn my Holocaust essay in 2 hours before the deadline. Walked in to Lictenstein's office at around 1. I used to stress for days on end before capitulating and writing a paper last minute, but this time I think I knew it would happen anyway, so I stressed less. It must have been yesterday when I was walking Guss and thinking that it really doesn't matter whether I wrote it over 3 days or 3 hours. I know more than I can write, I get it, the grade is simply a grade on how I can best put some syntax together. I wasn't going to stress about spending the evening before a final paper is due in Bastrop at the most surreal high school baseball banquet in the history of sports ("What are we doing here" asked Elisabeth Dillon) simply because I knew what was more important. "People matter, connections matter. Grades don't," I said aloud. "Stop kidding yourself. Get over it". It's a work in progress.
Professor Lichtenstein, always eager for me to ask her about something (Rudi Mazarek's transcendental sacrifice, the Holocaust as an onion of understanding, US passivity) seemed to appreciate the fact that I told her I would have rather done the exam orally. "I could talk to you about this for hours but I can't write it down cohesively" I suggested, fully aware that I could indeed write it down cohesively, just not in 3 hours. She thanked me for being in her class and for being so hell bent on saying something every three seconds, "You may have noticed why I called on you so much". I miss that kind of thing. I told her I'd send her emails whenever I came across something else within the Holocaust that I couldn't understand, and wished her good luck in Michigan. Great lady.
And it all made me feel that much better about the night before.
The surreal nature of the banquet, a joint banquet for the varsity and junior varsity teams, came from a number of different angles, but it started from the outset. There we were, envelopes in hand containing prints of their portraits and CD's full of photographs, and there they were, dressed up (for the most part) and maybe with a girlfriend or date or something. Parents floated around aimlessly. Coach Williams thanked us for coming out again. Other parents thanked us. Sabel, the coaches 6 or 7 year old daughter, ran around. We briefly spoke to some of the players but it seemed dated.
"They don't know us without cameras," Elisabeth said.
"And we don't know them without uniforms," I replied.
It was an odd dynamic.
I began to wonder if that is simply what journalism is. You come in, report, the "story ends" and the people part. The subjects know they have performed their duty, and the observer has performed theirs. A connection remains in the form of the work, and that is what lasts. It felt true, but cast in a negative light it became something I wasn't comfortable with so I didn't let it stick. We sat and watched them maneuver in their personal space. It wasn't a baseball field.
In essence I knew that I overestimated the whole idea - it's what idealists do. In the grand scheme of things we spent hours of their lives with them. What is 10, 11, 12 games and a few practices to someone who is 19 years old? Not much. It's true that we spent more time with them than they did with us, editing photos, looking through takes, writing captions, things of that nature. We relived countless moments as though we were there again. It's not like they were looking at photos of us for hours on end. We were there for a relatively short amount of time. And suddenly everything felt far too temporary.
But the thought could be flipped, and it was. Temporary we were to them, yes. Absolutely. But within that short period of time we built something for them that lasts indefinitely. Your life has value, let us catch it for it's worth and then give it back. I began to wonder what I would have felt like had someone come to me and say "I think I'll photograph your doing what you love doing for a while, how does that sound?" and I arrived at and answer that it didn't sound so bad. Photography suddenly seemed like the great equalizer. You're as important as anyone else. Whether that means we're going to be in contact for the rest of our lives wasn't the point, we had something of yours, and you of ours, and they both meant something, something greater than ourselves. The great equalizer.
And so the strangeness of the banquet went from being what at first seemed like an intrusion of two people who felt much older than they were (though Elisabeth joked that some of the guys may of been older than she was) to one of the mystique of equality. That odd, sporadic banquet, hosted in a massive arena that was maybe 1/8th full, littered with rushed speeches, missed handshakes, quick dialogue, forced swagger walks, badly edited slideshows, and out-of-place music suddenly transcended its time and place. This could be anywhere, we thought. We could be in Houston, Plano, Laredo, Amarillo. The text would change, the players would change, the coaches, the parents, but the strangeness would remain. The strangeness of seeing something else, something different, and knowing full well that the pillars were universal.
Alec's mom Dianna said that she wanted to present us at the end of the banquet as a thank you for all that we did, and she asked if I wanted to say something, "You do the talking," Elisabeth said, so I sat and thought of what to say, knowing certainly that it didn't matter what I came up with because in the end I would forget it and have to go from the gut. And strange it was, us standing there on stage, Dianna giving us gas cards from Shell because UIL rules state that we cant just give things to a team without some kind of compensation before a slideshow containing some of our photos ran on the big projector screens. They were compressed wrong, but it wasn't that big of a deal. The night ended with us handing all of the players their envelopes, the keys to our connection, contented by the fact that in all honesty they had some "pretty badass shit" to keep with them for the rest of their lives, and that we had lessons to build on as we went forward. "Just think," Elisabeth mentioned as the senior slideshows played, small glimpses into the lives of these players as kids and young men, "at some point our photos might be part of something like that". I've always known that the power of photography is the transcendence of time, but I think everything that happened with those guys made me realize that if it is a gift you have - not the ability to take good pictures but more ability to care about them - then you damn well need to share it, because all that matters is making connections, and if it that happens because of a lens, a sensor or a plane of film, and a shutter, then so be it. Embrace it, use it, give it, and let it enfold you. The power of images, temporality realized as the moment remains. The power of images.
Anyway, it's 5:30 and I need to feed the dog.
thomas | nikon d3s
"I was sitting back there thinking of what I would say when I came up here but I'm going to keep it short. After the last game of the season we were driving back to Austin and - I don't know which of us said it - we asked each other "What would it have been like had we picked another team?". What would it have been like had we gone and covered Westlake, or Austin High or one of those teams in the Austin area. Would the dynamics have been the same? Would the community have been as inviting..or the players as hilarious? Talking about Klaus' Cats or...telling Sabel to go "take a lap". We don't know. But I'm not so sure that is what's important. What is important is that we learned a great deal of watching you guys play, the way you competed, the way you interacted with each other, and the way everyone accepted us with such open arms, and at the end of the day we learned a lot more from you guys than you might realize, and we thank you for that."
To view photos of the 2012 Bastrop varsity baseball team, click here
I managed to turn my Holocaust essay in 2 hours before the deadline. Walked in to Lictenstein's office at around 1. I used to stress for days on end before capitulating and writing a paper last minute, but this time I think I knew it would happen anyway, so I stressed less. It must have been yesterday when I was walking Guss and thinking that it really doesn't matter whether I wrote it over 3 days or 3 hours. I know more than I can write, I get it, the grade is simply a grade on how I can best put some syntax together. I wasn't going to stress about spending the evening before a final paper is due in Bastrop at the most surreal high school baseball banquet in the history of sports ("What are we doing here" asked Elisabeth Dillon) simply because I knew what was more important. "People matter, connections matter. Grades don't," I said aloud. "Stop kidding yourself. Get over it". It's a work in progress.
Professor Lichtenstein, always eager for me to ask her about something (Rudi Mazarek's transcendental sacrifice, the Holocaust as an onion of understanding, US passivity) seemed to appreciate the fact that I told her I would have rather done the exam orally. "I could talk to you about this for hours but I can't write it down cohesively" I suggested, fully aware that I could indeed write it down cohesively, just not in 3 hours. She thanked me for being in her class and for being so hell bent on saying something every three seconds, "You may have noticed why I called on you so much". I miss that kind of thing. I told her I'd send her emails whenever I came across something else within the Holocaust that I couldn't understand, and wished her good luck in Michigan. Great lady.
And it all made me feel that much better about the night before.
The surreal nature of the banquet, a joint banquet for the varsity and junior varsity teams, came from a number of different angles, but it started from the outset. There we were, envelopes in hand containing prints of their portraits and CD's full of photographs, and there they were, dressed up (for the most part) and maybe with a girlfriend or date or something. Parents floated around aimlessly. Coach Williams thanked us for coming out again. Other parents thanked us. Sabel, the coaches 6 or 7 year old daughter, ran around. We briefly spoke to some of the players but it seemed dated.
"They don't know us without cameras," Elisabeth said.
"And we don't know them without uniforms," I replied.
It was an odd dynamic.
I began to wonder if that is simply what journalism is. You come in, report, the "story ends" and the people part. The subjects know they have performed their duty, and the observer has performed theirs. A connection remains in the form of the work, and that is what lasts. It felt true, but cast in a negative light it became something I wasn't comfortable with so I didn't let it stick. We sat and watched them maneuver in their personal space. It wasn't a baseball field.
In essence I knew that I overestimated the whole idea - it's what idealists do. In the grand scheme of things we spent hours of their lives with them. What is 10, 11, 12 games and a few practices to someone who is 19 years old? Not much. It's true that we spent more time with them than they did with us, editing photos, looking through takes, writing captions, things of that nature. We relived countless moments as though we were there again. It's not like they were looking at photos of us for hours on end. We were there for a relatively short amount of time. And suddenly everything felt far too temporary.
But the thought could be flipped, and it was. Temporary we were to them, yes. Absolutely. But within that short period of time we built something for them that lasts indefinitely. Your life has value, let us catch it for it's worth and then give it back. I began to wonder what I would have felt like had someone come to me and say "I think I'll photograph your doing what you love doing for a while, how does that sound?" and I arrived at and answer that it didn't sound so bad. Photography suddenly seemed like the great equalizer. You're as important as anyone else. Whether that means we're going to be in contact for the rest of our lives wasn't the point, we had something of yours, and you of ours, and they both meant something, something greater than ourselves. The great equalizer.
And so the strangeness of the banquet went from being what at first seemed like an intrusion of two people who felt much older than they were (though Elisabeth joked that some of the guys may of been older than she was) to one of the mystique of equality. That odd, sporadic banquet, hosted in a massive arena that was maybe 1/8th full, littered with rushed speeches, missed handshakes, quick dialogue, forced swagger walks, badly edited slideshows, and out-of-place music suddenly transcended its time and place. This could be anywhere, we thought. We could be in Houston, Plano, Laredo, Amarillo. The text would change, the players would change, the coaches, the parents, but the strangeness would remain. The strangeness of seeing something else, something different, and knowing full well that the pillars were universal.
Alec's mom Dianna said that she wanted to present us at the end of the banquet as a thank you for all that we did, and she asked if I wanted to say something, "You do the talking," Elisabeth said, so I sat and thought of what to say, knowing certainly that it didn't matter what I came up with because in the end I would forget it and have to go from the gut. And strange it was, us standing there on stage, Dianna giving us gas cards from Shell because UIL rules state that we cant just give things to a team without some kind of compensation before a slideshow containing some of our photos ran on the big projector screens. They were compressed wrong, but it wasn't that big of a deal. The night ended with us handing all of the players their envelopes, the keys to our connection, contented by the fact that in all honesty they had some "pretty badass shit" to keep with them for the rest of their lives, and that we had lessons to build on as we went forward. "Just think," Elisabeth mentioned as the senior slideshows played, small glimpses into the lives of these players as kids and young men, "at some point our photos might be part of something like that". I've always known that the power of photography is the transcendence of time, but I think everything that happened with those guys made me realize that if it is a gift you have - not the ability to take good pictures but more ability to care about them - then you damn well need to share it, because all that matters is making connections, and if it that happens because of a lens, a sensor or a plane of film, and a shutter, then so be it. Embrace it, use it, give it, and let it enfold you. The power of images, temporality realized as the moment remains. The power of images.
Anyway, it's 5:30 and I need to feed the dog.
"I was sitting back there thinking of what I would say when I came up here but I'm going to keep it short. After the last game of the season we were driving back to Austin and - I don't know which of us said it - we asked each other "What would it have been like had we picked another team?". What would it have been like had we gone and covered Westlake, or Austin High or one of those teams in the Austin area. Would the dynamics have been the same? Would the community have been as inviting..or the players as hilarious? Talking about Klaus' Cats or...telling Sabel to go "take a lap". We don't know. But I'm not so sure that is what's important. What is important is that we learned a great deal of watching you guys play, the way you competed, the way you interacted with each other, and the way everyone accepted us with such open arms, and at the end of the day we learned a lot more from you guys than you might realize, and we thank you for that."
To view photos of the 2012 Bastrop varsity baseball team, click here
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
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