Life In The Bush Of Goalies
Covering hockey was that supposedly fun thing that...oops! Apologies to David Foster Wallace. I'm pre-coffee. Actually, it was fun, just not what I expected. It took some hindsight and me donning my anthropologist's goggles to fully appreciate what I witnessed.
Some moving parts to know about this time: The players and coaching staff were great. The old guard was very helpful. Pete Weber, Terry Crisp, and Tom Callahan were gracious and funny and patient as I wobbled around event level with a twisted knee and a head injury. Everyone in the business needs a few ride or dies in the peanut gallery. Mine were Mark Willoughby, Dirk Hoag, the artist formerly known as Hildymac, and Lisa K. Halsey.* My point in listing all of these people is that you cannot and should not do this alone. Stick taps to everyone.
Having said that, I am now mostly back with my tribe: observers and creators of all ilks. Ilks? It fits, I guess. During a group chat, I disclosed that I was offered a chance to do credentialed coverage for the NOLA Saints. I was also told I was crazy for turning it down.
Here's why:
1. I'm an anthropologist, not a journalist. Everything I write goes through that filter.
2. Hunter S. Thompson was right. The best seat is always going to be your living room sofa.
3. I'm too old for this.
There were some takeaways that led to some of my best writing and photography at the time. I saw patterns in behavior, in the way things were expressed and named. My appreciation of visual anthropology, the use of still photography, film, and videography to capture behavior increased as a sort of silver bullet that blew past personal observation to reveal patterns I might have otherwise missed.
I took my camera to get some shots meant to accompany a story I was writing about the return of Steve Sullivan after a long period of recuperation. As I looked at the pictures I'd taken that morning, smaller work groups and hierarchies revealed themselves that were not necessarily formed by Barry Trotz and the coaching staff. This led to photo essays created when I spent entire morning practices getting a goalie's eye view of what it looked like between the pipes. My very pedestrian coverage of the Nashville Predators shifted to me showing the legacies behind numbers and names. The living, breathing history of the sport stretched out on the screen and page.
One of my friends from undergraduate school has never quite shaken his envy of my time doing this, no matter how much I tell him there were drawbacks and tradeoffs.
"What would you change?" He always asks.
Wow. The hard metal folding chairs in the press box? The mysterious beige food in the downstairs media lounge? Maybe. There is one aspect of this that needs to be rethought and I have brought this up before and some of my ride-or-dies vehemently disagree.
We have no business going into the locker rooms.
This is not about modesty or gender roles or anything like that. Players and staff need that space to unpack what just happened on the rink (or field or pitch or green) before someone pushes a DVR in their face and asks, "Whahjushappned?" Wouldn't it be more respectful to give someone time to shower, think, and maybe unspool from extreme effort in front of the lights, the crowd, and the cruelest bit of technology in there, the clock?
Maybe I was always cut out to be a fan and only a fan.
*This is a partial list. I'd be here all day listing everybody.
Some moving parts to know about this time: The players and coaching staff were great. The old guard was very helpful. Pete Weber, Terry Crisp, and Tom Callahan were gracious and funny and patient as I wobbled around event level with a twisted knee and a head injury. Everyone in the business needs a few ride or dies in the peanut gallery. Mine were Mark Willoughby, Dirk Hoag, the artist formerly known as Hildymac, and Lisa K. Halsey.* My point in listing all of these people is that you cannot and should not do this alone. Stick taps to everyone.
Having said that, I am now mostly back with my tribe: observers and creators of all ilks. Ilks? It fits, I guess. During a group chat, I disclosed that I was offered a chance to do credentialed coverage for the NOLA Saints. I was also told I was crazy for turning it down.
Here's why:
1. I'm an anthropologist, not a journalist. Everything I write goes through that filter.
2. Hunter S. Thompson was right. The best seat is always going to be your living room sofa.
3. I'm too old for this.
There were some takeaways that led to some of my best writing and photography at the time. I saw patterns in behavior, in the way things were expressed and named. My appreciation of visual anthropology, the use of still photography, film, and videography to capture behavior increased as a sort of silver bullet that blew past personal observation to reveal patterns I might have otherwise missed.
I took my camera to get some shots meant to accompany a story I was writing about the return of Steve Sullivan after a long period of recuperation. As I looked at the pictures I'd taken that morning, smaller work groups and hierarchies revealed themselves that were not necessarily formed by Barry Trotz and the coaching staff. This led to photo essays created when I spent entire morning practices getting a goalie's eye view of what it looked like between the pipes. My very pedestrian coverage of the Nashville Predators shifted to me showing the legacies behind numbers and names. The living, breathing history of the sport stretched out on the screen and page.
One of my friends from undergraduate school has never quite shaken his envy of my time doing this, no matter how much I tell him there were drawbacks and tradeoffs.
"What would you change?" He always asks.
Wow. The hard metal folding chairs in the press box? The mysterious beige food in the downstairs media lounge? Maybe. There is one aspect of this that needs to be rethought and I have brought this up before and some of my ride-or-dies vehemently disagree.
We have no business going into the locker rooms.
This is not about modesty or gender roles or anything like that. Players and staff need that space to unpack what just happened on the rink (or field or pitch or green) before someone pushes a DVR in their face and asks, "Whahjushappned?" Wouldn't it be more respectful to give someone time to shower, think, and maybe unspool from extreme effort in front of the lights, the crowd, and the cruelest bit of technology in there, the clock?
Maybe I was always cut out to be a fan and only a fan.
*This is a partial list. I'd be here all day listing everybody.