Learning a New Sport

Successful sports photography depends a good bit on understanding the flow of the game and the ability to anticipate what comes next. I played ice hockey and soccer, coached them both, and have watched an embarrassing numbers of games. I’ve been around track and field long enough to have absorbed enough to capture good moments.

Field hockey? Not so much.

Strictly speaking it’s not a new sport for me. My daughter played the game all through middle school but the pace of the game and the level of teamwork makes the flow of the game much different at the high school level. A lot of middle schoolers are true novices. Whereas middle schoolers playing soccer, baseball or basketball have probably played a few seasons already. So the game at the middle school level can move pretty slowly.

There are also some quirks to the game that make shooting a bit challenging. The stick is so short that body posture is decidedly different from other stick and projectile sports. Instead of full body extension at maximum effort players bodies are often compact, with backs bent low.

The rules only allow players to play the ball with the “forehand” side of the stick so they often—suddenly—move in a direction that seems counterintuitive to someone who has watched a lot of ice hockey. Or, anything really.

And the rules. There’s an awful lot of subjectively around two rules—the amount of force a player can use to strike the ball into a crowd, and obstruction, or shielding the ball from your opponent, something we actively encourage in just about every other sport. Each of these make it difficult for a neophyte to anticipate the next thing.

Even so, I think I got the moment here.

They Don't Build Them Like This Anymore

This is the ceiling of the Palmer Auditorium at Connecticut College in New London Connecticut. It was built in 1939 and its architect was the same fellow who did the Empire State Building. As I was sitting in it last week listening to the College’s leadership extolling the virtues of themselves, I got to thinking, “this is a really cool room.” 

It led me down a rabbit hole related to the virtues of sending your kid to one of these older historical colleges for the mere fact that the physical assets scream old, solid, serious, legitimate. I am nearly certain that as child I thought the faux Latin and Greek inscriptions on the Walker Art Museum at Bowdoin had been chiseled into the limestone by live Romans and Greeks. I was impressed.

I learned that Connecticut College will begin a historically informed $20M renovation to the building soon. I am happy to hear it and hope the ceiling looks just as good when the renovation is complete.

Bridge Stories: A VW Beetle named Gregor?

“Are you guys jumping?”

“Thinking about it….probably not.”

They did. Maybe the camera, and the thought of blog immortality, helped tip the balance. There was a time not long ago when no one would have imagined swimming in this water.

It’s a beautiful site and the swinging bridge evokes memories for most natives to the Brunswick-Topsham area. The associations fall into three categories: the once foul pollution of the river, the origin of the bridge as a commuter route for Franco-American millworkers, or the friend-of-a-friend who once drove a VW across the swinging bridge.

The bridge, spanning the Androscoggin, once traversed what was considered one of the ten most polluted rivers in America.  Because of the incredible pollution throughout the first three-quarters of the 20th century, no one would swim in the water. Nothing lived in it. Generally covered in a vile yellow brown foam, particularly down river and below the falls, in colder months the foam solidified.  For all appearances it could have been walked across. When sheets of the foam would calve and float away, the piece left behind would reveal striations like aged geological formations with colored layers—none of them seen in nature—moving from darkest to a grim faded yellow at the top. The smell was legendary.

The second well documented bit is the history of the bridge itself. First built in the late 19th century to support a burgeoning housing development in the Topsham heights where mill-workers at the growing textile and paper mills might live one day, it has been repaired and replaced a number of times since.  Intwined with the Franco American heritage of the region and their connections to the mills and to St. John’s Parish, there has always been an affection and fascination with the swinging bridge. At the end of the 20th century a coordinated effort to preserve the bridge as a cultural and scenic asset rehabilitated it and added some park-like amenities.

Less well documented is the story of the VW Beetle. Or was it a Rabbit? In any event it was a friend of a friend from high school who did it. And no matter how poorly documented the story is, everyone—of a certain age, at least—claims a connection to the driver, or at least to the passenger.

“It was a guy named Mo in a yellow Beetle, he works at the yard now. He was riding with a guy named Ted whose father was the school superintendent. They were coming up from Water Street when Joe Labbe blue lighted them so Mo took off, went the wrong way on Gilman, up Oak Street, and then across the bridge and into the heights. The cruiser couldn’t follow so Joe was just there sputtering like Rosco P. Coltrane.”

“No way, it wasn’t Mo, Ted was driving his Rabbit, but Mo was with him. And it was Jeffries, not Labbe.”

“Nuh-uh. It was Shelley and her sister. That family owned two VW Things. They both went across, And there weren’t any cops.”

“It was a girl all right, but her name was Janice. And she did get caught even though she made it across the bridge. She got caught because the Beetle—its name was Gregor Samsa—was tricked out with one of those fake Rolls Royce hoods so everyone knew exactly who it was. Cops just went to her house and waited. Her father was the Dean over at the College so you can imagine the scene.”

“The College. Gregor. Figures.”

(Maybe you’ve heard your own version of driving across the bridge? Drop a line. Click right on photo below for more)

Not What I Wanted

This photo attracted a lot of likes and comments on social media but it wasn’t what I was after.

I had been trying to shoot several larger dragon flies hovering and feeding together above the pond. Mainly blue and purple, they were occupying the space like a small air force screeching to abrupt hovering halts to stare me down. Holding their positions long enough to offer me the hope of a head-on shot, long enough for me to bring the camera up, but not long enough for me to get what I wanted. I tried everything from 100% manual, to the “sports” setting, and everything in between with no luck….just a lot of frames filled with pond water and a blank focal plane.

Giving up, I sat down in an Adirondack to concentrate on conversation, a can of beer, and some cheese and crackers. After a bit this smaller, less colorful dragonfly appeared at the top of a reed bent like the St. Louis Arch. Just enough time to grab the camera off the side table and shoot, settings just as they had been left. My eye never even caught the dragon fly on the left side. I just saw the reflection, the arch and wanted it. The execution is poor—too much after the moment fiddling needed but perhaps the moment was worth sharing.

On The Road From Belfast: A Conversion Story

A row of fifty heads line the clean horizontal at the crest of a hill. The line of the hill runs from one edge of the frame to the other, the line of heads runs nearly as far. 

We are in Maine, in Waldo County. Is this the opening of a tale by Stephen King?

In the next frame the heads are followed by torsos in numbered singlets. In a moment, flowing like water, 250 bodies pour down the hill moving as if connected to one another like parts of a single being, hammering the earth, leaving dust and bits of vegetation fluttering in its wake. It is a cross country race at one of the busiest, and camera friendly, courses in Maine.

Every year a middle school in Belfast hosts some of the biggest races in the state, and New England. 

If it is the New England Championship toward the middle of frosty November, the runners, the best of the best, will start with hats, gloves, and long sleeves under team colors. The morning run-through is lit by that certain slant of light; shadows of near leafless trees mark a stark contrast on the rimy grass and highlight the streaks of slowly rising mist. As the light works its way down the trees leaves drop one-by-one.  The icy crystals that were the last thing holding them dissolve in the light.

But it could be the State Championship a week earlier or, as every fall, the Northern Maine Regional Cross Country Championships. By regionals the teams have already been pared to their seven fastest runners. The first seven ran together on another course at the prior week’s conference championships. They’re all looking to qualify for the state meet the following weekend. Maybe in Belfast again, or maybe down in Cumberland. Either way, just half the teams will move on so they’re all looking for that one more chance to race.

Or it could be the most transformative of all the races, the Festival of Champions.

On the first Saturday in October, with Indian Summer still blazing away, as many as 1700 high school runners from far and wide show up to run. Sixty-five eager teams from Maine and fifteen or twenty of the elite programs from around New England and the Maritime provinces make the trek to Belfast to show their prowess. Many have come every year since the race first started seventeen years ago.

At Regionals and States, champions are crowned. But at the Festival of Champions, champions are born. Runners are born. Fans are born.

My daughter’s sophomore year, her first running cross-country, marked my first time at Festival. Still not completely over the fact that she had given up soccer, my exploration of the cross country world had been a bit…dutiful.

Sure. I was pleased that she had been scoring for her team, placing in all the regular season meets and sometimes grabbing the third spot behind the two outstanding runners who would lead her team to the Northern Maine Championship a month later. But I had yet to shake the feeling that track and cross country were things athletes did to fill in between seasons. I was fine when she gave up softball for outdoor track her freshman year. Winter track season had been a great addition in high school. She had received accolades, qualified for states and, by spring, even took a podium spot at States.

But I had never been a ballplayer. I had played soccer. And she was a strong, spirited, tough, competitor on the pitch. I was wistful. I missed soccer. I worried that she would end up missing it too.

The structure of the Fesitval provides six or seven competitive races. There are “seeded” races for boys and girls that feature some remarkable athletes, but the structure of the meet provides a series of competitive races across all experience ranges. The seeded races of 200 or more for boys and girls end the day, but freshman races and unseeded heats open the day’s running. The largest of the unseeded heats may have 300 or more runners.

For freshman, the boys and girls races provides a “big meet” atmosphere to first years who, to this point, have probably run just in a few smaller meets. It is an opportunity to shine without being plowed under by hundreds of experienced upperclassmen with several championship meets in the books. As many as fifteen schools field squads large enough to run five or more freshman. So the individual competition is strong but the team competition is also bigger than anything the freshmen have seen.  More than two hundred boys and girls will run in each of the freshman races. There is no mistaking the big race feel.

What do the unseeded heats mean? For many it just means the runners are slower, less experienced, or new to the sport. But it can also mean you come from a small school and haven’t had enough meets to generate a seed time. Perhaps you’re coming back from an injury. Maybe you just don't have a 5K time yet this season.

Fast performers emerge from the unseeded heats and from the freshman races. Many will displace runners in the seeded heat when scores are reordered to tabulate the overall results.

The elite runners will stagger spectators with their strength, determination, talent, and self-discipline. In 2015 the girls team from La Salle Academy in Providence Rhode Island dropped in. They took four of the first five spots and their fifth scorer finished 18th, ahead of 204 other girls in the seeded race. The 204 she beat had already been separated from another 400 or so by the seeding process. But the manner in which they took the race inspired awe: all finished in less than twenty minutes moving with grace and the unrelenting rigor of a metronome. It looked easy.

But there was plenty of room for home-grown talent too. Orono’s Tia Tardy pierced the bright red wall of La Salle jerseys to take the fourth spot overall. And on the boys side the top two were Lewiston’s own Osman Doorow and Paul Casavant of Hampden, two runners that had run neck and neck in dozens of races..

Unexpected pleasures seep out of the unseeded races too. In 2017 Gaelen Boyle-WIght ran a 17:39 to win the faster of the two unseeded races. One of just three boys from Telstar scattered among the seven races that day it was his one opportunity for a championship that season. He made the most of his chance tearing 35 seconds off his prior best time. Likewise first year Olivia Tiner of Winslow made a splashy debut at the 2017 FOC by taking two-plus minutes off her prior best 5K time and crossing as the third fastest Mainer in the freshman race. Around the scorers table folks were sifting the date bases to learn a little more about the freshman.

The real star, though, is the course itself. With a deserved reputation as a fast course, no one should mistake it for easy. There are plenty of hills, some abrupt and jarring, others on narrow hair-pins, and its reputation for speed adds another layer of pressure. The course’s visual appeal and view sheds make it one of the best courses to watch a race. With a little hustle, fans can easily catch rope-line views of the lead pack six or seven times. The gently rolling hills offer prospects for several other long views. With a lengthy start and run-out to the finish along with the “superhighway” midway through the course, runners can feed on the energy of the throng.

Between Festival and championship season the colors on the course flourish as greens give way to autumn. Only the start of the race is on a groomed playing field and just a brief stretch skirts the edge of a middle school parking area; the impression is rural country-side rather than sculpted park land. 

Most of the course is under the dome of the sky ringed by woodland and meadows. It’s no wonder that teams as far flung as the Colonel Gray High School in Price Edward Island, or Harwood Union from Vermont come year after year. With more than forty boys and girls entered in the race Harwood can easily be mistaken for the home team. Thirteen teams from Maine, and one from Cumberland Rhode Island, have never missed a Festival of Champions in all its seventeen years.

On the road home from Belfast that first night I saw that my daughter had taken ownership of something. It was hers, not mine. I am just a convert lucky enough to peak under the dome and stand in awe.

The Fruits of Her Labor: How to Brand a Job.

My fifteen year old has been working on a farm this summer. It’s hard work. She’s out the door by 5:30 every morning, six days a week. It’s piece work so the pay can be variable and the weather can steal a day’s pay too.

Other parent’s interest in the job is always colored by whiff of skepticism.  A flicker of disdain is  covered quickly by brief, awkward, friendly queries. Unsaid: “You let her do that?” or maybe even, “I can’t believe you make her do that.”

She’’ll have plenty of time in her life to stand behind a counter or use a keyboard. It is good hard work, it’s outdoors, she’s home by noon everyday, she’s feeding people. And she gets a paycheck. She’s got an Estilo habit she needs to feed. She’s out to Sunday brunch now with her friends. She didn’t ask for money before she left. She got this job by herself. No suggestion from us that she should work, or where she should work. In fact the early hours had us urging her to broaden her search—plenty of food service jobs available. 

For her it seemed a given: I’m old enough to work, how can I get a job, who do I know who can help me find work?

A friend who has worked there for a couple of years hooked her up. He has a crew of maybe five or six, drives them out to the fields every morning, brings them home at the end of the shift.A dollar a day for gas. It’s maybe a twenty minute ride from our house to the fields at  Fairwinds Farm in Bowdoinham. 

The people running the farm are brilliant. In addition to the weekly paycheck, everyday she gets a quart of strawberries, or a pint of raspberries to bring home. The fruits of her labor. Live on the bush hours ago. It’s a stroke of genius. Right there on the counter for everyone to see. Tangible branding. A bit of personal recognition. Almost like a present instead of pay.

Drive-by shooting

I often spy something while driving that might make an interesting photo.  But I'm driving. There's traffic, or the light turns and I have to move, or I am moving so fast that by the time I process the idea that I'd like to see it through the lens it's a mile behind me.

Last week at a stop light near Ellsworth I saw this funky furniture store. My camera was in the backseat. But the light turned. As I cruised by sizing it up for possibilities I started to think about how many opportunities like this are lost. But it was an undivided four lane road with a lot of traffic. I had other places I needed to be. I fretted and checked the rear view for other angles, but It was now a ways back. Just another picture imagined, but not not taken.

Then I missed my turn.

Headed toward Bangor not Bucksport. I had to turn around to get back on Route 1 so why not go back the extra half-mile?

Out on the patio.

Joy gives way to empathy.

What makes a good sports photo? When the ball hits the bat, or the puck stretches the twine amid a froth of sprayed ice, or every tendon wire taut as the footballer stretches to head the ball? Action shots are great, even people who’ve never seen a hockey game know the iconic picture of Bobby Orr soaring across the goal mouth after scoring the overtime winner for the Boston Bruins in the 1970 Stanley Cup finals.

But there are more subtle moments too. The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat offer plenty of opportunities to feature sheer joy, the crushing void of a loss, and the pathos of personal failure.

Track and field offers some unique opportunities. It can take some time for results to be tallied and for marks and times to be posted. The throw was good but just how good? Just you wait right there while the officials measure, confer, and consult. Maybe they measure again.

In a photo finish, you don’t even know who won until the names go up on the board. Just stand in your lane and wait. You’ll find out the same time as the crowd learns. The emotion held back by a chasm just moments long releases and adds layers to the expressions.  And the thrill of victory for one always means the agony of defeat for another. 

Sometimes the thrill of victory is followed quickly by empathy and kindness. And then you see sportsmanship.

Below you see Emily Labbe of Scarborough High School reacting to the scoreboard showing she had just won the 2018 Maine Class A Championship in the 100 meter hurdles. She’d won by 0.02 seconds and so did not know it until her name flashed up on the board in the first spot. Labbe had bested a three time State Champion in the event who, to that point, was unbeaten in Championship races for her career. It was a huge win. Behind her another runner's fingers are crossed as the board lists the finishers slowly, one-by-one.

Watch as Labbe’s joy is tempered by fellowship for the competition, and then re-ignites.

Finding the vantage point.

Shooting the discus and shot put is challenging. Each athlete has a different and perhaps unpredictable ritual, but the real challenges are safety and sitelines. Getting down range can be dangerous while the protective fence around the circle creates a visual barrier that occasionally inhibits autofocus if it's enabled. But this throwing circle at Gray-New Gloucester High School had a perfect lens sized hole about 18 inches off the ground. With right handed throwers I was safe from even the most errant of throws.