A game of inches.

"Well it's, turn and face the stars and stripes

It's fightin' back them butterflies

It's call it in the air alright yes sir we want the ball

And it's knockin' heads and talkin' trash

It's slingin' mud and dirt and grass

It's I got your number, got your back

When you back's against the wall

You mess with one man, you got us all

The boys of fall"

This has been a great year for photography in Glen Ellyn, IL.  Sure the fall colors came, and went, there are new stores lining Main Street that make it look new and different--but what really made it a great year occurred less than a quarter-mile away from the trees and downtown stores. It all came to life on Saturdays at Duchon Field where our local high school football, the Glenbard West Hilltoppers, call home. 

Yes, high school is not the same as college or pro, but the way this community responded to the undefeated regular season…the Bears and state universities ranked a very distant second. 

Being a photographer on the field places you in the middle of the action without getting injured; there have been times when I thought I was too close, but when it really came to being part of the game, it felt as real is it could get. During the final game, a ball came within inches of where I was sitting—at one point I considered stopping it as it went out of bounds, but very quickly remembered how fortunate I am to be on the sidelines. You do not, in any way, ever touch the ball, speak with the coaches during the game, or do anything to interfere within the two or so hours when the game is taking place. 

Never. Period.

Last weekend I was fortunate to witness the best game of the year; if not the entire time I have been photographing the team. Unlike most games, where Glenbard West dominates and destroys any team that has the guts to step on the field, this was different. The opposing team was from my former community where I spent more than 15 years; it was a game of the top 2 teams deciding who would be moving on to the big game—the state championship.

The first 46 or so minutes of the game were all defense with only a field goal by Glenbard West. It appeared, with good reason, West was going to be playing their final game a hundred or so miles away to the south. But like any good team that has come to play, Stevenson was not going down until the last whistle blew. When it did, they had pulled out a game for the ages—one where there really were no losers on the field, just one team that had scored 4 more points than the other. It was incredible.

However, before that final whistle, there was still the need for a score; to say it was close is to say it is truly a game of inches. One of the best things about being familiar with the local team, and knowing the field, is being fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time. I was and I was lucky.

The photo above was viewed by many different angles from other photographers, local TV coverage, and every fan who saw the play from the stands, sidelines and nearby. There was one angle that was shown, and not until the next day did I see it—was his knee down? Did the ball cross the goal line? I guess we will never know. It's all a game of inches.

Thanks for stopping by.

Five years down the road.

"When I got the news today

I didn't know what to say,

So I just hung up the phone.

I took a walk to clear my head,

This is where the walking led

Can't believe you're really gone

Don't feel like going home."

For most, today is just another day; that is until it becomes a significant moment in your life. 

Five years ago today, as I rode the Metra train from Evanston to Glen Ellyn—with a stop at the main train station to switch trains—I learned my Mom had passed away. On the train—a simple call—and she was now unreachable.

Five years is a long time until it feels like it was just yesterday and you wonder where the time went?  Death is an experience you can't get used to. It's not as if it's an event you can prepare for emotionally, it just comes, takes what it came for and is soon on its way. No hard feelings, no regret, just here and gone—leaving behind families who are grasping for an understanding.

Welcome to life. 

I suspect we've all lost something very important to us; it might be a loved one, someone you loved who went on to love someone else, or even someone you didn't realize loved you and felt the pain you didn't even know they were experiencing. Love is an incredibly powerful emotion, one I would not ever want to lose. Yes it can be painful, but it can also be wonderful. It just depends on the situation and timing.

When I learned of my Mom's passing on November 18, 2009, I really can't say I was surprised; she had been in hospice and I was pretty much told, "it was either today or tomorrow." I had spoken with her on the phone from my office that day, and although she was not able to respond, I still believe she was listening, knew my voice, and felt the love as I was letting her know we would all be "ok." Not great, not wonderful, just "ok" with her moving on. Those are the hardest words a son, daughter, grand child or spouse can ever say to someone who means so much.

Whenever I am back in St. Louis, I visit my Mom and Aunt and Uncle who are right next to her plot. I have looked for my grandparents, but they are not easy to find amongst all of the tributes to love ones who make up the cemetery. I have written before about my fraternity brother who is a few yards away from my Mom—as tough as it was losing her, knowing how young Marty was, that's just very difficult to fathom. (He died of ALS—no bucket of water poured on a head with a laugh, just a bitch of a disease.)

From now until the day I join her, I plan to remember her through "Snap. Shot." I realize one day, and I really hope not too soon, there will be another person I will be writing about; there is little doubt, he's the best Dad out there and he is VERY much still with us. Please  stay that way Dad! 

The photo above is one I did not take. I am the one in the middle. Whereas my Mom was not present in the picture, she will always be present as the woman who brought me into this world, nurtured me and called me her "son." Only one person can make that claim and I sure miss hearing it.

Thanks for stopping by.