Regular Life

I wrote this several years ago, originally with the intent to make it a column in the newspaper where I worked as a reporter. I never could pare it down enough to get it in, and it had a few potentially indecent passages. So here it is, in time for the upcoming Arkansas-Auburn game Saturday evening.

There are several reasons I remember my first game at Razorback Stadium, and only a few are graphic enough to offend those concerned with propriety.

It was the Auburn game of 1999. I had been to Razorback games in Little Rock, but never one in Fayetteville, and my lifelong status as a fan threatened to overpower my objectivity as a journalist.

I was 28 and a cub reporter for The Weekly Vista. An older cub, but a cub nonetheless. The sports editor from our parent company’s The Benton County Daily Record had given me a photo pass, and I was on my way.

As clouds quickly moved in to fill the sky, I remembered the wise words of my brother and stopped at Bentonville’s largest retailer to get a poncho. Four awaited my selective eye, because some guy had bought about 40 with plans to sell them at the game. The shrewd businessman almost messed up my plan. I also bought a disposable waterproof camera, in case rain threatened my Nikon. Hey, at least I would get something.

As if my purchases dictated it, the rain started as I left the store. I tested the bright red poncho right there, and it billowed enough to make room for the large camera bag hanging off my shoulder. Not bad for $5.96 plus tax.

Until later, when it had a huge hole in it through no fault of the manufacturer.

As I got closer to Fayetteville, Razorback fever overtook me. Auburn fans drove cars sporting wind socks embroidered with the orange and blue “AU,” while Arkansas fans flew flags bearing our team’s unique mascot. Now beyond the rain, I hoped maybe it wouldn’t follow me to the campus. If it did, then my camera would have to stay in my bag, dead weight safely tucked underneath my poncho.

I parked next to a college kid as he threw an empty beer can into the backseat of his beater Tercel. According to him I was a half-mile from the stadium. I quickly hiked out ahead of everyone else, but realized that besides the general direction of the roar coming from the stadium, I had no idea where I was going. I tried to look nonchalant as I slowed down to let other Hog fans walk past me, but I probably just looked like a nerd who had never been to Razorback Stadium.

Before I got down the steep final stretch, the sky let loose a light drizzle. I stopped under a small tree in the parking lot and set down my stuff to waterproof myself. My hood strings drawn tight, I headed off to find the media entrance.

After getting my photo pass, I squeezed into an elevator and rode up to the level of the press box. The eyes of men and women small and large danced in anticipation. A few season ticket holders greeted each other through excited smiles.

The elevator spit us out under a covered area. I removed my poncho and when I walked into the pressbox, that fabled room, all eyes fell on me. Okay, nobody noticed me at all, but just being there was pretty cool.

The smell of catered meatballs and shish kabobs filled the air, and I could see the whole field through the huge panes of glass. Junk food and American football - do any two things go better together?

Several televisions blared out the game. Why exactly did I want to go down to the field, when I could stay in the warm, dry confines of the journalists’ world, eating meat off a stick?

I didn’t think on it long, because the travel mug of coffee I had along with my granola bars on the drive sent me straight to the nearest restroom.

I didn’t see any familiar faces on the way, except sports journalist legend Orville Henry. I didn’t stop to introduce myself. He was already being bombarded by a man determined to have him meet his son.

As I strode up to the urinal, the door opened behind me. I thought I recognized the voice, so I looked back. It was Mike Nail, the radio voice of the basketball Razorbacks as far back as I can remember. So, as if I were really cool and this happened every day, I said, “Hi, Mike Nail.”

I had met him only once before, so as I said “Mike” I realized maybe I should have said “Mr. Nail”. My quick-thinking brain combined them for a less than desirable result.

He just replied, “Hey there,” and probably had no clue who I was.

And all that happened while I was unzipping my fly. Sheesh.

Pride out the window and poncho back on, I asked an usher for the quickest route to the field, and he told me I could just walk down the aisle steps to the wall, then jump over. I figured I wouldn’t be doing any voluntary jumping, because everything was wet and I had 12 pounds of camera equipment strapped on my shoulder.

I found some stairs and made it down on the field, where I had to weave around the cheerleaders to get to the sideline. I’d like to call that the scenic route. Several other photographers were there, but their lenses were bigger than mine. In the business of shooting sports, size does matter. I knew I would be outgunned even with my Nikon; I couldn’t possibly face the humiliation of pulling out that dinky waterproof camera I had bought. Stupid rain could turn me into a mere spectator. I tried to convince myself that might not be so bad.

Then the rain stopped.

I pulled out my camera and start aiming it around the place like I knew what I was doing. It was a struggle, but I managed to keep my zoom lens pointed away from the aforementioned cheerleaders. The line where photographers had to stop was farther back from the field than at the high school games I had shot, and we weren’t allowed to go within about 15 feet of the team’s area. We could jog around behind them to go to the other end of the field, and we could go behind the end zone.

Various funny-looking covers protected the photojournalists’ equipment. From elaborate fabric covers designed for that purpose to Zip-loc bags with the end ripped out, the professionals’ gear looked ready for action.

I envied their ingenuity, yet chided myself for not thinking of it. I had seen that kind of thing in the past, but it had never occurred to me that day. No matter, though, because it wasn’t raining.

The rain returned.

Using the same rapier-sharp thinking that had helped me welcome Mike Nail to a neighboring urinal, and feeling a little like McGyver, I pulled out my trusty keychain Swiss Army knife and cut a 15″ x 12″ section out of the lower front of my poncho (I know because I measured when I got home). I think the security guards got a little nervous when I pulled out a knife, but after they saw what I was doing, they realized I couldn’t possibly be smart enough to pull off a crime under their watchful eyes.

Copying the other photogs’ inventiveness, I removed the disposable camera’s rubber band and used it to secure my handmade cover. I could tuck my face under the cover to look through the viewfinder, and get my hands under it to work the controls. Nevermind how I looked with more than a square foot of material cut out of the front of my poncho.

For the next couple of quarters I got some good looks, with hopes they turned out to be good pictures (this was in the days of film). The Hogs were running over Auburn, so I wasn’t at a loss for good shots on the ball carrier. Only a bigger lens could have made it any better. Oh, and the blasted rain could have let up a little bit, too.

By then my glasses were getting hammered so badly I couldn’t see a thing. Plus, every time I tucked my face underneath to start following a play, my breath fogged the lenses. I took them off and folded them shut in the neck hole of my poncho.

About one minute shy of halftime, I had so much water on me that I went into a field-level port-a-john to take out a used roll of film safely and re-load. The toilet paper was good for drying off my hands. I decided not to use the port-a-john for anything else, because as soon as I reached for my fly Mike Nail would walk in, and he just wouldn’t fit in there with me.

By this point, I could feel the cold, wet denim on my knees and shins. The trade-off would be worth it, though. At just under 60 degrees, the temperature was tolerable, and I was getting what promised to be some great shots.

I ran back to the other end of the field, careful not to get run over by a huge TV camera crane. (That would be via the aforementioned scenic route, by the way.)

I snapped a few obligatory halftime marching band pictures, the percussionists splashing water off their drumheads with each hit.

Once I climbed back up to the press box and felt the dry, warm air, I knew I was home. When I compared myself, a soaked dolt praying for good pictures, to the reporters comfortably sitting at their laptops and the TV sportscasters chatting lightly, photography started looking like a third-world corner of the media world. Not to mention that by skipping it when I first got there, I had missed all the free food. I was just lucky that I was there by choice instead of on assignment. Otherwise, I would have had no choice but to face the elements during the second half. And this wasn’t a particularly nasty day. It could have been 40 degrees, or sleeting.

The game quickly became a joke in the second half. Stoerner, Chukwuma, Davenport, and Boo Williams moved the ball at will and the defense stepped up for Arkansas to dominate Auburn, whose only touchdown came in the fourth quarter. With about seven minutes remaining, I dried off and packed up my camera so I could just be a fan. When it was over, 34-10, I put on my trusty — although severely compromised — poncho, and headed toward my car.

This is the point where I truly got wet. The water soaked upward, to parts covered by my poncho. From my toes to my front pockets, I was sopping. Some youngsters sitting on their fraternity house’s front porch gave me a lighthearted look. I was still pretty pumped about the win and having some good pictures, though, so any laughter at my expense wouldn’t have bothered me.

With the inherited navigational skills I seem to lose anytime my wife’s with me, I walked right to my car. I unlocked the doors and climbed into the back seat, where I shed the poncho and left it in a wet heap before climbing into the front.

When I got home I realized I had shut the poncho in the back door. So, I had driven home like grandmother Williams used to, with part of her dress hanging out for all to see.

For the photos, you’ll just have to wait while I find and scan them.

Comments RSS