Dec. 10, 2003: The last time I set foot in KU’s Allen Fieldhouse. The banner above reads “Pay heed all who enter, Beware of the Phog.”

“Rock Chalk Jayhawk!“

That’s my dad, answering the home phone as I call at 11pm last night. No “hello” this time. The University of Kansas had just won their first NCAA basketball championship in 20 years and even a sports greenhorn like my dad was in on the action.

But let me back up a bit… instead of glued to the television like millions of Americans, I was spending my Monday night at O’Brien Field. The Peoria Chiefs had their home opener against the Beloit Snappers under a cloudy sky and chilly wind, with Tom and I stuck covering the game. Only 2300 fans deemed it important enough, barely making a dent in the 6500 capacity.

To borrow a cliché, the deck was stacked against us. Bundled baseball spectators and yawning fans were our obsession, each of us working hopelessly to capture some sort of “opening day” sentiment. A ghastly seven errors committed by the Chiefs and a 8-0 shutout final score spelled doom for us. As Chiefs skipper Ryne Sandberg said after the game, “We have to improve on the fundamentals of throwing the ball and catching the ball.” Genious.

I missed an incredible 8th inning, three outs filled with comedic plays rivaling a Three Stooges or Marx Brothers sketch. Instead of gunning the camera, I typed out names in my BlackBerry and watched with my mouth agape. My actual notebook filled with cutline information disappeared around the 5th inning, and the absolutely wonderful evening was finished: we may or may not have even made deadline.

What about those Jayhawks, though? Seconds after the last photo was placed on the page, I heard a tremendous sound emanating from the newsroom. “WhoooOOOOAAAAAA!!!!” doesn’t quite cut it; a closer approximation would be “ohhhhmygodhhhhhooolySHIT!” I looked across the computer screen at Tom, checking to see if I wasn’t the only one hearing things, and I bolted for the newsroom.

The rest, as they say, is history.

“And I’ll tell you one thing, that wild horses aren’t gonna drag me off this floor until those people have heard everything I’ve got to say, even if it takes all winter.”

– Jefferson Smith in “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” (watch now)

Never underestimate the power of a Frank Capra movie to resurrect an otherwise poor day.

“Every day there [are] winners and losers and there’s drama and there’s joy and there’s glamour. And the guys playing it are young, and so lots of times they say all the wrong things.”
– Frank Deford

I had the pleasure of listening to Frank Deford speak at Bradley University last night… the man is a natural, a wordsmith of so much more than sports. Even though his primary gig has been writing about bats, balls and rackets for Sports Illustrated, I overheard a man next to me call him “a Renaissance man.” It’s a true statement, a compliment to his intense interest in all things around him. He’s been awarded National Sportswriter of the Year six times, an Emmy and a Peabody. His thin mustache and lanky stature reminded me of John Waters.

The room was full and attentive; mostly journalists and wannabes, students and faculty. The Journal Star covered the event, with reporter Wes Huett writing a story for today’s edition:

“Think sports are not important? Deford says success and popularity merge more in sports than any other medium. The best films and music? Far from the most popular. Only in sports are the best celebrated universally.”

Now that’s an incredible observation. The competitive spirit of sports is so naked, so central to the rules. Personal bests only go so far; how can an athlete be THE best without pitting himself or herself against another warrior? An artist, though, can see criticism as subjective, something measured against the metric of creativity.

Deford also touched on the decline of reading, the widening gap between those who do and those who don’t. He predicted newspapers would one day be as elite as opera or Shakespeare, making special note that players of a certain baseball team early in the 20th century gave a complete set of Shakespeare to their departing teammate. The irony didn’t escape him as he bemoaned the rise of television despite contributing to HBO’s Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel. He also had sour things to say about his current employer, Sports Illustrated, belittling their decisions to cover the popular, boring athletes instead of bringing mind-boggling stories of the athlete down the street to light.

Afterwards he signed books, including his latest novel about baseball, “The Entitled.” I waited in line, marveling at how gracious he was to each person. Not only did he sign and write something in every book, he was also the guy sitting next to you in the bar, debating and jabbing with anyone who wanted. He never flaunted his decades of experience, always showing a genuine interest in others’ opinions.

Inspiring, even for a sports neophyte.

Sports Illustrated‘s archive of Frank Deford

photo by Adam / Journal Star

Two girls, early 20s, in Starbucks last week:

“Excuse me… we’re studying medicine and are guessing weights… we figured you wouldn’t be offended, would you mind if we asked you? Great! 150? Ah man! I thought you weighed 140… thanks!”

What a terrible and great week. But maybe it’s not so bad in hindsight.

I thought I had a whole laundry list of complaints, most regarding long hours and assignment complications. But I can’t remember a specific instance now, only that I won a few awards in the Illinois Best of Photojournalism 2007 contest.

Firefighters from five departments unsuccessfully battle a blaze at the Mapleton Church on Friday evening in Mapleton. The fire, which started about 5:30 p.m., destroyed the non-denominational church. (photos by Adam / Journal Star)

I’ve been to quite a few fires in my time as a photojournalist. There’s a distinct odor that make the flames almost unnecessary for comprehension; a horrific mixture of burning wood, plastic and irreplaceable items. This particular one happened several weeks ago and destroyed a 130-year-old church in a town of only several hundred. Firefighters tried to stop the flames but were no match for dry and ancient timber. I arrived relatively quickly, witnessing the steeple sag and eventually fall off the church. The city’s mayor saved a parishioner who passed out from the smoke, making this story a little more unusual.

Such a stunning scene.

Continue reading →

My dad, April 2000

Aboard Amtrak today, crossing the Mississippi River.

As I write this, my train is hurtling through the darkness toward Wichita. It’s been a whole year since I last set foot in Kansas, a timeframe that has passed astonishingly quick. We’ve blown by bombed-out factories and flooded farms, traveled for hours with no cell phone service. And at 3:30am this morning, I’ll be home.

The agony of a buzzer shot, Friday night’s IHSA state basketball tournament. (Adam / Journal Star)

At 10:50pm on a Saturday evening, I can say that the two weeks of hell known as the Illinois high school state basketball tournament has lifted and the future looks a little brighter. We’ve battled access restrictions that puts freedom of the press at an increasing risk. Kudos were given to our great photo department. And we were loaned the holy grail of all cameras, the Nikon D3, only to have it soon lifted from our clammy, shaking palms. It was nice while it lasted.

In the meantime, spring is stumbling. Temperatures soared into digits long forgotten six months ago, only to plummet with windy, wet snow today. “In like a lion, out like a lamb?”

Let us remember one more thing:
Seer warns Caesar to be on guard against a great peril on the Ides of March (15th.) Later that month..
CAESAR: “The Ides of March has come.”
SEER: “Aye, Caesar, but not gone.”

Pigeons, East Peoria. (Adam / Journal Star)

Like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.

– Leonard Cohen

It was a slow day.

My mom called yesterday and asked if I was would be okay with them stopping their Journal Star print subscription. They’ve been taking paper 7 days a week for over two years, ever since I started as an intern. It arrives in the mail a few days late, and my Mom has dutifully clipped each photo of mine and placed them in a large collection of binders.

I did a similar thing personally, keeping stacks of yellowing pages in my closet. That stopped about 6 months after it started. I have no discipline, obviously.

Still, I was a little wistful knowing that they’d no longer have a physical and colorful reminder of myself arriving almost every day. There’s a comfort knowing that my parents care that much about me. But the subscription is quite expensive for out-of-staters and the binders are becoming unwieldy. I assured her it would be fine with me, as long as they keep up online…

photo by David Zentz