To The Frames You Almost Get
And the thin line between control and chaos on the baseline
With Alejandro, we don’t really arrive in Chicago anymore. We just return. Second time this season. Same highways. Same skyline, slowly coming together again. Like something we’ve already seen twice… but still watch anyway. Me pretending to rest. Both of us knowing exactly where we’re going.
Thursday had that quiet prelude feel. Not silence, but something close. The kind where everything important is already happening. Just not yet. Press conference. Open practice. Shoes squeaking in a mostly empty arena. Coaches talking in careful layers. Players moving like they’re already mid-story. And me, walking. Always walking. Corners, sight lines, railings, distances. I came in with a plan for Sunday. Not hope. Plan. Which is either confidence or delusion (This could be a good name for the duo we formed with Alejandro). But I stayed in scouting mode. Routes to a remote camera. Timing between spots. Permissions. Safety checks. The unglamorous part that makes the good stuff possible.
The rest of the day drifted into basketball. Iowa and Nebraska doing their part, loud enough to remind everyone this weekend wasn’t going to be subtle.
Friday didn’t care about any of that.
I walked in thinking I had structure. Assigned seat, Michigan bench side, both halves. Which is great if your goal is to photograph defense like a thesis project. Then I saw it. One open seat. Opposite side. First come, first served. And as usual, I was first. There’s always a small moment when things line up and you think, this might actually be easy.
It was not easy.
Thirty-six seats along the baseline. Photographers, videographers, social teams. All sharing space like it’s a cramped Paris café but with more lenses and less wine. Not a lot of room, especially when everyone suddenly develops a strong emotional attachment to the Alabama bench. There was some friction. Nothing dramatic, but enough. I didn’t have to move. I moved anyway. Because if we don’t handle it ourselves, someone else will next time, and they won’t be generous. (Last year Sweet 16 in Atlanta is still somewhere in the back of my mind).
So I gave it up. Said my good lucks. Walked back. Tip-off basically happening behind me. Professional. Responsible. Also, in hindsight, slightly self-sabotaging.
It threw me off. Not immediately. It was then, when I was not in the moment anymore. Do you know that feeling?
When you’re photographing what you think you should be getting instead of what’s actually happening? Yeah.
Add in gear changes, switching lenses, trying to settle into a rhythm that never quite arrives. And then my favorite lens decides it no longer believes in commitment.
If you need a comparison, it’s like losing LJ Cason for the post season. Technically you still have players. But something essential is missing.
Five minutes in, like in Buffalo, I tried to force it. Which is never the right move, but always the first instinct. Now one of my cameras also dies. Imbecile1.
Not slows down. Not glitches. Dies.
There’s a moment where your head just goes quiet when that happens. Everything around you keeps moving, but inside it’s just…
Backup cameras exist for a reason. Mine is not elegant. It is not fast. It is not inspiring. But it works. And in that moment, “works” is enough.
Halftime turns into a repair station. Reset, refocus, try to salvage something from the chaos. And then Dustin Johnson comes over with his own camera issue. He has no backup. Now we’re both leaning over his gear, improvising fixes with tape like we’re building something that was never meant to be built this way. It worked for him.
(After the game, a small group of us performing delicate surgery to get his SD card out. Years of doing Lego with my kids finally paying off in the most unexpected way!).
Meanwhile, Michigan just wins. Again. They handled Alabama, 90 to 77, and it never felt like they were chasing it. It’s a strange thing to photograph, a team that plays fast but never rushed. You think you’ll have time, and then suddenly you don’t. I barely got what I needed. Enough to do the job. But I also knew. Too many si2. Frames just off. Focus just late. Timing just behind.
I went to sleep with that sitting on me. Not loud. Just heavy.
Saturday felt like a reset. No drive, just a run along the lake. Cold air, steady rhythm, the city doing its best to look calm. I spent more time than I should have reviewing Friday’s photos. Every miss, every hesitation. You can learn a lot that way, but it comes at a cost. More time with Canon tech. More tape. More small miracles. And a revised plan, very débrouillard3 in spirit.
Back at the arena with my plan to find the spaces in between. Behind the scenes. CBS setups. Bench interactions before the game. What most people don’t see. I didn’t sneak into anything. I asked and was welcomed. And over time, being present and being decent opens more doors than any credential.
Sunday started earlier than it should. Before coffee, which feels like a personal attack. There was something I wanted to capture. The student managers. The invisible work behind everything. I knew there was une histoire4 there. I barely had time to breathe before we were walking back into the United Center, Alejandro and I again among the first.
I set the remote camera high. Very high. The kind of placement that makes you double-check every clamp and cable twice. Tested the route. Floor to remote, remote to floor. Under four minutes at halftime or it’s useless. It worked.
For the game, I stayed put. No chasing better angles this time. Just commit and work within it. The refs made that decision interesting by drifting into my frame more often than I would have liked. It happens. You adjust or tu te plains5. Complaining doesn’t help your shutter speed.
Second half, I slid a few inches outside my box. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to clean the angle. I looked at the usher I befriended during the B1G tournament. They looked back, smiled, and told me I was good. That small permission matters. The photo that comes after is never just yours.
And the game itself… it disappeared quickly. Michigan didn’t just win, they overwhelmed. A 21–0 run in the first half that turned everything into a formality. They beat Tennessee 95 to 62, and it felt even wider than that. Yaxel Lendeborg was everywhere, 27 points, but more than that, he made everything connect. The pace, the spacing, the confidence. At some point you stop trying to anticipate plays and just try to keep up with the feeling of it. I will happily blame the speed of the team and slowness of my gear for my short coming... This team is something else.
Charlie May hit a three right in front of me. Four feet away. No anticipation needed. Just be there. Just press the shutter. Sometimes the game gives you one, à la volée.
Then it ended, and the part I had been planning for all weekend finally arrived. Celebration. And this team when they win? They unfold. There’s emotion, but it’s layered. Real in a very personal way that ask for a unique photographic approach. I’ll come back to that another time. It deserves more space than this.
We, with Alejandro, stayed late. Retrieved the remote. Edited on site. Sent images off to Mgoblog. The arena slowly emptying around us. Then we stand near the Michigan locker room, watching UConn against Duke on a screen that chose the worst possible moment to glitch. Free throw in the air. Signal gone. Signal back. Score changed. UConn ahead. And for a second, the loudest sound in the building wasn’t your usual fans, it was media. Because every once in a while, we forget to stay quiet.
And just like that, it shifts forward again. Final Four. Indianapolis waiting.
Yes, I look at the other photographers, with respect, but a bit envious of theirs tools. Part of me wants better gear. Newer gear. Something that won’t decide mid-game that it’s had enough. But that’s not really how this works. I bring what I have. I prepare as best I can. I adapt when it falls apart.
And if everything lines up (even just for a fraction of a second)...
I will get the shot.
And so I keep going.
A deeply French technical diagnosis meaning “I have betrayed myself .” In Chicago terms, this is when your car got booted because left it in a no parking zone.
“Yes, but only if you’re correcting someone.” Here it loosely translates to “so close it hurts,” which is also how every missed jumper feels in March.
Meaning “resourceful,” but in a slightly chaotic, held-together-with-tape kind of way. Think sideline camera repair with zero proper tools and McGyver’s confidence.
With just enough gravitas to make you believe it deserves black-and-white treatment and a moody piano soundtrack.
French national sport. Midwestern equivalent: “well… that’s not ideal,” followed by doing nothing about it.