Overtime
Posted by Bob McGovern
(This is a column I wrote this week for the Whitman and Hanson Express Newspapers)
When I started in this business, a mere five years ago, I did so with a set of blinders on.
I wanted to stay away from hard news, I didn’t want to fall into the journalistic stereotype of an ambulance chaser, chomping at the bit for blood-soaked bylines. Sports were an outlet that appealed to me; they touched an organized segment of human existence governed by whistles, lines, and statistics that very seldom let the pains of life permeate its objective stronghold.
However, when your job is to write about people, the humbling realities that follow us all tend to find you.
During the winter season at Whitman-Hanson, a woman, who I will not name out of respect, would come up to me at halftime of every women’s basketball game. She told me about her daughter, who was suffering from a serious illness at the young age of 17.
Every time we talked, she would tell me how I would be hearing about her, how she was young and strong and was going to come through no matter what. She told how beautiful she was and did so while staring me right in the eyes, without an ounce of weakness.
I would break from our conversation and go back to the game, with her story slowly taking a back seat to zone-defenses, layups, and the simple aspects of my job. She sat on the other side of the gym and rooted for her niece. I can’t remember her ever missing a game.
This past Monday, I went to the first softball game of the season for Whitman-Hanson, while trying to figure out a way to cover three sports that were happening at the same time. I walked past the fans, oblivious to who was around me, when I heard a voice directed at me.
“Hey, remember me?”
It was her, I knew it before I looked. My mind stopped and I asked her how her daughter was doing - although I knew the answer by the look in her eyes.
She had died. I looked at this woman who had just lost so much and apologized, but I didn’t know how to put it properly. She thanked me and walked past.
She was there to watch her niece play softball.
I moved towards the fence surrounding the Whitman-Hanson softball field and felt my eyes tear up, with my reporter’s pad clenched in my left hand. I looked down and collected myself, I was there for a reason - to take pictures, get quotes, and write a story.
This woman’s reality is one that goes beyond the inverted pyramid, associated press journalism that is supposed to mirror human existence. It hits home, it makes you think, and it puts things into perspective - especially if you are in the business of seeking answers.
There are certain things I forget and things I don’t care to remember. Game winning shots, interviews, and stories get lost in the mix when you surround yourself with them.
Her story and the idea that other people’s lives keep moving, no matter what your personal afflictions may be, is something that will stick with me for awhile. It stopped me in my tracks, in a job that requires you to keep moving.
I guess that’s part of the reason I got into this.
(This is a column I wrote this week for the Whitman and Hanson Express Newspapers)
When I started in this business, a mere five years ago, I did so with a set of blinders on.
I wanted to stay away from hard news, I didn’t want to fall into the journalistic stereotype of an ambulance chaser, chomping at the bit for blood-soaked bylines. Sports were an outlet that appealed to me; they touched an organized segment of human existence governed by whistles, lines, and statistics that very seldom let the pains of life permeate its objective stronghold.
However, when your job is to write about people, the humbling realities that follow us all tend to find you.
During the winter season at Whitman-Hanson, a woman, who I will not name out of respect, would come up to me at halftime of every women’s basketball game. She told me about her daughter, who was suffering from a serious illness at the young age of 17.
Every time we talked, she would tell me how I would be hearing about her, how she was young and strong and was going to come through no matter what. She told how beautiful she was and did so while staring me right in the eyes, without an ounce of weakness.
I would break from our conversation and go back to the game, with her story slowly taking a back seat to zone-defenses, layups, and the simple aspects of my job. She sat on the other side of the gym and rooted for her niece. I can’t remember her ever missing a game.
This past Monday, I went to the first softball game of the season for Whitman-Hanson, while trying to figure out a way to cover three sports that were happening at the same time. I walked past the fans, oblivious to who was around me, when I heard a voice directed at me.
“Hey, remember me?”
It was her, I knew it before I looked. My mind stopped and I asked her how her daughter was doing - although I knew the answer by the look in her eyes.
She had died. I looked at this woman who had just lost so much and apologized, but I didn’t know how to put it properly. She thanked me and walked past.
She was there to watch her niece play softball.
I moved towards the fence surrounding the Whitman-Hanson softball field and felt my eyes tear up, with my reporter’s pad clenched in my left hand. I looked down and collected myself, I was there for a reason - to take pictures, get quotes, and write a story.
This woman’s reality is one that goes beyond the inverted pyramid, associated press journalism that is supposed to mirror human existence. It hits home, it makes you think, and it puts things into perspective - especially if you are in the business of seeking answers.
There are certain things I forget and things I don’t care to remember. Game winning shots, interviews, and stories get lost in the mix when you surround yourself with them.
Her story and the idea that other people’s lives keep moving, no matter what your personal afflictions may be, is something that will stick with me for awhile. It stopped me in my tracks, in a job that requires you to keep moving.
I guess that’s part of the reason I got into this.
This entry was posted by Ben Myers, on
Tuesday, April 04, 2006.
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