Happy National Soccer Day--How and why I came to terms with "The Beautiful Game."

I had a very complicated start coming to term with “The Beautiful Game.” So, why in the world would I be awake at 5am on a Saturday morning writing about my love of soccer? Well, I have some time to kill before Brazil takes on France in an hour in the Women’s World Cup.

I had covered literally hundreds of high school and college soccer games in my professional career before I was asked in 1994 by my boss, “Hey, are you interested in covering the World Cup, we’re getting credentials!!” My next question would create a lifetime of regret. “What’s the World Cup?” Upon being told it was a huge soccer tournament held in the USA that year I replied “No, that’s OK.”

My attitude would change years later, in February, 2006, when I was fixed up on a blind date with a beautiful Brazilian woman and thought one of the ways to her heart would be to learn to love soccer. It didn’t take long. The World Cup Germany was four months away.

The first Brazil soccer game I ever watched was a religious experience. Shockingly, none of the previous soccer I had unintentionally watched or covered as a photojournalist could have prepared me for what I was seeing. It was ballet, poetry, and unlike my preconceived notions, it was every bit as rough and competitive as American football. After that, I followed every game religiously. I knew the players and I knew when it got to the knock-outs what exactly was at stake. I remember being in Ithaca, NY with writer Lorraine Ash as we worked on a book together about Holistic Healers across the USA. During one interview I begged to hit the family room to watch Brazil get beaten by France. It was a dark day. My first profound disappointment with my new love of soccer. The following day, still proudly wearing my Brazilian canary yellow jersey, I walked to a Wegmans for some morning coffee. From a car I heard a shout, “YOU’VE GOT A HELL OF A LOT OF NERVE WEARING THAT JERSEY!!!” My head whipped around looking to respond with some four letter words. Instead, I saw the driver waving, proudly wearing his England jersey. The ‘Three Lions’ had also lost that previous day, so in this moment I found a moment of kinship in our mutual love and pain that I would feel every four years from that day on.

I fell in love with soccer and chose my teams. Brazil, USA, Flamengo. In that order. Since then, there have been many highlights and memories. I found opportunities to photograph soccer games instead of ignoring and avoiding them. On August 10, 2010, I photographed Brazil vs USA at MetLife Stadium. I photographed an 18-year-old named Neymar scoring his first goal as a member of the Brazilian National Team. I was so blown away by his performance that night, I paraphrased music critic Jon Landau posting, “I have seen the future of Brazil soccer and it’s name is Neymar.”

PHOTO GALLERY:

In 2014, I made my yearly trip to Rio de Janeiro to visit my Brazilian family. That year, World Cup Brazil’s festive atmosphere was palpable as thousands upon thousands descended on Rio and 11 other venues. It was the party of a lifetime. We watched (in horror) at a World Cup Fan Fest as Brazil took a beating from Germany, ultimately losing 1-7. The most unique (and shocking) thing about the aftermath of the loss to Germany was I learned the competitiveness between Argentinians and Brazilians, so much so that Brazilians were actually routing FOR Germany during the finals at Maracana Stadium.

I’ve made my peace with soccer. Calling it “football” still seems sacrilege, but there’s no arguing it is truly the “Beautiful Game.”

"May your grandfathers spirit still speak to you.”

Yesterday, I was blessed to witness one of the most powerful moments of my career. The moment was one of the reasons I got into the career as a photojournalism and a perfect metaphor for the 30 years of service spent by Rev Dr. William Barber during his Pastoral Retirement Sermon as senior pastor at Greenleaf Christian Church.

“I wasn’t even born. My father began to write a book about the churches of Christ in Eastern North Carolina. I buried him on Fathers Day so the level of emotions are very high for me. On the next page there is a dedication, “To my son, William Joseph Barber II, and any and all of his future brothers and sisters, may this work provide for them an incentive to further seek to link their past, their present, their future in logical and rewarding continuity.”

As he called his son Andrew to the stage, he continued, “One of my prized possessions, none of the people in your family have been perfect, but we have all tried to make a difference. May you also be able to understand your history and place it in some form of rewarding continuity, may your grandfathers spirit still speak to you.”

After accepting the book, Andrew briefly started to walk from the stage, but came back to give a hug and comfort his father on Fathers Day, the anniversary of the day Rev Barber buried his own father. A most profound moment for everyone who witnessed.

Signs of kindness after a night of anger

On May 30, 2020, a peaceful protest event named "A National Day of Action — Justice for George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery and lives cut short by Raleigh and Durham police departments" began in downtown Raleigh, NC as outrage over the death of George Floyd spread to cities in North Carolina. What began as peaceful marches with more than 1000 protesters, ended in violence, with clashes between protesters and police, fires set, windows smashed and looting.

But these are the stories that ALSO need to be told. The “morning after” I was in downtown Raleigh making images of the aftermath of night of anger, I was headed to my car when I passed a woman scraping paint off a window. A man pulled up at a red light and I heard him yell, "HEY LADY! You're going to need some window cleaner to get that off!" I immediately thought this was a passing troll who would hit the gas and take off without a second thought. At that moment, my jaded heart from the previous night got the best of me. What happened next was almost shocking. The man quickly pulled over, jumped out of his car and retrieving some window cleaner from his trunk, he proceeded to help the woman clean the defaced window. Minutes later, A Wake County Sheriff's Officer joined in with her own bottle of cleaner.

It's easy to get jaded by headlines, but sometimes there are rays of light, if you look. Or, if you just happen to be at the right place at the right time.

"What's past is prologue" - William Shakespeare from his play The Tempest.

The more anniversaries that pass as a photojournalist, the more introspective and the more overlap of generations I photograph, sometime for good and sometime not.. This was from my first blog post ever...still holds as much gravitas as it did back in 2008 after my editors at the Daily Record came to me and said, “We want you and your staff to write a blog.”

I was coming back from a first appearance in Morris County Superior Court in June 2016 when court reporter, Peggy Wright called me over and asked, “Hey, do you know this guy?” The clip was from August 21, 1993. I recognized the photo but I'd forgotten the story. The article was about Demetrius Diaz who was sentenced to over 17 years for the murder of a Morristown man the year before.

As so many are, this was a senseless murder, and in a town like Morristown, NJ, it stood out in one of the most affluent counties in the US. A disagreement led to Diaz shooting Ricky Gordon five times, the last shot, while Gordon lay wounded on the ground. It was only then I realized the young man I had photographed that very morning, 19-year-old Demetrius Diaz-Bridges, who was charged with the beating death of Elizabeth O'Brien, a 49-year-old mother of two. I recognized him as the son of the man I had photographed 15 years earlier. It made me feel very old and very sad wondering if this young man ever had a chance. Ironically, Diaz-Bridges was arrested in Raleigh, my future home.

In 2012, Diaz-Bridges was sentenced to 40 years for the murder of the Jefferson Township mother, as of today, he’ll be eligible for parole in 2046. In court Diaz-Bridges stood, handcuffed in a beige prison outfit, and apologized to O'Brien's family. "I know it's not gonna make everything alright. I am sorry. Whether it's 10, 20, 30 years from now I hope you forgive me," he said. "I apologize. I messed up."

His father died in prison.

Behind the Photos–When Linebackers Attack: 1989

One of the more infamous moments of my career came the day I was assigned to get a photograph of New York Giants Lawrence Taylor after he was charged with DWI. On March 24, 1989, I was working for the Newark, NJ bureau of the Associated Press when I was assigned to stake out a Paramus, NJ service station where Taylor’s car had been impounded after he was issued a summons for DWI. We had heard LT was going to come o the station to retrieve a golf bag for a golf trip he had that weekend.

I had waited for most of the morning with a reporter in a cold New Jersey Spring rain when a car pulled up, journalists ran towards it, the passenger window rolled down to reveal the future Football Hall of Famer who politely answered general questions for TV cameras before turning his attention to me, the ONLY still photographer and said adamantly, “Don’t take my fucking picture!”

I went into the office of he service station and called the office and said, “He seems pretty firm not wanting to have his picture taken, what do you think?” We already knew that LT was legally below the limit and was most likely suffering from food poisoning when he was found unconscious and sprawled across the front seat of his truck on the Garden State Parkway.

My boss said, well, there’s already a national advisory that there will be a picture, so go get a picture. So, I headed back to the car where there were still a couple of New York TV journalist talking with LT. As they finished, they started to step away, LT and I locked eyes once more and he again said,this time, a little more adamantly, “DON’T TAKE MY FUCKING PICTURE!!” Well this was literally do or die, so I lifted my camera and “BOOM" the strobe went off making this surreal moment even stranger as I captured the 6’3” 240lb outside linebacker looking incredulously at the 5’ 8” 170lb photojournalist who against anyone’s better judgement dared to push the shutter on his Canon F-1.

I got one frame off before Taylor, showing his 40 yard dash 4.6 sec form was directly in my face. I explained how this was a news story with national interest and if he had a problem, he could talk to my editors. After calling me an “A-hole,” calmer heads kind of prevailed, Taylor getting back into the car as his driver and two other passengers tossed various obscenities in my direction.

I approached the car once more to give my side and hoped he’d understand. Instead he reached down in front of him, picked up a fast food wrapper, and threw it at me along with another curse. I instinctively threw up my hand and the wrapper deflected back into the car onto his lap. I left with mixed emotions that I made that image. I had a job, this was the story and sometimes photojournalists can’t choose what images we are asked to provide.

About 6 weeks later, LT had his day in court where he was acquitted of DWI. The real villain was revealed as ‘acute food poisoning,' from some bad fettuccine with cream sauce Taylor ate on a flight. 'I feel happy. The justice system works,' a beaming Taylor said after his acquittal in a Saddle Brook Municipal Court trial that lasted less than four hours. I thought to introduce myself and again plead MY case but thought best to let him enjoy the victory without any lasting negativity.

20 Years Ago Today, A very lucky Angel Fish

January 8, 2003, I was covering a lumberyard fire in Morristown, NJ when I hear I heard the sound of steps on a metal fire escape. It was Morristown Firefighter, Fred Richardson as he rescued a little girl’s angel fish from an apartment that was next to a burning abandoned lumber yard.

This image was the only one out of forty I had shot where the fish was clearly visible & the water was splashing out of the aquarium.

Sixteen years later, by chance, I met retired Morristown firefighter Fred Richardson at 70South Gallery holding a framed photo I shot of him exactly twenty years ago today. One of the owners of the gallery knew I was hanging out at Smartworld coffee shop next door and heard Fred talking about the photo that appeared in the Daily Record. She stopped in and said, “there’s a firefighter next door who just picked up a frame and I think it’s your photo.”

I walked over and saw Fred holding a shopping bag and asked if I could see the photo. It was this photo, already one of the most memorable of my career. We talked for a while about that freezing cold morning and of course his rescue that day. I was honored and flattered when Fred asked me to sign his print. A moment I’ll never forget.

Just another reason why local news matters.

9/11 From Recovery to Renewal

Ed Note: I’ve added many new images to the gallery. Some from my original time at Ground Zero, others from New Jersey ceremonies and many new images of remembrances in North Carolina.

September 10, 2001 was an extremely normal day filled with its typical and unusual errands. Coffee at Dunkin Donuts, packing a lunch, reading the paper. Before my shift on at the Daily Record, I made a trip to the Salvation Army thrift store in downtown Dover, NJ. I was a competitive runner at the time and looking forward to taking some time off with a few friends to travel to Las Vegas to participate in a mens only “Red Dress Race” 5K fundraiser. I found three modest short red skirts that my friends and I would wear and brought them home to be packed.

The following morning was a perfect Fall day. I had just dropped off a book at the Morristown library just after 9am when a man stopped me on the way out and said, ‘a plane just flew into the World Trade Center.’ I jumped into my car to head to work, we had a planned a days worth of shoots in Madison for the entire photo staff for our ‘Day I the Life Of’ sections, but I thought this might take one or two of us off the schedule.

Driving up Route 287 north towards the Daily Record, 1010WINS was already reporting a second plane hitting the South Tower at 9:03 a.m. Minutes later, a live (false) report that the ‘US Capitol itself had been hit.’ I pulled onto Parsippany Road, and said aloud to myself, ‘This is it, this is really the end of the world.” There’s no way I could have known, but by the end of that perfect Fall day, 65 Morris County natives would be among the nearly three thousand killed.

I decided to drive to Powder Mill Heights, one of the highest points in Parsippany with gorgeous views of Manhattan. It was the first place I thought people might be gathering to watch this disaster unfold. Driving west on Route 10 was the first moment I felt the true enormity of what had just happened. From nearly 30 miles away, I could see smoke rising from downtown Manhattan, from my rear-view mirror.

When I arrived at the condos, I photographed a security guard watching the live coverage on TV while calling to check on her daughter who was in New York City that morning. Walking back outside, people were starting to line the balcony edge looking east as the smoke rose from downtown Manhattan, holding binoculars, cameras, making calls on their cell phones. A woman who came to see what people were looking at immediately put her hand over her mouth and gasped, shocked by her first sight of the scene.

The frivolous shopping spree the day before seemed like ancient history. My vacation would now be spent in and around Ground Zero photographing the aftermath of the attacks. Each morning, I would take the train into Penn Station and walk the 2 1/2 miles down to Ground Zero. Some days we had access, other days we were collected into Press pens where we waited for hours for access to shoot. I remember passing by countless people along my walks to and from the trains. The grief was palpable and unbearable. One day I wished that we could jump ahead five years just to get past the agony we were sharing.

My most memorable and heartbreaking moment was a woman I met on a train into Penn Station who had just arrived from Florida. Her son was a firefighter and she had not heard from him since before 9/11. She noticed my cameras and asked me what I had seen and what I thought the chances were that her son was still alive. I tried to be as encouraging as possible knowing as each days passed, the chances of survival grew less and less. When we pulled into the station, I wrote her son’s name on a business card and tucked back into my wallet. I told her I would pray for them every day. When I returned home, I pinned the card to my bulletin board and checked the papers every day, hoping for just one miracle. Weeks later, I saw her son’s name listed in the New York Times as “remains that had been recovered.”

Years go by too quickly and the belief you will ever understand and reconcile any pain accumulated. As a journalist, closure is not one of the luxury we are afforded. Over the course of three decades of photojournalism, I’ve covered countless positive, inspiring stories and yet it’s the tragedies you can never quite erase from the back of your mind. And in the twenty years since I found myself documenting the aftermath of 9/11, I’ve covered too many tragedies to count. Murders, hurricanes, accidents, and even a pandemic. So many of my brother and sister photojournalists who were down at Ground Zero on 9/11/01, still carry the scars of that terrible day. The words bravery and courage are too often forgotten when used to describe the essential front-line communications done by journalists at Ground Zero.

For years, every time I had drove up the Turnpike seeing that stunning New York City skyline, now missing its Twin Towers, I would keep checking over my right shoulder knowing that the next time I looked they would surely be back where they belonged. They were the perfect background for photographers and tourists and if you got a little lost, they were always there to point you in the right direction. This was the inspiration for Bruce Springsteen’s song, “Empty Sky.”

Since that day, I’ve been documenting memorial ceremonies in and around New York City, New Jersey and now North Carolina, as journalists do, we look to tell the story, to comfort and to move people through our images. We were witnesses to history long before that day, but on 9/11/01, there was never a story in our lifetimes that needed to be told more. My first year in North Carolina, I found a 9/11 ceremony in Apex, to again do what I have done for the two decades since 2001 and tell the story of how we recover, how we heal.

Twenty-two years now have passed by in the blink of an eye.

Wishing all of us a peaceful day. Be kind to each other.

Never forget.

Coming Full Circle

In 2014, today was a very good day. Part of Gannett New Jersey photo staff, I was asked to come down to Asbury Park to work for a month or so. My first assignment, I felt like I had come full circle as a photojournalist & adopted New Jerseyan. I was given the difficult task of heading to the coolest hotdog joint at the Shore and photographing one of my favorite recording artists since college. Backstory: As a junior and photography major at Syracuse University I photographed Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes on the SU quad in 1980.

34 yrs later, working for the Asbury Park Press, I was assigned to shoot Southside atop of the Windmill in Long Branch. Before the show, I was “backstage” and introduced myself to Southside Johnny, so proud to be a working photojournalist at a newspaper at had respected for so lone. He shook my hand and said I looked very familiar. I mentioned the only place we would have met was the 1980 concert in Syracuse. With a complete straight face he said, “Nope, that’s not it.” Moments like this that bridge my career as a photojournalist is why I got into the “business” of making pictures. And the interesting people and moments that you meet along the journey.

(thank you to drummer Tom 'The Goose' Seguso for offering to let me up on your shoulders for the shot)

Also big thanks for my personal archivist Rick Berger for still having the original Southside image from September 1980

30 Years Ago Today: 'The greatest high school game ever played'

December 1, 1990, Randolph High School football made history. My single favorite moment from all my years as a photojournalist happened 29 years ago today! What’s been called 'The greatest high school game ever played' Randolph High school holder Eric Schaub & Mike Groh (now offensive coordinator of the Philadelphia Eagles) celebrated as Groh's 37 yrd FG with 0:01 seconds left in the game cleared the uprights at Woodman Field in Montclair. Randolph beating heavily favored Montclair 22-21 to capture the 1990 Group 4 Sec 2 State Championship.

Randolph holder Eric Schaeb (left) and quarterback/kicker Mike Groh rejoice after the game-winning field goal in the 1990 title game. Montclair’s Garland Thornton, sprawled on the field, narrowly missed blocking the kick.

”I’ve been around long enough to know how many ways there are to lose a football game. And during this streak there have been about 10 games that you’d ordinarily lose. But the ball keeps bouncing our way. Maybe the Lord is rewarding me for all my hard work over the years.” --Randolph Coach John Bauer Sr.

The time clock showed 0:00. Randolph’s miracle season was over, the score was 21-19. Montclair fans rushed the field as the dejected Rams walked to back their sidelines. After four perfect years, there would be no fifth straight championship, the win streak was over at a state record 47 games. The favored Mounties, the number one team in the state would beat number two Randolph. Seventeen days after the death of their beloved coach John Bauer Sr., the Rams had run out of miracles in the 1990 North Jersey Section 2, Group IV State Championship game. Legendary Coach John Bauer Sr. had planned on retiring after the 1990 season but insisted that he wouldn’t quit until the team lost. He said he didn’t want his son to carry the burden of Randolph losing its first game. As if empowering his team from the great beyond, Bauer Sr. who had coached Randolph since 1965 wasn’t about to let his Rams dream season end with a loss. There was one more victory cigar for him to smoke.

mir·a·cle Pronunciation: \ˈmir-i-kəl\ Function: noun Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin miraculum, from Latin, a wonder, marvel, from mirari to wonder at Date: 12th century 1 : an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs 2 : an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment

The next moments on December 1, 1990 are the things Hollywood movies are made of. The kind with tidy, clean, happy, Hollywood endings. Events that couldn’t possibly happen in the real world. But this epic wasn’t made on a sound set in California, it was fought on the cold tundra of Montclair’s Woodman field. What been known as ‘The greatest high school game ever played’ Holder Eric Schaeb, l, and Mike Groh celebrate as Groh’s 37 yrd FG with 0:01 seconds left in the game clears the uprights at Woodman Field in Montclair. Randolph beat heavily favored Montclair 22-21 to capture the 1990 Group 4 Sec 2 State Championship. The first miracle came with seconds to go in the game. Thousands of Montclair fans rushed the field prematurely as clock hit 0:00, Montclair apparently winning the game by two points. Before the time clock had actually run out, Montclair was whistled for delay-of-game. It was now fourth down and the celebrating fans had to be pushed back into the stands. Montclair was now forced to punt from inside their own 10-yard-line. Six seconds were put back on the clock. The kick went up, straight up, coming down somewhere around the 20 yard line into the arms of Billy Williams of Randolph who smartly called for the fair catch as he went down to one knee, stopping the clock. It was then that Mike Groh stepped back on the field for the last time as a high school star, attempting only his second field goal of the year. With one second left, Eric Schaeb took the snap and Groh took two steps kicking the football 37 yards through the uprights leaving 12,000 fans on Woodman Field stunned at the miracle they had just witnessed. The score was now 22-21, the Randolph Rams were the State Champions, their win streak now 48 games. One New Jersey newspaper calling it the “greatest high school football game ever played.” Mike Groh, 47, who was a celebrated quarterback for UVA in the 1990s currently serves as Offensive Coordinator for the Philly Eagles, talked with me back in 2009 about the highs and lows of Randolph’s miracle season and of course, “the kick.”

“I had only attempted one other field goal all season long and that was a twenty-one yarder. I did make it, however. We rarely needed to kick field goals. When we got in a situation, we usually went for it on fourth down.” He added, “We were fortunate that Billy Williams made the fair catch with a second left which allowed us the opportunity to attempt the kick. I knew I’d make it if we could just line up and try it. I always felt my team had the best chance to win when I had the ball at the end of the game. No matter the sport, I wanted that responsibility. I just focused on the same routine that Eric Schaeb, Mark Schmidt and I worked on every Thursday afternoon.”

I remember very clearly before the fourth down penalty was whistled, running across the field to the Montclair Side so I could shoot straight at Randolph’s bench. I have always preferred taking jubilation over dejection photos, but if Randolph was about to lose this historic game, I had to document it. In a matter of moments I was rushing back to the other side of the field, this time, to make a photo of a dejected kicker and holder after what would certainly be a missed field goal. I can remember looking through the viewfinder, holding my breath as I always doing when I’m about to shoot. And waiting. The ball was snapped, the kick was up, at that moment, my entire world existed in only what I could see through my viewfinder. Whether the kick was good or not, it would be history. Through my whirring shutter, I suddenly saw Mike Groh throwing his arms up in the air. It wasn’t possible! It couldn’t be! It was a miracle! I knew immediately this would be an important photo, my only thought at the time, ‘please let it be in focus.’ Over a twenty five year career where Ive literally made millions of frames, it easily remains one of my top five favorite moments and certainly one of the reason I got into photojournalism.

Actor John Amos, graduate of East Orange High School but on the Montclair sideline cheering on the Mounties

I got a call the next day after my photo appeared dominantly on the front page of the paper. A fellow photographer shooting the game for a weekly newspaper had left prematurely thinking he had made all the photos he needed of the winning Montclair celebration. All I heard after picking up the phone was, “YOU SONOFABITCH!” It was a compliment I’ll always cherish. When I asked Mike Groh how it was possible to stay focused after the loss of their legendary coach, he gave credit to the coaches and assistant coaches (particularly John Bauer Jr.) saying the focus was a tribute to Bauer Sr. “They never wavered in their message of what the goals were for our team. As seniors, we wanted to make sure that our legacy would be secure by winning a 5th straight title and setting the consecutive win record. We knew that would be the best tribute we could ever make for our coach.” -Mike Groh Legendary Coach John Bauer Sr. in his last game with the Rams. John Bauer Jr. would say during an interview ten years after the historic win, “Our primary concern was making sure that the young people who we were with were able to finish what my father had begun. Their legs were cut out from under them, it’s really hard to fathom how a 15 to 17-year-old will react under those circumstances.” Bauer added,

“My Dad told them before the season that they were the best, and I don’t think they believed it before today.”

Groh finished our interview by saying, “Great moments are born from great opportunity. Our team had made a commitment to each other back in the beginning of the summer and playing against a great team like Montclair was the payoff. In order to become one of the great teams in Randolph Football history, we had to have the mindset that we wouldn’t be denied. We knew that if we all just did our job, played with discipline, toughness, effort and relentless competitive attitude that would carry us to victory. I will always be proud to say I played football at Randolph High School, for Mr. Bauer, Sr., and Mr. Bauer, Jr., the coaching staff and all my teammates.” Twenty-five years ago, throughout a historic win streak, a physically and emotionally demanding season and one of the most improbably finishes in high school football history, Mike Groh, his teammates and Coach John Bauer Jr. played like champions giving their beloved coach, John Bauer Sr. the tribute that he deserved.

All my respect and condolences to the family of John Bauer Jr., the architect of Randolph’s stunning 1990 championship who passed away this October.

Bullied

I wrote this blog post 10 years ago, I thought since October marks the start of National Bullying Prevention Month, it would be a good time to reshare it.

I can still remember their names. Kenny, Peter, Louis, Dan and many others who weren’t even considered my ‘friends.’ As far as bullying is concerned, much has changed in the methods of bullying, but in the end nothing has changed when it comes to stopping or preventing this behavior. 35 years ago, I was a victim of this senseless, despicable behavior. I remember very clearly, a day in seventh grade English class, being picked up off my feet by two of my classmates. Through their laughs they said how funny it was going to see me fly as they carried me to an open second floor window, pushing me the sill as I was kicking my legs to no avail. I never once thought they would actually follow through with the ‘joke,’ but it was still no comfort after I was dropped onto the floor, quickly running into the coat room so none of my classmates would see me crying. My humiliation was compounded by a compassionate female friend who came in to ask if I was alright. After her kind act, the best thanks I could muster through my tears was, “just leave me alone.”
 
There were muggings by nameless, faceless creeps who traveled in packs almost on a daily basis. Their taking of our lunch money almost became a cliche. Hiding behind a giant delivery van at Stork’s Baby Wash on Delaware Avenue, we’d walk towards Hackett Junior High after being dropped off by the bus. Three or more would jump out and the biggest of the group would step up and say, “Got a dime?” This was our cue to empty our pockets. Growing up, with all the amazing lessons I learned from my loving mother and father, what reason would they have to think that self defense would be one of the lessons they should have taught me. Why would they. We were a good family in a good home, they had raised two good children.
 
Throughout my youth, I thought all kids were separated into two categories, the tough kids and the weaklings. I never thought to ask them what their motivations were. I just knew my role was the latter. I would head back to my good home after being spat on or thrown around by my winter jacket into a mailbox (at that same bus stop) feeling ashamed, trying my best not to let anyone know about my daily humiliations. I was skinny, innocent, red-headed and pimply faced, an easy target mainly because I only saw kindness in people. Violence and bad behavior was beyond my understanding. Through all the humiliation, I never found myself asking, “why me?”  

When I ‘came out’ to my mother after writing this piece, looking extremely distressed and crying, she asked the question so many parents ask, “Why didn’t you tell us?” My only response was that there was nothing anyone could do. Keeping some of the truth from her, in all honestly, it never would have occurred to me to share my experiences. Somehow trying to protect her from my pain. I thought and still think, how lucky I was, no matter how bad the humiliation, I would always come home to a loving home with two loving parents. A safe haven where I would always feel protected. Occasionally, I would get anonymous calls saying, “Your ass is grass at Hackett tomorrow.” The next morning, I would do what I always did, get up, go to school and deal with whatever was to come.
 
As a sophomore in high school, My dad, my Uncle Jay and I went out and bought a weight set which we assembled down my basement. As I became more involved in weight training, martial arts and boxing, I met a group of bodybuilders at the Jewish Community Center in Albany who took me under their wing and encouraged me to find my potential. In my damaged mind, I wanted to become a giant, a monster, at my towering 5′ 8″ tall I wanted to be an intimidating force, ready for the next bully to attack. I was never the kind of person who ever wanted to fight. But, there I was, waiting with perverted anticipation for the next bully who I was going to take great joy in making an example of, to make them pay for all the punishment and humiliation I was subjected to. But, in another lesson learned, at their very core, bullies are cowards, and no sooner than I was able to stand up and defend myself, they magically stopped showing interest in picking on me.
 
I overcame my past and found my retribution (if not vengeance) at a cafeteria lunch table. I was a senior a Albany High School where during lunch times, arm wrestling was the social networking of its time. Classmates would line up around tables one by one and take each other on. At the time, I was bench pressing close to 300 lbs, there were only a few in a school of 3000 that could beat me. One day there was a buzz in the cafeteria, there was a new kid at the tables. I recognized him immediately, it was Kenny, one of the two classmates that had lifted me off the ground and scared me into thinking I was going out a window. I took my place in line and waited my turn. One by one, he took down his opponents, laughing smugly just the way I remembered him laughing a me. The only difference was that he had changed very little in the five years since I’d last seen him. I had put on more than 25 lbs of muscle and had been waiting for a chance at retribution for much, much longer.

Finally, it was my turn, I stepped up, resting my elbow on the table, I looked into his eyes and saw a wave of recognition, then contempt. He sat back in his chair roaring with laughter. “YOU, I KNOW I CAN BEAT!!”  As we clasped hands, I took a a second to savor my moment. It was over very quickly. I soon as I heard “GO,” his hand was slammed backwards, making a loud SMACK onto the cheap Formica lunch table. I stared deeply into his eyes and saw as if in a mirror, my previous self, the insecurity, fear and humiliation I once harbored. It wasn’t just the shock in his eyes that changed the perception I had of myself, it was a metamorphosis that I felt, I could fight back. Not literally with my fists but I would refuse to make myself a target again. I was empowered.

At that moment I remembered something he said to me years ago during one of the moments of my biggest humiliation. He grabbed me by the bicep and started pulling me, this time, more out of fear than defiance, I pulled back hard and resisted, to which he said, “you’d probably be pretty strong if you weren’t so afraid.” I wasn’t afraid anymore. It was a turning point for me. Even with that one life changing victory, bad memories still linger. I still, often wake up in the middle of the night or am startled by past thoughts while I’m awake. I still have flashbacks from my years of indignity. My constant silent companion, hidden away, deep down waiting for something (or nothing) to trigger it to rear its ugly head. This is why bullying must be stopped before it takes another life, through suicide or even a life’s worth of internal torment.
 
One of the things that motivated me to write about my experience was seeing the face of a 15-year-old Morristown High School freshman who had taken his life. His friends saying because of a few intolerant classmates, bullies who tormented him only because they could. This young man had so many friends, such a good family. Why didn’t he tell someone, why couldn’t he just….exactly. That’s just what bullies count on, shame and silence.

Perhaps this post could motivate someone to stand up for themselves, perhaps tell someone, maybe even motivate a bully to see how pointless and destructive the choices they are making. When every day seems like a never-ended cycle of abuse, it’s impossible for someone who is being bullied to look ahead one week let alone thirty years. But please, please, please step into my shoes. If you had told me as a 15-year-old pimply faced, red-headed boy that 40 years from now, I’d be living the life of my dreams, traveling the world with my soul mate and loving life with beautiful friends and a great career, I would have called you crazy. Though the memories still linger, time passes, wounds heal, bullies go their way, the bullied generally go the opposite direction.

My message isn’t to fight back but to stand up. If every one of us all stood up for ourselves and one another, refusing to accept this kind of behavior it would disappear. I’d appeal to anyone reading this, parents, teachers, administrators and most of all, children…stand up and stop this nonsense before it takes one more life.

Childhood is a priceless gift. And no one has the right to take that gift or tarnish it just because you think your victim won’t fight back, yet.

My DMs are open if you need to talk.

BK









Rest in Power Tony Eresman, a 'Great American Hero'

Last night, I was saddened and shocked to read about the passing of a young man I had the honor of photographing during his journey to become a Marine. After the World Trade Center attacks on 9/11, Tony Eresman immediately found his calling and joined the United States Marine Corps. Tony passed away of PTSD at his home on August 2, 2020, at the age of 37.

What I treasure most about being a photojournalist, is the opportunity I have to be a witness. The witness of events, the witness of private moments, sometimes the witness to history. Most moments are on a smaller scale, others, like 9/11 are monumental. But each that Ive shot over the course of my 30+ year career has been a gift and shaped who I am not only as a photojournalist, but as a human being. One of these moments came unexpectedly during the final hours of a four day shoot at Parris Island, South Carolina.
Reporter Matt Katz and I traveled with local educators as well as local ‘celebrity’ Jack McGreevey (a Marine Drill Instructor himself and the father of former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey) from Newark by US Marine Corp jet and were welcomed at Parris Island just as the recruits are. Journalists were thankfully left out of the yells and screams from the Drill Sergeants who tried to give educators the full treatment as they nervously lined up and marched before the start of the program.

After our introduction, we went our own way with two Staff Sergeants who stayed with us as our guides for the rest of our trip. We got to spend time with recruits and officers alike, learning how Marines prepare to defend our country. Many if not all of the Marines we met during those four days would be heading to Iraq and Afghanistan after finishing their training.
The most impressive of the training exercises was the torture test called ‘The Crucible.’ It is the final test of a Marine in recruit training and as much of a symbolic culmination of skills and knowledge as it is a physical challenge. The Crucible consists of a 54 hour field training course that emphasizes the importance of teamwork. It includes a total of 48 miles of marching, simulating combat situations, deprivation of food and sleep and if you survive the 54 hour course, you’ve become a Marine.

Along the way, we met Rich and Sue Eresman of Rockaway whose son Tony was a 19-year-old young man going through his final days as a recruit. We were lucky enough to be there for final week of recruit training referred to as “Marine Week” which consists of the Battalion Commander’s Inspection, Family Day, and Graduation.
For over 13 weeks, Tony’s mother, Sue had been apart from her son, and desperately wanting to give him a hug. The platoon instructions were very specific, ‘while wearing uniforms on the ceremonial platform, hugging was forbidden.’ These were the same orders given the day before at Family Day. At the time, during the picnic, Tony denied a hug from his mother, apologetically saying, ‘Sorry Mom, but we’re not allowed.’ The following day after the graduation, Sue’s pain drew the attention of one of Tony’s Staff Sergeants who asked her what was wrong. She mentioned the protocol of not being able to hug her new Marine. It was that moment, Staff Sgt. Benjamin Haynes turned and barked out Tony’s first order: “MARINE!! HUG YOUR MOTHER!!!”

As Tony’s father looked on, his wife got her hug. Tony’s father Rich thanked Haynes, so the staff Sergeant ordered a hug for him too, after which the proud father put his hands to his face and cried. It was an emotional moment that Tony had thought about as well. At the time saying, ‘That was great, I was waiting for that.’ Afterwards, family and friends unfurled a sign saying, ‘Tony, Believe it or not!’ an inside joke referencing the theme song of the Greatest American Hero.
I talked with Tony seven years after we had first met, I found it hard to believe the shy 19 year old was now a 26-year-old veteran combat soldier. I was amazed at what this young man had been through, and survived. He referred to his first tour of Iraq as ‘very eventful.’ As I learned more about the tour, I was startled at his humble and modest descriptions. He described to me one of the bloodiest battles of the war in the city of An Nasiriyah located in southern Iraq.

‘My unit was 1ST Battalion 2ND Marines I was a rifleman, our mission to seize two bridges for the push to Baghdad. Unfortunately we were not fighting uniformed soldiers but fighting Saddam loyalist that were wearing regular civilian clothes which made it very hard to tell who the bad guys were that we were fighting. We fought for about 2 days, but the first day were lost 18 Marines and the total of injured Marines was around 44 wounded. My unit was involved in the rescue of the 6 Army Soldiers including Jessica Lynch.’

Tony’s second deployment was again in Iraq in the city of Iskandirayah, His mission was much different the second time around, this tour, he was involved in helping set up humanitarian missions for schools and the first Democratic election in Iraq. Unfortunately, in a war zone, even this seemingly innocuous assignment was filled with danger. ‘There were always the fire fights and IEDs all the time but the main mission was to try to rebuild this country and to help these people realize how great freedom actually is. We were always going on combat patrols and turning up weapons caches and doing a lot of missions with the Iraqi police and National Guard. This deployment we lost 16 Marines again but had a lot more wounded Marines due to the IEDs and mortar attacks that would happen everyday on our base, sometimes it felt safer to be out on patrol.’

During our conversation, Tony brought up numerous time his happiness in marrying his ‘beautiful wife Nicole’ and even though he said the adjustment from combat to coming home to a normal life was ‘difficult,’ he reiterated that his life now is happier than ever.  In turn, after I found Nicole through Google and contacted her asking for Tony’s contact info, she thanked me for ‘taking the time to feature my personal hero!’ Tony shared that the most difficult part of the war was the second guessing at times. Why he had made it home safe to his wife and family while some of his friends didn’t. He added, 
‘Going to all the military funerals, and seeing friends laid to rest just tears you up inside, but you always just live one day at a time and always remember the good times and never forget the bad ones.’

When questioned about the good times, Tony said there were ‘too many’ to name.
Throughout four days and having shot thousands of images, the story culminated with one special moment between a mother and son. I was proud and felt privileged to be a witness to Tony Eresman’s first day as a Marine. Since that day in 2002, he had come a long way from the 19-year-old teen I met at Parris Island. A boy who dreamed of growing up and becoming a Marine, along the way, maturing into the great American hero his family always knew he was.

My deepest condolences to Rich and Sue Eresman, Tony’s wife Nicole and their two children. Army Gen. William Thornson once said, ‘There are only two kinds of people that understand Marines. Marines and the enemy. Everyone else has a second-hand opinion.’ I could never possibly understand the courage it takes to become a Marine, but I remember coming back from Parris Island commenting how proud I was and how grateful I felt having these young men and women protecting our freedom.

God bless you Tony and all our service members. Rest in power.

Odd brushes with celebrities Part 1- Joe Pesci (2006)

Being in journalism for over three decades, you tend to run into celebrities, especially in the New York Metro area. Some encounters are fun, some, not as much (see future post on Lawrence Taylor) In 2006, I met Academy Award winning actor Joe Pesci as he attended his annual Pesci's Celebrity Skins Game at Brooklake Country Club in Florham Park, NJ.

This was also an annual assignment I enjoyed shooting because, well, it was June and I got to hang out on a golf course all day with A-list celebs like Pesci, Mark Wahlberg, Angie Everhart etc. I got a few images of Pesci warming up, hitting some drives for the cameras. Then I ran down the hill to get a different angle. As I was shooting, I noticed he was chipping and not driving as I heard a thump….thump…thump in my general direction. I looked away from my viewfinder to see Pesci taking a dead eye in my direction as he was chipping.

It was a great day, as a charity even, everyone is on their best behavior. Pesci always worked the crowd like a pro. Long story short, he never did hit me, (not sure if that was by design or not) and I quickly grabbed up a souvenir ball from that day to tell the story 14 years later.

Painful lessons

As any new employee, I’ve tried to learn painful lessons early and not repeat them over the course of my career. One particularly painful lesson was the one I learned during my very first major job for the Albany, NY bureau of United Press International.

As journalists, we are trained or born with the instinct to get the best story (or photo) and more importantly get it first. As a 24-year-old ‘photojournalist,’ I was assigned to shoot Vice President George H.W. Bush throwing out the first pitch at the National Baseball Hall of Fame Game at Doubleday Field in Cooperstown on July 29, 1985.

I have gained much wisdom over the past 35 years, and this day is never far from my thoughts. I got in position, my camera to my eye and BOOM a giant figure stepped in front of my lens. I shouted, “Hey, what the hell!!” and looked up to meet eyes with 6’ 2” 200 lb Red Sox left fielder Jim Rice, looking not so happy at my sudden cry. In that time I had missed the photo of the ceremonial pitch and moved positions to get a photo of George H. W. Bush shaking hands with Sox catcher Rich Gedman. The image was fine, enough to put on the wire without having to reveal my screw up, but not nearly as good as the image by veteran AP photographer Jim McKnight who was standing in a much better position.

By the nest morning, I thought all had been forgotten until I saw Jim’s photo in USA Today. I was crushed beyond belief. I vowed never to get my butt kicked like that again by the competition. In all honesty, of course it has happened over the past three and a half decades. When you are blessed enough to surround yourself with some of the best shooters in the country. Shit happens. But, thankfully, my win/loss percentage has been enough to keep me in the majors.

To keep myself always humble, from that day on, I have carried that photo with me. It has traveled through every job, apartment, relationship and has been the one constant in my ever changing life. Cherish your failures and learn from them, each has made me a better photojournalist, and as I continue to try and make that one perfect image, I make mistakes.

Luckily, for me and my clients, they are far less often and traumatic than that hot summer afternoon, when Jim Rice and Jim McKnight teamed up on me to teach me the photojournalism best lesson I ever learned.

Behind the Photos–Mike Tyson: 1990

One of my favorite portraits came (again) out of just dumb luck, both of timing and the way the light happened to fall on the subject. I was scheduled to cover a boxing program during the Summer of 1990 at Waterloo Village in Stanhope, NJ. We had heard that former heavyweight champ Mike Tyson might make an appearance. The timing wasn’t the best, Tyson had just lost the title (and his first fight ever) to Buster Douglas about 6 months before.

As I wandered around the restored 19th Century canal town in between fights, I saw a slight commotion in the distance. Following a faint light, I saw seated in a folding metal chair Mike Tyson, a larger than life character,  looking very reserved and humble. As people shouted to get his attention, Tyson just sat quietly, not rude, just seeming to be lost in thought.

It was extremely dark with only a couple tungsten lights shining on him for the interview he was about to give. I pushed my T-Max to about 6400 asa and held my breath as I dropped to one knee shooting about three frames at around 1/30 sec. After the interview began, I left thinking I didn’t get anything worth keeping. Arriving back to the darkroom I push processed my film to the limit still, the negatives were very thin.

Making a couple prints I was shocked that I had indeed captured a moment. Something I hadn’t even realized while pushing the shutter. This is what Ive always loved about photography. From viewfinder to negative (or digital card) to darkroom or computer, sometimes you’re able to pull out something from nothing. And on this night twenty years ago in Stanhope, I was lucky enough to captured a sensitive, introspective portrait of the “baddest man on the planet.”