Oh, I slept deeply after my long day Friday.
But I had to get up and photograph high school boys wrestling for three hours today.
That is the life of a smalltown journalist, from tragedy to victory within a day, usually with some small tasks thrown in. (Note to self: Take out the garbage tomorrow. And clean the men's room but take a valium beforehand.)
I've now attended two wrestling matches and they are a different world to me. Today, it was a sectional where there were three mats stuffed into the basketball gym. Teams would switch mats and to make it more difficult, I was shooting for the two newspapers where I work -- Hayward and Spooner -- as well as publications from Ashland and Rice Lake.
Mind you, these are the little cities of my youth. Without buses in grade school, we would create a train of cars up and down the brand new Highway 53, eat at greasy burgers in smalltown diner and head to the game. (Back then, before food giants like Cisco, the hamburgers tasted different in each diner. Now, they're all the same patties, same buns, same cheese.)
The goal this morning wasn't a Pulitzer worthy shot. It was get something in focus. And all-smalltown journalists shoot the still moments at a sporting event so they have at least one frame a newspaper can use. I shoot team meetings most of the time but also before the free throw at basketball games. For wrestling, there is a moment before the boys grapple -- that's my specialty.
I took the rest of Saturday off, getting nothing done. I'm good at that. But I'm a little tired and my 57-year-old bones are still recovering from the chill of Friday morning.
Sunday, I'll sleep late and do administrative work at the paper before production days of Monday and Tuesday kick in. Also, we have a special section and a magazine this week.
Don't be jealous.
Peace unto Ukraine and peace and satisfying work unto you my brothers and sisters.