Maaaaaaan, lemme talk at you for a minute.
Last night, I went HAM shooting this game.
I shot WAY too much and submitted WAY too much. I know that. (And @bcpnextlevel, don't think I didn't notice that you didn't complain. I love you for that!)
I even shot in drive mode (which, if you know me, might have been a clue that I was shooting out of my mind). I NEVER shoot burst, or drive, or CH, or any of that mess. One shot, one kill is how I normally operate.
But it was my last game of the season (unless @ncaasports wants to credential me for the tournament...huh!? Nudge nudge, wink wink!?), and it my first time shooting a game where nets would be cut, so I was feeling every minute of it. It was a beautiful, heart-pounding, Zenlike feeling, and I didn't exactly feel like keeping myself in check. So I shot the sh*t out of it.
And I edited it in pretty good time, considering I easily took triple the frames I normally would. I closed the door to the empty photo workroom, put on Kendrick, and got to work. Nobody pray for me.
And then after sending the finished product on its merry way, still riding that euphoria, I'm walking to my car, talking to another credentialed member of the media, and get this: dude tells me to get out of shooting sports. Tells me to go design websites or photograph babies or something. I could almost hear the narrator's voice reverberating through the parking garage: "And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how the Modern Man says 'Get back in the kitchen'."
This guy takes his leave by saying, "Good luck in whatever you end up doing". Inwardly, my response is FFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU. Outwardly, my response is, "This is it. I'm sure I'll see you around."
And just like that, this beautiful cloud-nine trance I was loving is instantly replaced by a seething fury, and I drove the two hours back home, picked up my Man, carried that sleeping baby into his room (which was no small feat, by the way...Dude is easily 60 lbs at 5 years old), tucked him into bed, and promised his smooshy little sleeping face that I will never just Do Something.
I'm not in this 'cause it's fun (I mean, it is fun, but that's not why). I'm in this because it's what I do and there is no other option. This is what I'm good at, this is what I plan to be great at, and that is all there is. This is it.
And I know there are a million and a half people out there pursuing a million and a half different This Is Its who ALL know exactly how I feel. And it doesn't have to be because they're women in a man's world (hell, the first photographer who ever told me that I'd never make it was a female)--it's the shortstacks who can ball, the tech geniuses who can't afford a computer, the cellists in a family full of pig farmers. There are a million and a half people being told Stop, No and Don't in a million and a half different ways for a million and a half different reasons.
So this is what I say to all of you with fire in your soul: don't f**king stop. And this is what I say to all of you who lost or never had or just want to douse the fire of others: quit telling us to stop--don't you know when you blow hot air on a fire, it just burns harder?
And no, there will be no Get Out. There will only be Watch Out.
'Til I cut down very my own nets, Watch Out.