The Shot to Die For

I'm locked in and framed on the catcher's flashing signs, concentrating hard, right down to the tape on his fingers. I'm seeing his eye, looking back at the runner on third. Bloodshot. A perfect cover shot.

But I'm not shooting for ESPN Magazine anymore and Sports Illustrated is nowhere. I'm shooting network TV, on a centerfield camera platform, feet planted firmly each six inches from the edge. Concrete down below and not even a goddamn guard rail.

"Take CF," the director says. I hold steady. Or try to, on this slingshot perch above the bleachers. A half-billion-dollar, state-of-the-art ballpark, and I'm swaying with the wind.

A full-blown, jacket-flapping gale off San Francisco Bay. Without my gloves.

The red tally light blinks on. I'm live in living rooms across the central California coastline, where game-watchers sip evening coffee in comfort.

A sudden, malicious gust slams into me. The platform shakes. The camera's bolted down; I'm not. I cling to the gear, widen my stance, lean into the wind. Crowd noise rises and falls like distant surf. I've shot combat zones, hurricanes, and the mayor's Fourth of July barbecue—but nothing as lethal as this platform in April, when the wind cuts like a frozen knife.

Transfer back to San Diego before this kills you, I tell myself.

Even that thought brings shudders. I was there when the ENG truck's antenna mast touched the power lines and baked Adrienne Alpert's hand and leg off.

Something tugs at my pant leg. I keep my grip, thinking its wind whipping through my Dockers. Then it happens again—harder. I glance down.

A girl is on the ladder, tugging on my cuff.

She smiles up at me, her hair whipping around her face like a magazine cover. A DSLR hangs from her neck, its massive telephoto worth more than a couple Volkswagens.

"Can I shoot up here with you?" she yells over the wind.

"Not a chance. There's not enough room. It's dangerous and against the rules."

She pouts, waving guest photographer creds with one hand while clinging to a rung with the other. "I have a pass. Just a couple shots, that's all I need."

The red light is still on. I'm locked into my shot, too busy to argue. "No, I said. Get back down before you kill yourself."

"I have a pass," she repeats. "I'm with the press!"

"Sure you are," I mutter, eyes fixed on the catcher. "Then get your ass down to the field-level camera bays."
My headset crackles: "Ready two, take three, hold CF." She keeps climbing. I can't wave security over—not while I'm live. Can't break frame, can't leave the camera. The platform groans under the extra weight. I bite back a curse.

When the light clicks off, I twist around. She's already on the platform, steadying herself against me, fighting that heavy lens swinging in the wind.

"You're going to get me fired," I tell her. "Or both of us killed."

She laughs—bright, quick, instantly snatched away by the wind. "Relax! I just want a couple of photos. I need that one killer shot."

I shake my head, adrenaline tightening my voice. "There's no killer shot worth dying for."

She grins wider. "That's what you think."

Before I can argue, the headset pops again. "Take CF." The red tally light blinks back on.

I turn back to the field. The pitcher winds up. The crowd roars.

I feel her heavy lens on my shoulder and I shrug it off. Tripod duty isn't in my job description. She maneuvers around me—barely enough room for me and my camera—crouching like a cat, camera braced on her knee.

"You're out of your mind," I mutter.

"That's what gets the shot," she shouts.

Another gust slams into us. The image jumps in my viewfinder. I tighten my grip, readjust the pan, lock the frame on the catcher and the feed stays clean.

She leans out farther, striving for a better angle. I see her right boot slip on the metal grate.

"Back off!" I bark, panic rising. I reach for her.

"Almost got it—"

Her boot slips again—completely this time. She pitches backward, arms windmilling, the heavy lens pulling her off balance. A short sound—half cry, half breath—then the sickening thud of her hitting the concrete walkway below.

The crowd gasps in unison, a sharp wave of panic sweeping through the stands. People jump, pointing. Phones rise in a flurry of flashing screens.

"Somebody call 911!" shouts a voice from the bleachers. Uniformed cops surge through the aisles. Spectators surround her, eyes wide with horror.

I stay frozen, hands gripping the tripod, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My feed is still live. For a moment, it feels unreal—like watching someone else's life play out in a different movie.

Police elbow through to her, checking for pulse and breathing. EMTs arrive, move quickly, secure her on the stretcher, lift her toward the emergency exit. The crowd's murmur swells into a wave of shock, worry, disbelief.

My headset clicks: "Nice work, CF. Beautiful frame on the play. Hold for replay."

I swallow, eyes fixed on the screen. "Copy."

I don't look down again.

By the seventh-inning stretch, a producer mentions "an incident in the outfield stands," but nothing else. The game rolls on. The crowd is singing now, the recent fall forgotten by most of them. My hands, slick with sweat despite the cold, never leave the camera.

When the game ends and the director signs off, I secure the tarp over the gear and climb down slow. The wind is dying, but my knees still feel the unnatural pressure of the swaying platform, even on concrete. On the outfield grass a moment later, a uniformed policeman talks into a radio, his back to me. I keep walking. No one stops me.

At the truck, someone claps my shoulder. "Hell of a job today, man. Clean feed." No one mentions the fall.
I nod, hang up my headset, and leave without a word.

Nobody asked if I slept that night, or the next few nights. If the red light haunted me like a warning bell.

The inquest came two weeks later. The platform passed inspection—tested with a single inspector on it, well under the manufacturer's weight limit. All safety protocols followed, the report read. She was the one who ignored instructions, and I was cleared. Legally cleared. But the network saw it differently. Whispers followed me through the hallways—Did he see it coming? Could he have stopped her? The crowd had seen it all. The media had seen enough. So had the executives. They didn't fire me. They just stopped assigning me the good games, the prime slots, the platforms that mattered. Six months of that and I knew: I was being pushed out.

I found another job off the grid, with an indie station halfway up the coast. Part-time, same pay, no pension. No vicious gusts off the Bay either. No platforms swaying ten feet above the seats—just solid concrete in a pipe-rail box in the centerfield bleachers. A rail that protects me. From retirees with cookies and sticky-fingered kids. No risks, no glories, no headaches. Safer, yes. But empty, too.

Spring evenings smell of popcorn and fresh-cut grass. The crack of the bat echoes differently here, muffled and far off. The camera feed is clean, precise, reliable. My hands never shake. I never flinch.

The air is warmer. The stakes are smaller. Every inning, I test my angles, adjust my pans like clockwork, every shot smooth and crisp. Force of habit and professionalism keep me going. Most of the time. But every red tally light still burns a hole in my focus—a reminder of her grin, the tilt of that expensive lens, and the sharp, treacherous wind on that platform.

Once, I caught my reflection in the lens—eyes wet, just for a second—and looked away before anyone noticed.

“Take CF.”

The red tally light blinks on.

I hold the shot.