Depth of Field
As a fan of The University of Alabama, I know firsthand the expectations for our sports team and the amount of pressure the fans place on the athletes. A quick Google search of “What is an Alabama fan” will direct you to the Urban Dictionary, describing Alabama fans as “cheering for The Crimson Tide (when they are winning).” Essentially, being a champion is expected and, quite simply, preferred. Alabama fans have a sparkle in their eye when their starting quarterback throws for multiple touchdowns but are quick to call for a second-string replacement when he does not do exactly what they want him to do. Our expectations of athletes are an immeasurable, burdening weight that falls on their shoulders and ultimately affects their mental health.
Is this a danger to athletes? I truly believe it is.
Over the past four years, I’ve had the privilege of photographing D1 college athletics and visiting all the intense atmospheres that they are contained within. Every time I step into a sold-out stadium, I am in awe at the sheer magnitude of how it feels to be within the space. I imagine how the Roman gladiators felt stepping into the arena as they entered a battle that yielded two results: life or death. My mind wanders, and I contemplate whether athletes consider those their fate as well.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the game begins, and the stifling pressure of expectations rushes in. Thousands of fans throw strict instructions, offensive slurs, and passionate opinions directly at the athletes. They paid to watch you play. Now, you must perform for them.
If you don’t, they hate you.
As if the pressure isn’t enough, athletes’ bodies begin to fail them.
Bones crumble. Tendons split. I can hear it all from the sidelines.
Tradition is a moment of silence, followed by a slow, rising applause as the soldier is carried off the battlefield. The harmony is enough to satisfy social norms, but it doesn’t repair the broken soul who just exited the playing field. Moments after your exit the gleaming, lecherous eyes of the fans fixate back on the remaining able-body contestants.
They want to see you get up, just so you can get out of the way.
Maybe you succeed in your endeavors. Your prayers are answered, as are the fans’. The glory of victory rains down on you like an unexpected downpour on the way to your parked car. The fans scream your name like it’s the last thing they’ll ever do. You love it, and for a moment, you’re convinced that they love you unconditionally.
There’s a chance that you’re blessed with a last-second opportunity to secure a spot in history as the team that lived to see victory at the final buzzer. The team's success rests on your shoulders, and it’s back-breaking. You rise up for the shot, and we all hopelessly await the sensation of victory as if for some reason we as the fans deserve it more than you. If you make the shot, the story to our friends will be told as “We won!” as if we bled the blood that was shed during battle.
Selfishly, I want you to go through that so I can capture a photograph of it. Am I as guilty as the others?
Sometimes, as life often shows us, even after giving it our all we learn the opposite of victory: defeat. In the scheme of the bigger picture, defeat teaches us to treasure victory and not to take failure as the end of all things as we know it. Athletes feel the gravitational force of defeat more than we, as spectators, ever will. Yet when the clock hits zero after a loss, we grab our concession stand trash, wiggle past any lingering bystanders in the aisle, and turn our back on the athletes.
As we walk out of the stadium and determine which route will get us home quickest, the point guard who missed the game-winning shot sits next to his locker and determines whether his future lies within the sport he’s loved since his dad first taught him to make a layup when he was a little child.
The cycle repeats, and yet we still manage to throw ridicule when athletes decide to take a “mental health break.”
Being a photographer has blessed me with the ability to see athletes closer than a spectator ever could and to witness emotions that very few get access to. While it feels like a blessing a majority of the time, I can’t help but hear the cries for help from these regular people who just happen to be exceptional at sports. Why should we even try to treat athletes any differently than we do now? Didn’t they join the team to win us, the fans, a championship?
It’s easy to forget that athletes are humans like us and that how we feel defeat is drastically different from how they do. One way we can recenter our perspective and strengthen our support for athletes is to tame our expectations and encourage ourselves, and others, to show more empathy towards athletes. We all want to see our favorite athletes succeed, but it can’t be done “the right way” until we see them for who they are: people. Humans with emotions, thoughts, and fluctuating mental health that craves support from our friends, family, and “fans.”
I’ve seen football players walk off the field many times, but I will ever forget when Bryce Young passed by me on his way out of Bryant-Denny Stadium for the final time in his collegiate career. I could feel the energy surrounding him as he came close enough by me to land a small whisper that only I would’ve been able to hear. You’d think he was emotionally distraught, given the circumstances, but he strolled past me with so much contentment for his career, and for the fans. It was in that moment that through all of my doubts that I have about people learning to respect athletes as humans that maybe, just maybe. . .
. . . we just have to change our depth of field.
