I don’t watch much Portlandia, because I live here and it’s redundant. I don’t need television to deliver whatever airy spirit inspires someone to brake unexpectedly on I-5 for a longer view of a rainbow. Never mind that there are rainbows every 10 minutes in Portland. We have rainbows the way…
Like many people in the film industry, my mind this week has been on Sarah Jones. Sarah was a second assistant camera (the person who transports cameras and lenses, helps the focus puller take measurements to get the focus right and slates the take, among other things) who was killed by a…
This is important, and speaks volumes about what I do for a living.
It’s where I can no longer even goof around with Mallory on the soccer pitch. She almost killed me yesterday during halftime of the game she is watching here. Kicking from 25 yards out, she sailed a couple that hit the football crossbar (just a couple of feet above the soccer crossbar) and I thought the goalposts were coming down. The shaking, swaying, and ringing lasted at least 20 seconds.
The kicks that came right at me? I got the hell out of the way of most of them. The ball she now uses as a U13 feels like concrete to this guy who never played soccer and has no muscle memory of where the sweet spot is located. I’m honestly surprised she has not yet killed an opposing goalkeeper. Two weeks ago, she couldn’t get her hips around on a kick during a breakaway, and the ball went so far into the adjacent field that the referee let out a loud WHOA, then laughed and asked her to do it again.
After an hour with her at Grant Park, we walked home. My hands were swollen and my right foot felt like it had shattered into a million pieces. She laughed at me but soon enough asked if I was ok. Battered, injured, and pitied by a pre-teen. A typical dad Sunday.
January 9, 2014