By MIKE THEILER
Journalism alumnus
Nobody cared that it was Sunday. Commandments were being broken by the keg-ful.
The All-Carolina Harley Dealers Spring Rally was just getting started. The Beach House Bar’s floor already stank of stale beer, a thick fog of cigar smoke hung in the air and genteel Southern Belles were exposing their breasts, momentarily forgetting that back home in Asheville and Beaufort they were soccer moms and church-goers.
The “Rally” is just a fancy name, coined by the Chamber of Commerce, for 10 days of hog hedonism that annually unsettles the local taxpayers and squares in green polyester pants who think they’re going to have a quiet week on the golf course.
But where else can you rub tattoos with the Hell’s Angels and 100,000 of your best scooter-trash buddies and not get arrested?
Professionally, of course, I claim to be documenting the pagan rituals for an as-yet-to-be- determined publication. Something along the lines of a Hunter Thompson gonzo journalism piece entitled “Fear and Loathing from Cape Fear to the Grand Strand.” Yeah, right. Kind of hard to take notes and shoot pictures with a can of Budweiser in each hand.
For five years, Bike Week has been an annual pilgrimage for me, and so despite the fact that I now lived in China, this year would be no exception. My plan was that after the debauchery of the rally, I would work for Reuters in Washington for a month and then return to the Orient. Little did I know that I would be witness to some truly historic events in the summer of 1998.
As the Monica Lewinsky scandal unfolded in January, I couldn’t help but be thankful that I was 10,000 miles away. CNN displayed images of colleagues soaked in freezing drizzle staking out her Watergate residence, scrums of tusseling photographers elbowing for position outside Lewinsky’s lawyer’s offices, scores of lensmen rimming the perimeter of the U.S. District Court where the grand jury was meeting.
In an economic sense, life was good; everybody was working. Every freelancer and stringer had a job and a fat day-rate. There were too many players, too many events, too many scenes to be left uncovered. Fiscal budgets would be in tatters by April.
But from my comfortable chair halfway across the globe, it all seemed so sordid. Rumors and hearsay were being rushed out unverified in an attempt to feed the insatiable appetites of cable TV and the Internet press. Yes, I was glad not to be a part of it.
By the time I arrived in Washington in May, it had gotten worse. However, my first Reuters assignment was not related to Monica-Gate but to the annual Scripps-Howard Spelling Bee. My colleagues ribbed me endlessly: “Man, last year you covered the White House and flew around on Air Force One, and now you’re covering the Spelling Bee?”
“Working my way back up,” I replied.
My planned one-month stay came and went, and I had to extend when problems came up with my property rental in Virginia. But Reuters would have work for me as long as I stayed.
On July 24, I “opened” the White House at 7:30 a.m. That’s the time when the travel pool gathers for “protective purposes.” That means there are no official events on the president’s schedule, but it’s a holdover from the days when the possibility existed that he might go for an early-morning jog. Since Clinton’s knee injury, he doesn’t jog anymore, but the pool still has to be on standby.
Clinton had a “Boys Nation” event before departing for Camp David for the weekend. The Boys Nation is a poignant event for the president because of the famous photograph taken of a rosy-cheeked Clinton meeting JFK in the Rose Garden at the same event more than 30 years ago. So, I had already put in a full day and was packing up to leave the Reuter’s office when someone yelled that CNN was reporting gunshots at the U.S. Capitol.
I grabbed my cameras and hopped in a cab for the five-minute ride to Capitol Hill. Police cars screamed by us, and the taxi’s dispatcher was already radioing of gridlock ahead. I got within three blocks and jumped out and ran the rest of the way to the east side plaza.
The scene was controlled chaos. Hundreds of tourists and staff were being hustled down the famous steps to the safety of a perimeter. The plaza was jammed with security vehicles from every imaginable force in town: Capitol Hill police, D.C. city police, the Secret Service, Park Police and FBI.
Instinctively, I photographed whatever was in front of me, forgetting about timely composing and light metering and staying on the move. There was no time to get fancy. I shot the mass evacuations, police shouting instructions and medical personnel arriving.
When a Medi-Vac helicopter lifted off with the wounded, the Capitol dome providing a dramatic backdrop, I managed only two or three frames before being sandblasted by the chopper backwash. Next, I scoured tourists who had been inside who may have made pictures on the scene. The prospect of free processing and the possibility that they might have a magazine cover was enough to induce them to turn over their film. Unfortunately, nothing of consequence was used.
Rumors flew among the photographers that colleagues inside had made some dramatic images. Outside, the chaos had calmed. Investigators were interviewing stunned tourists and taking statements as they sat on the grass, their vacations shattered by the unprecedented violence. Two Capitol Hill police would die, their heroic actions at the moment of death undoubtedly saving scores of lives.
The killings cast yet another pall over the city, already weary with the President’s scandal. Monica fired her 90210 lawyer and hired a team of Beltway Insiders. After a couple months of relative inactivity, events started to snowball. The blue dress was sent to the FBI for analysis, the president agreed to testify before the grand jury and Starr’s report would finally be issued. So many historic events, but, in my opinion, so few memorable pictures. I do remember one instance, memorable for its absurdity if nothing else.
We were staking out the House Judiciary Committee, meeting in closed session to debate the release of Ken Starr’s evidence. Since no photos were allowed of the proceedings, we were left to shoot congressmen walking the halls to the meeting.
We were desperate for a usable image and grasping for anything when the superintendent asked if anyone would be interested in shooting just the door of the committee room. I had to shake my head in disbelief when a half-dozen voices shrieked ‘YES!” Is this how far our proud profession has fallen, to be reduced to shooting an immobile door to illustrate the fall of a president?
Reviewing my own pictures of the summer, I find a lot of “talking heads” at microphones, lawyers in limousines and witnesses walking into court. No prizewinners, that’s for sure.
One of my favorites, though, came when I wasn’t even supposed to be there. The day before Starr’s long-awaited report would be released, the White House announced that the president would have a statement as he departed for an evening event with the first lady. Everyone breathlessly anticipated that it would be a tearful apology to the nation with Hillary “standing by her man.” It would be the contrition he didn’t give after his Grand Jury testimony.
I raced from Capitol Hill to the White House. The briefing room was empty, the press corps waiting outside the West Wing.
“You’d better hurry up, or you’ll miss it,” a staffer yelled. Everyone was crestfallen when the president and first lady walked out of the Oval Office with Transportation Secretary Slater to announce that the NorthWest Airlines strike had been settled.
I realized that this photo op had been restricted to just the travel pool, and I shouldn’t have been there. But as the President made his statement, the first lady walked away and stood by the limousine. She was not standing by her man, but no one misunderstood her steely resolve and fortitude at this trying time.
I think my favorite picture of the summer was made by Cliff Owen of the Washington Times and it didn’t get a lot of widespread use. It depicts a forlorn-looking Monica, alone in the back seat of a battered D.C. taxi, after she had dumped her Beverly Hills lawyer and, presumably, the perks of limousines and “Vanity Fair” photo spreads. It’s a wonderful picture.
Another was Reuters’ Win MacNamee’s picture of the president waiting to give his 4 1/2 minute address to the nation after testifying to the grand jury. He looks like the naughty schoolboy made to sit in the corner on a stool, his hands cupped prayer-like in his lap. And the slight wide-angle distortion makes him look very much alone. Guilty but not sorry.
One of the few welcome respites from the suffocation of the partisan blood-letting was the home-run battle between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. McGwire had been chasing Roger Maris’ ghost since the opening day of spring training. The undisciplined and free-swinging Sosa surprised everybody by banging out 20 dingers in July to make it a mano-a-mano affair that delighted a scandal-weary nation.
I was hanging out at yet another interminable House Judiciary Committee stakeout when my pager went off to call pictures chief Pat Benic. He asked if I might be interested in shooting the final weekend of the season in St Louis.
Being a baseball fan down to my toenails, I accepted on the spot. Later, I wondered if it was because I was such a good photographer or because Benic coveted a couple of my ESPN computer league players for his roster? The league commissioner would no doubt frown on my fast-fading Pearl River Opium Runners trading a couple of marquee players to Benic’s up-and-coming Potomac Pirates only to discover that I had landed the most sought-after assignment any photographer could hope for. Benic assured me my photo talents were the only thing he had in mind.
Benic told me my photo position would be down the third base line, from which I would be able to make the “historic” image of bat meeting ball and McGwire’s follow through. It would be the one frame that would stand the test of time, much like the famous Roger Maris picture that has been reproduced thousands of times. It would be lucrative, too, since Reuters, unlike the Associated Press and Agence France Presse, shares revenues from its library sales with its contract photographers.
On arrival in St. Louis I had a rude awakening. I would be shooting digital, something I had never done before. I would not be shooting the third base side but first base side. I would be using Canon cameras, not my Nikons. And I would be shooting auto-focus, all totally alien to me. But in the wire service business, you learn to shift gears rapidly, so I accepted without argument.
Shooting digitally, the focal length of a lens increases by a factor of .6, so my 300mm lens became a 420mm. The hulking McGwire completely filled the frame from my position behind the Cardinals’ dugout. It was a night game, so my shutter speed was only 1/500 of a second. Because McGwire is such a pull-hitter, as he attacks the ball, he turns his face away, so from the 1st base side you’re out of luck action-wise. All you can hope for is good jubilation.
Years from now, I can brag that I saw McGwire blast five home runs in his last 11 at-bats. Well, not exactly. Looking through the camera’s eyepiece, you focus every ounce of concentration on the image before you. Your senses are tingling, your brain is hoping you don’t miss the moment, your eyes are trying not to blink, your ears are trying to block the roar of the crowd. Caution flag is out for possible hyperventilation.
Under oath, I couldn’t actually claim I “saw” any of the homers. That’s because the camera’s reflex mirror is flapping at five to six frames a second. You don’t really “see” anything. You’re just hoping you’ve captured the decisive moment.
As the game got under way, McGwire failed in his first at-bat, and a murmur went through the crowd as the scoreboard posted a “66” next to Sosa’s name. He had just homered down in Houston.
Sosa now led 66-65 — but not for long. Barely 45 minutes later McGwire slammed a 1-2 pitch in the fifth inning for his 66th. Fireworks exploded in the sky over Busch Stadium, and the fans exploded as well, cheering and clapping and yelling in jubilation.
A courier picked up the floppy from my digital camera and shipped it upstairs to the Reuters photo desk. I did not have a picture worth transmitting, however. There is a significant delay when snapping the shutter button, very much unlike shooting film, so timing is crucial. You almost have to anticipate before you actually see the decisive moment. It was obvious my timing was off. Besides, you can only get about two frames per second, unlike the 5-6 with film.
The next day’s game started late on a muggy afternoon without a cloud in the sky. Another problem with digital images is the exposure latitude. As it is with color slides, exposure is critical.
McGwire struck out in the first inning, and the crowd was ravenous by the fourth. The shadows had now crept past homeplate, but the fans in the background were still in bright sunlight. Uncertain of how to properly expose this situation, I frantically radioed my colleagues for help, and as I fumbled with the unfamiliar dials, McGwire launched a 96-mph fastball more than 400 feet for his 67th.
Embarrassed is not the word for how I felt. Luckily for me, McGwire’s heroics for the day weren’t over. In the seventh, the Expos’ rookie pitcher threw a sinker at McGwire’s shins, and the slugger golfed it 435 feet. McGwire began his homerun trot down the first baseline, holding his bat like the Statue of Liberty in triumph. Unfortunately, because I was “over-lensed” there was no way to get both McGwire and the lofty bat in the frame. Again, I would have no picture on the wire. But who couldn’t enjoy the moment? Sixty-eight home runs! Where would it end? This guy is not human.
To be honest, I don’t remember much about home run number 69, whacked in the third inning of Sunday’s last game of the season. That’s because McGwire hit tater Number 70 in the seventh, and for once I was ready. I was now shooting film, and I captured it all: the swing, the jubilation going down the first baseline and a nice moment as he rounded third base and pointed heavenward in a touching gesture to the deceased Maris. It reminded me of the “Field of Dreams” refrain: “Is this Heaven?” For me it was.
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Mike Theiler is a School of Journalism alumnus. He worked for the Daily Nebraskan, UPI and the Omaha World-Herald while in school. In 1978 he went abroad to become a picture editor in UPI’s Brussels headquarters. In 1979 he was named chief photographer for Israel and covered Sadat’s peace initiatives, Palestinian unrest and the War in Lebanon and Siege of Beirut. He also covered the 1980 Moscow Olympics, papal trips to Africa and Charles and Diana’s wedding in London and honeymoon in Egypt. In 1983 he was named chief photographer for China, the first American photographer to be based in Beijing since the 1949 Revolution. In 1985 he joined Reuters, when it purchased UPI’s overseas operation. He subsequently resigned from Reuters to join his wife, Susan, a foreign service officer. They lived in Paris and Hong Kong before returning to Washington in 1989, where he became a Reuters contract photographer. In 1997 Susan was posted to Guangzhou, China, where the Theilers now live.
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