It’s been over a week since my first foray into the world of boxing photography and I’ve had this article stubbed-out since the morning after. Now that some time has passed I wanted to contribute a few thoughts on that great night.
As you might have guessed from my first post, I was nervous to the point of being nauseous as I walked into the Shark Tank on Thursday night. Given the opportunity that had been presented to me, it was incredibly important to me that I come back with some good shots and not disappoint my new patron. But, given my total lack of experience with this particular realm of photography, I was pessimistically imagining total catastrophe.
The importance of the job was quickly impressed on me as I entered the arena. My issued pass is good for the entire season of fights at the Tank in a year. There was a press room with food and drinks and the organizer, Jim Sparaco, quickly pointed out the do-s (sit right next to the ring) and the don’t-s (get in front of any paying customers). Other than that, I was free to roam the building and snap shots of anything interesting. Since I was a grass green newbie to this field I had neglected the reality that most people get paid for this.
The first couple of fights happened so fast that I was scarcely able to let my continuous-drive camera capture more than a few images. In those first two fights, women boxers Christenson and Roland and men Santana and Ramirez, were unable to deliver more than two minutes of action. Actually, I should say that half of each pair was unable and the other half was quite able to deliver an asymmetrical throttling best described as a man/child beat-down. Before I could even figure out what ISO I’d be using, the ref had called two fights.
So, with two out of five of the events behind me and having only taken 50 out of my potential 600 shots, I figured it was time to rapid fire at the ring honeys.
Ring girls are great. Their job is to charge a crowd fueled by adrenaline, testosterone, and God knows how much beer into a wide-eyed frenzy of sex-deprived violence. Their tools of the trade: skimpy outfits and oversized tits. With these assets and the sexual subtlety of $2 stripper, they were able to keep the crowd on its feet in between the longer fights’ gruesome rounds.
While I’m typing, I’d like to point out the curvaceous shorter girl’s uncanny similarity to one of those Japanese anime porn stars:
The long brown hair (lightened from its genetically-mandated black), flawless white teeth, courtesan-like makeup, and western-sized boobs were a source of continual humor and fantasy for me. Humor because I’ve seen those cartoon vixens and see the similarity. Fantasy because, damn, she’s hot.
The main event ended up being one hell of a fight. I was seated in the blue corner (that of challenger DeLisle) as he was methodically dissected by Julio Gonzalez. I was observing the effects of this surgery from a seat that was–I shit you not–perhaps 24 inches from DeLisle’s inter-round stool. I was so close that I was his spit bucket’s back splash. I was so close that his trainer gently told me to get the fuck out of his way in between rounds. Shit!
DeLisle did display terrific heart to back up his obvious physical conditioning but ultimately Gonzalez’s accuracy guaranteed a decision. And the pictures that I captured demonstrated my physical conditioning for constant capture of ring honey hotness. But the boxing photos came out good, too. I learned a few lessons about photographing boxing events (next time I’ll use a F2.8 at ISO 800, I’ll be removing my UV filter, and bringing 70-200mm lens and 2M compact flash cards while leaving the monopod at home) and am certain that I can only get better. Now, if I can only find another local event!