Like most kids, I spent a lot of time playing baseball. There’s something magical about a ballpark—the crisp white chalk lines, the rhythmic crack of a bat meeting the ball, the shouts of teammates, and the scent of fresh-cut grass mixed with popcorn from the concession stand. Whether it’s a little league game or the majors, baseball has a way of drawing people in, creating moments of pure joy and camaraderie.
But for me, baseball wasn’t all cheers and home runs. My time on the field was challenging, to put it kindly.
I wasn’t the kid making diving catches or sending balls soaring over the fence. My skills—both at bat and in the field—left a lot to be desired. Back then, there weren’t baseball academies or personal coaches to help kids refine their game. You either had natural talent, or you sat the bench. Let’s just say, the bench and I were well-acquainted.
Coach Talley had his favorites—the kids with real talent, the ones destined to play every inning. He focused on them, as any coach probably would. My mother, in her ever-supportive way, tried to show appreciation for his time by baking cookies and taking little treats to practice. But to the other boys, that was a golden opportunity to make my life miserable. They saw her kindness as a desperate attempt to bribe my way into the lineup; the teasing that followed was relentless. The names, the jokes—it wasn’t easy. But none of it kept me away.
I wanted to belong, to be part of the team, no matter what.
Then middle school rolled around, and with it, a fresh start—or so I thought. By eighth grade, I figured I finally had a fair shot. This was public school, after all. No more playing favorites. No more politics. Just a tryout, a fair assessment, and a chance to prove myself.
A few days after tryouts, the coach posted the team list. I happened to be standing there when he tacked it up. My heart pounded as my eyes scanned the names. One by one, I read them all. But my name wasn’t there.
“Coach,” I asked, my voice unsteady. “Why didn’t I make the team?” He didn’t sugarcoat it. “Sorry, son. You’re just not good enough.” I stood there, trying to process those words. Not good enough. “Well, what do I do during this part of the day?” I asked. He shrugged. “You might try the yearbook club.”
Yearbook club. That wasn’t exactly in my game plan. But I didn’t have much choice, so I wandered into the classroom where the yearbook team gathered. It was mostly girls, and when I told them why I was there, they giggled at my predicament. I could feel my face burning. Strike two.
The teacher looked at me thoughtfully. She knew I wasn’t exactly a poet. Writing had never been my strong suit. So what job could she possibly give me? She walked over to a cabinet, pulled out something, and placed it in my hands. It was a twin-lens Rolleiflex camera.
“I’ve been wondering who to give this job to,” she said. “And it’s going to be you, Nathan. You’re now the school photographer.” Just like that, my world changed.
She showed me how to use the camera, how to frame a shot, how to capture a moment. And then—something incredible happened. She set me free. I was allowed to roam the halls, take pictures of anything and everything, to see the world through a lens. And for the first time,
I had a way to truly express myself. I was no longer standing awkwardly in the outfield, hoping a ball wouldn’t come my way. I had found my place.
I was a quiet, introverted kid back then—hard to believe if you know me now. How I went from that shy boy with a camera to where I am today is another story. But that moment—that camera—it set me on a path I never expected. The universe knew what I needed, even when I didn’t.
And that’s how I ended up here, capturing moments, telling stories, and sharing them with you.
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