The final buzzer of Boston University’s Friday night Hockey East playoff game brought tears to the eyes of many as one of the oddest seasons in the Icedogs’ history came to a close. But the red-rimmed eyes that surprised me the most weren’t those of senior goalie Sean Fields or head coach Jack Parker. They were my own.
When I walked into Walter Brown Arena for the first time, I was a freshman photographer for BU’s Office of Photo Services assigned to shoot freshman Stephan Siewick’s first collegiate start. At the time, the only hockey knowledge I had was taken directly from the Mighty Ducks trilogy, but, while perched atop Section 4, an old hockey sage with the thickest of Bostonian accents took me under his wing and began to dissect the game. By the end of the season, I was more comfortable down by the boards and knew three things to be iron-clad: (1) Coach Parker is a brilliant man, (2) Sean Fields is a deity and (3) BC sucks.
Last fall, I found my niche in the sports section, and when the hockey beat writers asked me if I was going to travel with them to photograph the games, I leapt at the chance. It was a perfect opportunity to immerse myself in the ways of the game and quickly become acquainted with the heros and history of what I was beginning to realize was a hockey powerhouse.
Over the past five months, I have traveled to 10 different arenas across a total of 1,500 miles, spending a total of more than 48 hours in a car. I’ve chatted with New England’s best sports photographers, listened to thousands of game analyses and sat in the back of countless press conferences. I now know hockey.
The instigating point in my fascination with this particular team came over Winter Break when I made my way to Mariucci Arena to meet the beat writers and cover our two-game series against the University of Minnesota (As a resident of central Iowa, my trip to Minneapolis paled in comparison to the 44-hour, 2,200-mile round-trip from the East Coast by my writing compatriots.)
In these games, arguably the best 70 minutes (two of the staggering 12 overtimes I’ve seen were that weekend) of regular-season hockey I photographed, I finally saw the players’ passion – a quality I’d sensed all along – show up in my camera’s viewfinder. In every subsequent game, I sought to find that fire, regardless of how the game was going. It wasn’t always easy on both sides of the glass.
As a photographer, I walk a delicate tightrope between living in the face of my subject and being completely alienated from it. I’ve been engulfed by opposing teams’ fans as I waited to capture that perfect just-across-the-crease goal shot. I’ve shared the penalty box with some of my favorite players but can’t bring myself to say “good game” in the dining hall. I’ve seen players cry but I’ve rarely seen any of them in street clothes. I could tell you what each player’s face looks like when he steps into the face-off circle, but I couldn’t begin to describe his voice.
Despite some disappointing games, my shutter clicked on and eventually captured David Van der Gulik’s game-winning goal at the University of New Hampshire and our season was given a second chance. I spent one-third of my Spring Break at Conte Forum, watching a driven team battle out of a corner with enough heart to leave me speechless. One week later, I unexpectedly found myself at the FleetCenter again, recording another well-played, hard-fought effort by the men I’d grown to admire.
Out of the more than 2,000 frames I snapped this season, there may be a few I’ll savor, yet I remain unsatisfied with my coverage of the team. Through the 33 games I covered (I was sick for five), I saw much more around the ice than I photographed. I never caught any of the times Steve Greeley acknowledged his little sister’s support in the stands. I wasn’t successful in documenting Kenny Magowan’s highly successful return from injury – twice. And I failed to get any good shots of Fieldsey’s jaw-dropping glove save. But the worst part is that I won’t have an opportunity to do so with these guys in scarlet and white ever again.
When that heart-sinking sound announced the end of our season, I started clicking as fast as the motor drive would go, knowing it was a matter of seconds before the end of both my first true hockey season and a Terrier era. While I snapped away, watching my favorite players make their ways off the ice, a large 31 drifted into the bottom of my frame. I focused on the shrinking jersey skating toward the exit and stepping onto the bench. Then the end of his stick disappeared into the tunnel and Sean Fields was no longer our goalie.
And for the first time all season, I really wanted those five extra minutes.
Phoebe Sexton, a sophomore in the
College of Communication, is the photo
editor for The Daily Free Press.