They say it’s one of the most studied photographs in history, though it looks like a casual snapshot. That’s the genius of it, I tell people. I had stood there for hours, clicking off hundreds of shots and scanning and checking the results in the little viewfinder screen until I got just the right one. You can see it in the perfectly spaced, not quite horizontal lines in the foreground. The friendly umpire almost bursting through them, having finished with the task of imposing order on the gridiron. The not quite vertical stripes of his shirt, human life not quite willing to be shoehorned into rationality. Yet people don’t study my career-defining photograph for the perfect composition or for the shot selection, but for clues to the identity of The Black-Shoed Man, and why on earth he did what he was about to do.
We must have dozed off, when I am woken by the doorbell. The soft soles of the mysterious Black-Shoed Man could not have made any noise as he approached along the gravel driveway.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ I tell him. Though, I didn’t expect him like this. He looks more kindly than his mythos would suggest. He shakes my hand and presents me with a tall, beautifully ornate bottle filled with a vibrant yellow drink.
‘Pour a couple of shots for yourself and your friend,’ the man tells me with a gentle smile. ‘Then tell him that if you share this drink with someone, you’re sure to meet again.’
I empty a tray of ice cubes into a shaker, add enough of the drink for three shots, and give it all a vigorous shake. Then I strain the drink into the three glasses I had saved in the freezer for the occasion. I had been expecting him, it was true.
‘Thank you,’ you say when I hand you your drink, as if you will look forward to meeting me again after we part, and I believe it. I turn to hand the third glass to our visitor, but he has departed as silently as he had arrived. I am surprised to find myself so disappointed. I had so many questions for him, questions that will fall away with time, forgotten until I see the Black-Shoed Man again. But I know that of course we will meet again and at last, all of my questions will be answered.
We must have dozed off, when I am woken by the doorbell. The soft soles of the mysterious Black-Shoed Man could not have made any noise as he approached along the gravel driveway.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ I tell him. Though, I didn’t expect him like this. He looks more kindly than his mythos would suggest. He shakes my hand and presents me with a tall, beautifully ornate bottle filled with a vibrant yellow drink.
‘Pour a couple of shots for yourself and your friend,’ the man tells me with a gentle smile. ‘Then tell him that if you share this drink with someone, you’re sure to meet again.’
I empty a tray of ice cubes into a shaker, add enough of the drink for three shots, and give it all a vigorous shake. Then I strain the drink into the three glasses I had saved in the freezer for the occasion. I had been expecting him, it was true.
‘Thank you,’ you say when I hand you your drink, as if you will look forward to meeting me again after we part, and I believe it. I turn to hand the third glass to our visitor, but he has departed as silently as he had arrived. I am surprised to find myself so disappointed. I had so many questions for him, questions that will fall away with time, forgotten until I see the Black-Shoed Man again. But I know that of course we will meet again and at last, all of my questions will be answered.
