I'm kind of a big deal.
So move your camera.
I was a few hours early and the arena seats were still empty, save for the employees walking up and down the aisles making final preparations. Broadcasters and other journalists were setting up at the court-side table. Players from both teams, still dressed in their warm-up suits, shot around and stretched. I put my headset on, stood behind the camera, and waiting for the technical director to give me instructions.
I was a freelancer in my early-30s running a center-court camera for a college basketball game. The in-house arena crew hired me for a lot of events: rodeos, arena football, basketball, monster truck competitions, etc. The work was steady, not that difficult (or creative), but it did mean a lot of nights and weekends. We always arrived early to the games so we could hook everything up and run final technical checks.
Once the technical director was satisfied that each camera had a solid feed, proper white balance, and that each crew member had a working headset, we took a quick break before tip-off. So, as the fans trickled into the arena on this particular evening, I took up my position behind the camera, waiting for the pre-game show, the national anthem, and player introductions.
It was at this moment that I heard a voice yelling from behind me, as if they were trying to get someone’s attention.
“Hey!” … “Hey!”
I didn’t turn around at first. I just assumed it was a fan calling out to an usher, a vendor, or a friend he spotted across the way. But then I figured out that, in fact, this individual was wanting to speak with me.
I turned to see a balding, middle-aged man with thick glasses peering down at me from his elevated position in the seats behind the landing on which I stood. I immediately recognized him. He was one of my dad’s acquaintances going back into my childhood. Our families went to church together. He and my dad played on the softball team together.
It was obvious he didn’t recognize me. And I didn’t say anything.
Now, by this time I had worked enough production jobs to get a read on someone’s face and I could quickly tell how the ensuing conversation would go. There were really only five options:
an honest question about what it’s like working in video production and how the individual (or a niece/nephew could get started)
a question about what news channel I worked for and when this footage would be aired (along with a follow-up question along the lines of, “Can I be on TV?”)
a statement about how the individual is currently looking to buy a camera and a question about which one to buy
a completely unrelated question asking for directions
an irate tirade
I sighed as I looked up at the man who was staring daggers through me.
“Oh boy,” I thought, “This is definitely a Number 5.”
The question started innocently enough. The man asked me to move my camera because he and his elderly father (a squat, wrinkled, bald man sitting next to him) couldn’t see.
I responded and told him that no, unfortunately I couldn’t move. It wasn’t up to me. It was up to the in-house arena crew I worked for and that I was only an independent contractor. Also, as the center-court camera, I had to be here.
This was not the answer this man was looking for and that’s when the tirade really began. I saw it coming. He pointed at his father and, with an air of entitlement (and probably a long history of getting his way), began reeling off the stereotypical “Do you know who this is?!” speech.
He’s a big donor.
He’s given millions to the University.
He’s a season ticket holder.
These are our seats.
And on and on it went. Bear in mind I’m listening to this in one ear while in my other ear I’m hearing the voice of the technical director in my headset give me instructions on where to focus my camera.
Finally I cut the man off with the friendliest, “Hey, we know each other!” response.
The man paused, confused, searching my face, his brain scanning through his own internal facial recognition software. I helped him out. I told him who I was. I told him who my dad was. I mentioned how we all went to church together.
His demeanor changed completely. He put on a thick layer of nice to conceal the embarrassment of his own actions and the guilt of being caught.
And I have to admit, it was incredibly satisfying.
I think there are two main lessons to be learned from this experience:
Don’t burn bridges. Oh how nice it would be if in our jobs and personal relationships we could just let loose and tell people off. This is especially tempting when life takes you in a new direction. “Now’s my chance to let these people know what I really think of them. I’ll never see them again anyway.” But despite those base instincts, you should never light that fuse and torch that relationship. You never know when you might actually need those people again in the future.
Kindness should be part of your DNA. We’ve often heard the phrase, “Wow, I guess he showed his true colors.” It’s this idea that, given the right moment and the right circumstances, people will show you who they really are. Now, the collegiate booster I encountered at the basketball game probably never thought that he would run into someone he used to go to church with, and so he felt comfortable letting his true colors show. It just so happened that he got caught in his hypocrisy. But if kindness is woven into who you are as a person, day in, day out, then you will never find yourself in such an awkward situation.
It’s interesting that as nice as that man was to me once he figured out who I was, he never apologized for his behavior. And I’m pretty sure that’s the last time I ever saw him. So now, fifteen years later, this is how I remember him (and it’s how I will probably always remember him).
Is that how you want people to remember you?