I Came Here to Pay Attention

Baseball, bad days, small wins, and learning to look up once in a while.

Aug 17, 2026

I came to Springfield this time intending to put my camera down and pay more attention. Not that I don’t watch while I’m lost in my viewfinder; I probably pay attention too much in that regard. It turns out it meant paying attention to what was going on with me. That wasn’t really the plan. Like normal, the plan was baseball.

I’ve spent a lot of time covering the WPBL up to this point, and this weekend I wanted to see more of it without constantly looking through a lens. Talk to people, listen, watch. Notice the stuff happening around a pro league playing in its first season.

I didn’t exactly succeed. It’s really, really hard for me to put the camera down. There’s always another picture; another player, another moment. Then I hear something and want to know more about that. Then somebody walks by who intrigues me. Then there’s a baseball game happening that I’m supposed to be photographing in the first place.

This is probably a good time to tell you I have ADHD. I also deal with depression and anxiety. I’m not telling you that because this is suddenly a mental health feature. It’s part of how I got here and why I operate the way I do. I get excited and take on too much. I have six ideas. I start four of them. I may get overwhelmed. I get pissed off. Something doesn’t work. I fail, I adjust, retry, and sometimes I get a little win.

Then I immediately want the next one. Sound familiar? Very baseball, actually.

I can be all over the place, but there are some things I’m rigid about. Principles are one of them. I can change the plan. I can fail, adjust, scrap an idea, and start over. Sometimes, I can admit when I’m wrong. But there are certain lines I don’t move. If I believe something is right, if I give someone my word, if something crosses one of those lines, I don’t forget it. My brain might lose the keys, the schedule, or whatever I was supposed to finish yesterday. It doesn’t lose that.

Baseball has been the one constant in my life.

I didn’t have some horrible childhood I’m trying to escape from. My parents provided for us. They stayed together. We took family vacations. I grew up okay. But looking back now, I was lonely. I never really had that one person. The confidant. The Mentor. The ride-or-die best friend you could call and tell anything to. I knew people. I had acquaintances. But I didn’t have that person.

That’s a lonely way to grow up. Turns out, having that person matters. Research on childhood resilience has found that growing up with a trusted adult- someone you can consistently turn to and talk with about personal problems -is associated with better well-being later in life. The opposite matters, too. Growing up without that kind of connection can leave a mark.

“The single most common factor for children who develop resilience is at least one stable and committed relationship with a supportive parent, caregiver, or other adult.” - Center on the Developing Child, Harvard University

I did have baseball. Baseball gave me, and still gives me, something I can’t really get anywhere else: the chaos and the quiet. There are numbers and decisions. Repetition and patterns. History. Strategy. The what-if scenarios. Tell me what’s better. I’ll wait.

I know nothing in life like I know baseball. Last year I got laid off. Suddenly the thing that had been my career wasn’t my career anymore. So, do what you love, right? Baseball became the focus. And if you told 12-year-old me what I’m doing now, that kid would’ve shit six times and died.

I photograph professional athletes. I interview them. I sit in press conferences and ask managers and players questions. I’ve covered international baseball. On the inaugural opening day weekend, I was in Springfield because I was paid to photograph players for WPBL baseball cards. That’s insane. Those are wins, and I know they’re wins. And somehow they’re never enough.

Saturday’s vibes weren’t great.

Something didn’t go the way I’d hoped. And for whatever reason, that absolutely got to me. I spent the rest of Saturday wondering what I was doing there. That’s a bit embarrassing to admit. Here I was, working a real assignment, building relationships, producing work I’m proud of, and one interaction made it all disappear.

That’s the less entertaining part of my brain. ADHD is sometimes described in terms of the fun stuff: energy, creativity, hyperfocus. Cool, there’s more. Depression and anxiety come along for my ride too. Sometimes something small hits exactly the wrong spot at the wrong time, and suddenly it isn’t small anymore.

I knew one detail doesn’t determine whether I belong. I knew I wasn’t doing this to chase approval. I knew players knew me; I knew people liked my work. I knew I had legitimate reasons to be standing inside that ballpark. I knew all of it. But it didn’t matter. For a few hours, I was done.

Sunday I went back.

I wasn’t magically better. I was still pissed. Sometimes that helps with focus.

I’m watching NY Heights catcher Denae Benites hit. She had already smoked a double earlier. Then, in the fourth inning, she hit another home run. Number seven. My actual note:

“That girl just f’ing mashes.”

That’s sophisticated baseball analysis right there.

A little later, I’m talking with Maggie Fox of the LA Queens. She’s 20 years old, goes to Brown University, studying Science, Technology, and Society and Psychology, and playing professional baseball while figuring out what comes next. She’s been doing this forever: Baseball For All, MLB Develops, DI softball, Team USA baseball. Now the WPBL.

She talks about Keira Izumi, one of her best friends. They’ve known each other through baseball for years. Obviously, these women didn’t suddenly appear because a pro league was created. They’ve been playing for years. Little League, Baseball For All, national teams, and tournaments. The WPBL finally gives that path a destination.

I spoke with Japanese hurler Ayami Sato, who doesn’t speak a ton of English. We couldn’t say much to each other, but connected anyway. This wasn’t our first encounter. I had a few moments with her on the field Saturday as she was coming in from watching a bullpen session. As she came in, she saw me with the camera in hand, smiled, and came over to introduce herself. I let her know that I knew who she was. I took a few extra photos of her in the dugout at that moment- she posed. I have nothing but respect for Sato.

I spent time with CJ Silas in the broadcast booth. She’s calling baseball games for a living now, something she’s wanted to do forever. Her dog, Mr. Robinson, named after Jackie Robinson, of course, hangs out in the press box with her. I spoke with the folks in security and reporter AJ Andrews. I met the guy doing the music and player introductions, DH3. And I spoke with Boston Hunters draftee Nayla Ramirez.

Nayla was drafted but wasn’t signed. She came in for the weekend. Staying ready, throwing bullpens, and waiting to find out if that phone call is coming. She also coaches boys back home in Brooklyn. They know who she is, they know she’s a pro, and they know she’s played internationally. She gets respect because she’s the coach and knows baseball. And she’s waiting for something else too.

A girl.

She hasn’t had a girl play for her yet. She hopes eventually one does. The boys apparently already understand it: if a girl comes onto that field and she can play, she plays. That’s it. Nayla fought through boys’ baseball herself. Now she’s coaching the next generation of boys while waiting for the next girl to walk through the door.

All these little details. None of it was something I could photograph.

Neither was what I heard in the stands. People were chirping. Don’t walk her. You can’t do that. Make the play; normal baseball-fan stuff. What I didn’t hear was anyone criticizing women for playing baseball. They were criticizing baseball players for playing baseball. Maybe equality means some asshole in the stands yells at you for missing the cutoff the same way he would have yelled at Manny Ramirez back in the day?

Freight trains were rolling behind the outfield too. Big, loud ones. You could hear them well before you saw them. Pro women’s baseball. Robin Roberts Stadium. Springfield, Illinois. Freight train rolling behind the outfield- that part felt minor league, part high school.

Then it started raining. I’m standing there listening to the grounds crew basically announce there is ”no f’ing way we’re taking the tarp out.” Apparently there was some question about stopping the game. The grounds crew had answered it. Nope. Play baseball. For some context: it had rained earlier in the day, and the outfield was pretty spongy.

Right before Boston played Sunday, I saw manager Jemile Weeks outside the dugout with a bat in his hand. The game was a few minutes away. Players started lining up. Weeks was hitting them ground balls. Nothing complicated. Grounder, field it, back of the line. Repeat. Grounder, field it, back of the line.

It looked like something you’d see at a Little League practice. This is a former Major League Baseball player coaching professional baseball players, and they’re taking basic grounders minutes before a game. I loved it. So naturally I had to ask him about it afterward.

He talked about touches. Comfort. Seeing the ball, touching the ball. It had rained. So he asked the players if they wanted the extra work. They did, so he gave it to them. Do the simple thing. You know how to do this. See the ball. Field the ball. Back of the line. Again. Play.

Kelsie Whitmore, San Francisco Firebells

I came to Springfield wanting to put my camera down. I failed. I still took a lot of pictures. I chased too many things. I got distracted. I got overwhelmed. I let one interaction mess up several hours of something I genuinely love. I met people. I missed people. I found stories. I probably created six more projects I don’t have time to finish. I failed. Adjusted. Got a small win. Failed some more. Adjusted again.

There is always something else I want. Another credential. Another story. Another photograph. Another person I want to talk to. Another level I think I need to reach before I can finally look around and say, “Okay, this counts.” I don’t know what enough looks like. That can be a problem, but it’s part of what’s gotten me here. Maybe that’s another reason baseball has always made sense to me.

Baseball never lets you finish either. Get a hit, next at-bat. Win today, tomorrow you start 0–0. Have a great season, do it again. There’s always another pitch coming.

Matt Williams & Kelsie Whitmore. San Francisco Firebells

For someone whose brain has never been particularly good at accepting “enough”, of course I fell in love with a game that never ultimately ends. I came to Springfield intending to put the camera down and pay more attention. I didn’t do a particularly good job of putting the camera down.

Sometimes you need to put the camera down. Sometimes you just need to look up.

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