One day, I showed up at a local softball field to take recreation pictures, but I only had a few shots left on a roll of film. Film was parceled out like gold back then, and that was all I had. I took a shot or two of the pitcher warming up and someone batting. Then I went to first base, introduced myself to the first baseman and the umpire, and we got started.
A man got on base, and he immediately strayed off the bag. That league played baseball rules on pickoffs; if he got too far off base, he was fair game.
The pitcher threw to first, and the runner made a headlong dive back to the bag. I snuck out on the field a few feet — the umpire didn't complain — and snapped the shot and realized it was the last shot on the roll of film. I thanked everyone, including the base runner, who was out and heading back to the dugout. I wished them well and drove back to the paper.
Here's what I got: The photo showed the baserunner parallel to the ground, maybe six inches above it, with his fingers two or three inches off the bag. The first baseman was doing a split, with the ball clearly in his glove and the glove touching the baserunner's ankle.
I ran the photo, one of the best I've taken, all the way across the page with the slugline "Yer outta there!"
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