Once upon a time, in small Northern, Ontario (Canada) town, Stevo was a reporter. Some more pretentious people like to call themselves journalists. I don’t. I was a reporter, and a photographer for a weekly newspaper with a circulation of 14000.

I didn’t like it, most of the time. Driving to car accidents late at night to take ghoulish photographs, and talking to the next-of-kin for the story that followed didn’t sit well with me. When I was able to write the stories I wanted it was great fun. Driving around town on a sunny Friday afternoon, my Minolta SLR on the seat next to me, looking for possible stand-alone photographs, was a joy.

What I miss now is the rush. No, not sitting at a computer writing copy, that was as boring and tedious as an episode of Everyone Loves Raymond. Being in the field: A press conference, event or scrum, was a dog-eat-dog experience. That was the rush. All the photographers angled for a shot. They jostled each other trying to get into position to capture something different that would set their publication apart from all the others.

In most of those situations you had a few moments to take your photos before the subject moved along. It was a challenge, that one-upmanship against your competitors. Who knew I would find that rush again as an ESL teacher in China.

My school is hosting a track and field event for the entire district. I was drafted onto the school photography team to cover the opening ceremonies. I don’t know if was my talent (I may have some), or the fact I have a decent camera and gear that garnered the position. Yesterday I placed the all-access laminate around my neck, filled my pockets with memory cards and batteries, and set off.

The press were there. One newspaper photographer carried a Canon camera and lens combo worth six months of my salary. The event started and I slipped back into my former self. I dashed around, looking for the best vantage point. I tried to anticipate what would happen next.

I whispered to myself, “Get out of my shot,” as the photographer with the expensive camera upstaged me.

“Look this way, sweetheart,” I said under my breath as the colorful school girls paraded by, hoping for eye contact and a decent photo.

Two hours later I had shot 1500 images. Maybe 300 will be good enough to pass along. Not all of us get to revisit our glory days, I was happy to have had the opportunity. I miss it the way an addict misses their favorite substance.