In the Camera Guys I Trust

A wise man told me, “Some people save old socks that should have been thrown out long ago. Some people save old emails.”

Hhhmmm. A furrowed brow and an inexplicable impulse to start wearing tweed blazers with brown elbow patches soon followed.

Hold on to this. We’ll come back.

Sometimes, these “In Somebody I Trust” ramblings write themselves. It’s done six days before it’s needed. Sometimes, I miss my own deadline.

I was leaning in no particular direction. I mean, they are PLENTY of folks deserving of praise and celebration. Mostly, I wait for an epiphany presenting itself on the blunted end of a midnight lightning bolt. I read the words of wisdom, again. (Old socks and emails, in case you’ve already forgotten.) In a flash, I knew.

Anytime I’ve performed, my concern for audience approval has been surprisingly narrow. Anytime, as a grownup, that is. Hopes and dreams are far different when you’re 18. I wanted to be a star. I held onto great plans of filling the trophy case with tokens of fame and acclaim.

Time and perspective change everything.

I’ve always wanted fans to love the moment. I hoped the ovation would go on and on. To be adored and cheered by a devoted audience is addictive. I’ve liked knowing listeners felt like they were a part of our family, even if we’d never met. I’ve never shied away from the spotlight. It feels like home.

In the “Vikki-Is-Waiting-At-Home-and-I-Miss-Sophia-and-Miles” era… My focus shifted dramatically.

The fans matter. The audience matters. The listeners matter. Of course. OF. COURSE. Don’t be ridiculous. My goal was, and is, to get every moment exactly right. Every game. Every show. Every song. Every story. Every performance.

Mistakes are inevitable. I don’t want them. I don’t like them. But… they happen. Nowadays, I’m more committed to ensuring the missteps are as few and far between as possible.

I’ve also learned that some folks with a ticket will criticize everybody and everything. Some sad souls choose unhappiness above all else. To those individuals, I confess – I don’t care. I refuse to let my professional or personal life suffer the ill effects of your discontent.

It’s never-ever been indifference nor a lack of commitment. Just… I’ve invested in the whole, “do your best and let it rest,” mentality.

Which brings me to the question my children recently asked: “What do you hope people hear when you talk?”

My first response, “there’s a Ph.D. on the other and of that answer.”

I don’t know. I’ll bypass the opportunity to engage in a lengthy discourse about the intrinsic value to be found in any endeavor. The “what,” I cannot answer.

The “whom,” however…

I’ve invariably and undeniably hoped to give Sophia and Miles a reason to be proud of their father. A stamp of approval from our children is, for me, the defining reward. Vikki, too, of course. Although, I’ve always known Mrs. Griffin is a lifetime member of Team Jefferson, no matter what.

Other than that – well, it’s not what you might expect.

The crew members at Reynolds Auditorium and the Stevens Center. The caterers and security personnel at Joel Coliseum. The camera guys as Dash games. The chorus and the instrumentalists. Custodians and shuttle bus drivers.

I longed to earn their respect and their nods of approval.

I’m not saying the stars and the headliners don’t carry their share of the load. They do. Absolutely. Positively. They’re an essential part of the team.

BUT. The other folks that help bring the magic to life rarely get the acknowledgement and the rewards associated with success.

High fives from the stagehands. (Techies are notoriously unemotional.) “There he is!” as I pass through the metal detector. “Go ahead. Let me get that for you. Would you like some more ice?” at the end of the before-the-wheels-hit-the-road meal. Foot stomps from the brass section and less-than-subtle mutterings from the basses.

Every moment. Every response. Every vote of confidence. That’s what I wanted. That’s for what I worked. I hoped everything I did would make them proud.

About the custodians and the shuttle bus drivers… Somewhere along the way, I was no longer “Jeffrey.” I became “Mr. Griffin.” I didn’t like it. I kept saying, “it’s Jeffrey, please.” These folks were, by and large, significantly older than me. I was embarrassed. It was difficult. Uncomfortable. I finally told my mother. “They keep calling me Mr. Griffin and I can’t get them to stop.”

As mothers do, she made it so I could understand. “Son, it’s a sign of respect. You’ve earned it. If they didn’t mean it, they wouldn’t say it.” I cried over that one. Mr. Griffin, it is.

And, the camera guys. We take them for granted, until we don’t get a closeup of the game-winning play. If there ever was a group I hoped to impress, it was them. They never-ever bragged. They were the best. They set the bar. If any people I ever had the good fortune to work with earned the right to pass judgment, it was the camera guys. Over the course of careers that would stagger most folks and boasting resumes that include pretty much every major broadcast event in the United States over the last 20, 30, even 40 years, they’ve been everywhere, done everything and worked with everybody.

For me, their collective opinion was a defining moment, kind of like what I imagine it must feel like for an attorney to win a case argued before the Supreme Court.

There was nothing like “nice work” on the way out of the stadium, from a guy carrying a camera or rolling cable.

These folks don’t typically go home with large paychecks. They don’t appear on posters nor in television commercials. Championship rings are absent from the jewelry box. They are rarely, if ever, asked to stand on the 50 yard-line and soak in the applause of thousands of fans. The powers-that-be seldom remember to say, “thank you.”

To answer Sophia and Miles… I wanted all the people that contributed to the effort to feel like what they did and who they were, mattered. To make them proud. To be worthy of THEIR work and THEIR experience and THEIR wisdom. That was always the goal.

What I did, or, tried to do, didn’t matter without them doing what they do. Or, did.

Security guards. Ushers. Crew members. Spotlight operators. Folks on the fly rail. Sound techs. Costumers. Caterers. Concessionaires. The chorus. Accompanists of all kinds. Bus drivers. (Sometimes, it’s a golf cart.) Custodians. House elves responsible for setting out the chairs and unfolding the tables.

Camera guys (along with everybody else on my woefully incomplete, aforementioned list) are like “old socks that should have been thrown out long ago.” Sadly, that’s how some well-intentioned, but, misguided individuals see them. I like old socks, even when they’re decorated with holes for the toes. They’re comfortable. I wouldn’t dream of a winter (or a broadcast) without them.

Their experience, their loyalty, and their good sense are invaluable to any worthwhile outing. Only a fool would discount the wisdom they bring.

I’m nobody’s fool.

The camera guys. They’re the ones. In the camera guys I trust.