A couple of things that ran through my mind as I was pressed to the man-breast of a drunken Rangers fan.
Why did I lower the camera between me and his nipple? The camera was the only valuable thing on my person, and if the lens got damaged, there goes the easiest job in the world. But my dignity was also slowly evaporating along with the mix of beer and sweat that was beading along his soft areola. His friends laughed and there it went; my self-respect, mixing with the asbestos and dust, floated away into the damp air of the arena. He released me and I handed him a card. He could find the picture of his bosom approaching my lens in gallery 42.
I walked out of the dim and crowded 400-level of Madison Square Garden and furiously wiped my face with my lime green shirt. Back in the arena, the crowd chanted the name of its enforcer, BOOOOOOG, a man already deep into a death spiral of concussions and painkillers. The camera that was entrusted to me dangled safely from my neck. I still had 20 pictures to take before I got paid.
I resolved to never work another Rangers game.