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Journalism of Courage
It was almost a case of a fish called wander.
Three years ago this week, a young bloke pulled on a wetsuit, breathing apparatus, oxygen tank, goggles and flippers. Then he followed the person who was leading the small, exclusive group and lowered himself slowly into the water. The group made its way to the bottom of the circular glass tank, specially constructed so that visitors 8212; inside the circle 8212; could see the swimmers and the marine life.
There were fish of all shapes, sizes and descriptions. And larger than all the others and infinitely more graceful were the huge manta rays and sharks.
All that was missing was the theme music from Jaws. After the swim, the young bloke followed his guide out of the pool and took off his goggles. He squeezed his eyelids shut, opened them and squeezed them shut again. The goggles felt so different to the ones he normally wore.
Before he left, the guide made sure to take a picture with him and to get his autograph. After all, it8217;s not every day you get to take Ralf Schumacher swimming with sharks.
But the memory of that swim at the aquarium, surrounded by killer sharks, was to stay with Schumacher.
By the Sunday of that week, when he had survived a spectacular crash during the Melbourne Grand Prix, Schumacher was still able to quip. At the end of a television interview, he pointed out that he would be willing to swim alongside the sharks once more. 8216;8216;Even that would not be as dangerous as what happened today on the track,8217;8217; he said.
It was not an understatement for Schumacher, driving a Williams BMW, had crashed into Rubens Barrichello in a Ferrari at the start of the race, a collision that literally put the German8217;s driver8217;s car in midair.
Barrichello had pole position, but in the tussle with his Ferrari teammate, the older Schumacher, he had braked as he changed course. The front tyres of the car driven by Ralf Schumacher, coming up behind him, climbed over Barrichello8217;s rear tyres. The man who had swum nervelessly with sharks was now airborne.
Ralf Schumacher8217;s Williams came back heavily to earth, slewed across the gravel trap and stopped safely at the tyre wall. It was all over in a split second.
Down the end of the main straight was Joe Mann, a photographer who was just one of many hoping for a spectacular shot for the morning edition. Born in then Rhodesia, Mann started as a photographic cadet on the 8216;Rhodesia Herald8217; in 1970. After some years in London, and a wealth of experience at successive Olympics, Commonwealth Games, soccer World Cups, Test cricket and other international sports, he and his family migrated to Australia in 1991.
Permit me to fast-forward this story by about eight months. In November 2002, I was privileged enough to be one of three finalists in one of the categories at the national Walkley Awards, which are the Australian equivalent of the Pulitzers. I completed an afternoon edition in Melbourne, caught a flight to Sydney, checked into my hotel, showered and changed into a tux and caught a cab to the hotel where the Walkley dinner was being held.
It was a who8217;s who of Australian journalism, with the biggest stars of television, radio, print and online journalism up for the most coveted awards in the country. Television footage of the evening was going around the whole country.
Also at my table, seated immediately to my right, was a bloke I8217;d never met before. His name was Joe Mann. His entry, in the Best Sports Picture category, was a shot of the underbelly of Ralf Schumacher8217;s car as it flew through the air.
Mann won his first Walkley that night, but was as modest at the end of the long night as he had been at the very beginning. He was entitled to gloat, but he didn8217;t. The judges8217; official comments on Mann8217;s winning picture were decisive. 8216;8216;A once-in-a-career picture,8217;8217; they called Mann8217;s shot. 8216;8216;He not only got it, he got the moment of peak action. Its skilful composure catches the action of sports photography at its highest level of excellence.8217;8217;
Joe Mann and I have not seen each other since. But I called him on Thursday and told him I was covering the Melbourne Grand Prix for this paper. Would he mind if I photographed him, for the purpose of this story, alongside an enlarged version of his Walkley-winning photograph? He was as obliging as ever. No trouble at all.
It was one small step for Mann, one giant leap for Mann8217;s kindness.
David McMahon is a Melbourne-based journalist. His first novel, 8216;Vegemite Vindaloo8217;, is due out soon
