Rumpled and graying, the man did not fit in.
He was older than the youngsters in the windy schoolyard;
Obviously, he had no intention of playing basketball.
His scrawny frame seemed to sag under the weight of his fall coat
And the bag over his shoulder appeared to be a heavy load.

He leaned awkwardly against the cyclone fence
And slumped down to sit on the ground,
Looking like a wrinkled pyramid among discarded jackets.
The games continued while he rummaged through his bag
And with great effort wrestled from it a high quality camera.

No one paid attention; he uttered not a word.
The snapping of the shutter was barely audible.
On occasion, he stood and walked to one end of the court,
Raised the camera to his eye, snapped the shutter once or twice
And returned to his place on the ground by the fence.

There was no apparent schedule for his appearances.
Sometimes he was there; sometimes not.
Sometimes he had packages of photos taken a week or two before;
And sometimes he had elaborate 3-ring binders
With photos that focused on fundamental elements of games.

Vanity of vanities!