I was shooting all over Manhattan that day and made my way down Broadway from Times Square to Union Square, where I stopped with a single frame left on my last roll of Portra 800. The last one had to be amazing, so a previously unfathomable patience set in. Then I discovered this chess match with all the right pieces: the boy swinging above his weight with his father at his side, the wizened park grandmaster, the crowd postponing the rest of their days. I lined up the shot, fired, and took off with apathy about who won. How could I care about the outcome? I had to get this roll developed.