A few words about Bill Greenblatt

The legendary St. Louis photographer died this morning.

The number of notifications always spells the legacy of a particular person after their death in this modern world. As screwed up and pretentious as that sounds, it’s the truth. When Bill Greenblatt passed away this morning peacefully around his loved ones, Facebook and Blue Sky lit up like a Christmas tree. The email had a couple new entries. Local pals like Rene Knott, JC Corcoran, and other news personalities mourned the loss of a dear friend.

Greenblatt was a top shelf photographer, whether it was a dumpster fire on a baseball field at Busch Stadium or an actual fire being fought by local fire departments across downtown. Sporting event or just an event, he was there. If the Cards were playing, he’d be down in the tunnel next to the Cardinals dugout, close enough to say some words to fans or the manager.

Everyone respected Bill. When he came into a room, players didn’t flee from his lens. He smiled, opened up, and the stories began. I got to experience short bursts of Greenblatt energy as a teenager and grown man. When I worked the manual scoreboard at old Busch, I’d see him in the press box before every game. He’d be cutting it up with Bernie Miklasz or another sportswriter, showing them shots and previews. He floated through the room like he was dressed like Sinatra, but it was respect that seemed to carry him.

He interacted with me on certain occasions, taking the time to come chat with our scoreboard crew. He cracked jokes, roasted us a bit for being scorekeepers, and never let any of it seem serious. Every time I walked into that room, it was only a matter of time before he would appear. Maybe it was a glimpse or sly grin or a decent smile, but those tiny interactions add up over the years.

A good amount of time later, our paths crossed again during the Winter Warm-Up downtown at the Hyatt Regency hotel. I was covering the first official media event of the year for a number of blogs and KSDK, spitting our snackable content as the great

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coined a short, to the point article. On more than a few occasions, as he would at any sports occasion in St. Louis Greenblatt would appear in the media room with his giant, long lens camera ready to take ten photos in an instant.

A couple of times, we stopped and talked. Only a few minutes passed, but it was enough. I could tell he was surprised that the scoreboard kid made it all the way to the media room. I don’t know, maybe a guess. Reading faces is something my dad could do well, so the apple didn’t land too far from the tree there. As we would depart back to our work “stations,” he’d shot me a sly grin. This time, though, it was different. I think he was proud of me.

Take a read around tonight and you’ll find that many have a great story (or three) about Greenblatt. Only the good eggs retain so many grand tales after their demise. Sadly, Bill’s death came on quickly. A friend posted on Facebook that they just received a Christmas card from him, and now he was suddenly gone. Such is life, as a man named Winston once said. It gives, takes, and takes even more.

I didn’t know Bill well, but I knew him enough to understand why so many loved him deeply. Those are the people you want to be around, the magnets of conversation. They allow everyone into their orbit to understand that you interacted with an authentic soul. Those are the ones who get mourned the most, because they aren’t in heavy supply.

Greenblatt leaves behind a gluttony of stellar sports and firefighter photography. Do a search, pour a bourbon, and enjoy images that will be around long after all of us depart this rock. If it happened in St. Louis and was notable, Bill was there. He took those infamous photos of the gun-toting McCloskeys. If you were in a big moment, he was already there waiting with a perfect shot.

Rest in peace, camera guy. (That’s what I called him for years.)