One of the biggest occupational hazards of covering sports for a living, as well as one of the biggest fears, is standing on a football sideline and having a play come right in your direction.

It’s a genuine concern. If you’re looking through a camera or in a different direction, getting blindsided by a 200-pound athlete is not going to be a pleasant experience. Every sports writer who doesn’t have their own story to tell knows someone who does. In my time at The Vicksburg Post, we’ve had two photographers who suffered broken legs from sideline collisions.

Thankfully, I’ve managed to avoid that fate. A good sense of self-preservation and situational awareness transforms me from a slow, middle-aged sports writer into Usain Bolt the second I detect a play coming my way.

I have no shame when it comes to bailing out and, while I’ve had some close calls, I’d never been hit — until this season. In the second quarter of St. Aloysius’ game against East Rankin Academy in September, my 26-year run of good luck ran out.

St. Al threw a pass toward the sideline that was caught by receiver Beau Brogdon. I shot two pictures, then immediately realized he was being herded toward the sideline. I turned to run and bail out like usual and immediately realized two other things.

First, the visitor’s sideline at East Rankin is small and there was nowhere to run. There were only about five yards between the field and a bench that sat in front of the bleachers.

Second, rain that day had turned that part of the sideline into a muddy mess. If I’d tried to quickly accelerate, there was a good chance I was going to slip and fall anyway.

It’s amazing how fast you can process all of this information in your mind as it’s unfolding. If you’ve ever been hit by a car, it was the same thing. Time freezes and your brain jumps to light speed to assess your limited options.

Within a second, I realized my best course of action was to stop, prepare for the hit, and pray for the best.

Two players — I’m not sure if it was Brogdon or one of his blockers, and an East Rankin player — went to the ground right at the sideline. Their momentum carried them within a couple of inches of me, and one last roll softly clipped the back of my legs. My feet went out from under me and down I went.

As I splatted down butt first into the mud — I had my back turned to the players by that point — more lightning-fast reflexes kicked into action. I had a notebook in my left hand and a camera in my right, and held them up so they would stay clean and dry while the rest of me got muddy and wet.

It worked, for the most part, although it did create another problem. I was now stuck on my back, in the mud, with no leverage to get up on my own without wallering in the mud and creating a comical scene. It was like I was a fat turtle stuck on its back.

Three St. Al cheerleaders grabbed my left arm and two grabbed my right to pull me up. Thank you, ladies.

One of my wife’s best friends was at the game and by halftime I had a text message from the Better Half saying she knew that I fell. No secrets in this marriage, or in the stadium. About a dozen people in the stands, all of them in good fun, asked about my pratfall.

Fortunately, my pride was the only thing that was injured. The hit caused me to lose my balance more than being a hard wipeout. The mud cushioned the fall. I even kept my shirt clean thanks to the rain jacket I had on, and saved the notebook and camera from sustaining damage.

All things considered, it could have been a lot worse. I walked away unscathed and now I have my own war story to tell. Let’s hope that’s the last one I have for a long, long time.

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Ernest Bowker is the sports editor of The Vicksburg Post. He can be reached at ernest.bowker@vicksburgpost.com