An Athlete Takes a Bow

J.J. Johnson walked into my studio in Fort Worth on a day I can’t fully place — not by date, anyway — but I remember the moment like it just happened. He had a kind of presence that doesn’t announce itself but doesn’t need to. The door opened, and there he was. Built like sculpture, but quiet. Self-possessed. Measured. He didn’t move like someone who wanted to impress you. He moved like someone who had nothing to prove.

It wasn’t long before I realized that what moved me most about him wasn’t his speed. It was his stillness.

At the time, I knew the basics. J.J. was a professional sprinter, a former track star with real credentials: 9.95 in the 100 meters. 19.88 in the 200. A gold medalist in the 4x100m relay at the 2001 World Championships. That’s world-class by any standard. But it wasn’t those numbers that struck me. It was his grace. His kindness. His openness to ideas.

I had invited him in for a portrait session — nothing too structured, just an afternoon of shooting and seeing what came of it. But once he stepped onto the seamless gray backdrop, the whole thing shifted. I saw something in him I hadn’t expected: the potential to represent more than himself. Not a brand. Not a resume. But a concept.

Discipline. Devotion. The quiet rewards of a body made capable through years of repetition and restraint.

I told him I wanted to do something a little different. I asked if we could make an image that stepped beyond the usual headshot or athlete pose. Something more abstract — something that showed not just who he was, but what he embodied. I described it clumsily, I’m sure. But he got it immediately. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t need convincing. “Let’s do it,” he said.

And then he gave me everything.

The image we made — arms stretched wide, head bowed — remains one of the most powerful photographs I’ve ever taken. It’s not a smile or a stance or a moment frozen mid-run. It’s a gesture. A posture. A kind of reverent symmetry. Part cruciform. Part sculpture. All spirit. It doesn’t just depict strength — it honors it. Not the strength of domination or ego, but the strength it takes to endure, to delay gratification, to sacrifice comfort for a higher aim.

In that bowed head, I saw gratitude.

Not the kind you say out loud, but the kind you live. The kind you accumulate in small, invisible ways: showing up for practice when you’re tired. Stretching after everyone else has gone home. Listening to the coach even when you’re frustrated. Eating the right things. Sleeping when the world’s still partying. Saying no. Saying no again.

That photo, more than anything, captured the shape of devotion.

But J.J. gave me more than a pose that day. He gave me conversation. Authenticity. Faith — not proselytized, but lived. He talked about his belief with a naturalness that made me listen harder. There wasn’t a single ounce of judgment in it. Just a humble acknowledgment that his strength came from somewhere beyond himself.

And it wasn’t long before I realized that what moved me most about him wasn’t his speed. It was his stillness.

That kind of centered energy isn’t common. It’s earned. And when I see that image now, years later, I realize it’s not a portrait of an athlete. It’s a portrait of a human being in alignment — with his body, with his craft, with his values.

A week or two after the shoot, I met J.J. at the late, great Club Schmitz — a well-worn burger joint I’d been going to since I was fifteen. I wanted to show him the photos. It wasn’t planned as anything more than that, but sharing that place with him felt like a quiet gesture of respect. He took it in the same way he’d approached the shoot — with grace, openness, and something like gratitude. That stuck with me.

J.J. sat with me, smiled big, laughed often, and ate like someone who appreciated a good burger in his bones. It was just two people at a sticky table, swapping stories. But like the photo, that day stuck. Maybe because it was honest. Maybe because we listened to each other. Maybe because — in a world that runs so fast — it felt like a pause.

That’s the real takeaway.

People walk into your life every day. Most of them keep walking. But if you slow down, if you’re lucky, if you’re paying attention, someone will stay long enough to hand you a moment that you’ll remember years later — even if you can’t remember the date.

That’s what J.J. Johnson gave me.

A portrait that speaks of strength without saying a word.

A memory that asks nothing but continues to give.

A glimpse of how much bigger a person can be than the story the world tells about them.

— Lawrence

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