How to Keep Your Composure When Millions Are Watching
There is a moment, right before the artist hits the stage, before you hear your camera number, before the red light turns on, when your whole body reminds you that this is live. Your heart knows. Your gut knows. And if you are not careful, your hands might know too.
I will never forget my first live tally outside a studio. It was an NHL game, and I was the last choice to operate the easiest camera they could assign me to. I was on a slash position, tucked off to the side. The director clearly did not want to use my shot unless it was absolutely necessary. Then, deep into the first period, the red light came on. My heart felt like it was trying to chase the puck on screen. The shot was wide and lasted three seconds at most. No one yelled, so it must have been fine. But that moment lit a fire. After that, I wanted every tally. My body would tense in anticipation, waiting for another one.
I still get pre-show jitters. Always in the same places, my chest and my legs. The muscles tighten. My heart pounds. But now I expect it. It is part of my ritual. I use that energy to triple-check what I have already checked. I walk through the rundown again. A phrase a friend once told me plays on repeat: Proper Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance.
Operating camera in a live setting is a high wire act. There is no "Cut, let us go again." It is real time. It is succeed or fail, with millions watching. Experience will not erase that pressure. You have to learn to harness it. To use it.
Here is how I have learned to stay sharp when everything is live, the headset is chaos, and the red light is on.
Your Body Feels It First
Live shows are chaotic by nature. Minimal rehearsal. Moving targets. Lighting changes. Rundown shifts. And the crowd energy? It is very real. You cannot fight that feeling. If you try to block it out, it will strike when you need to be most locked in.
I do not block it. I channel it.
Adrenaline becomes focus. But it needs somewhere to go. For me, that means preparation.
Is the rig balanced and behaving?
Has anything changed since the last check?
Did I forget any key tools?
Have I annoyed my spotter or AC yet?
Do I know exactly where to be for the first cue?
These questions were already answered. But I ask them again. Because it kills unforced errors. Then I breathe. Long and deep. Until it is time to go.
I am usually early to the first cue. I want talent and the director to know I am in place. No rushing. When the red light hits, the nerves vanish. It is not the same rush as the first time. Now, it is stillness. Even in a stadium full of one hundred thousand screaming fans, there is silence in the frame. My hands and feet know what to do. My eyes stay locked in. It is the calmest my mind ever is. Afterward, it is a blur, almost like an out of body memory.
Mental Discipline in the Headset Storm
Headsets are not calm.
Directors are calling changes.
ADs are racing the clock.
A hot mic someone forgot to kill.
And then:
"You are live, camera seven."
The key is separating signal from noise.
I have trained myself to tune out the panic and focus on the mission. I keep the volume low. I stay rooted in preparation. I breathe. I execute.
This is not just technical. It is psychological. I have learned to stay in story mode rather than survival mode. That way I am making creative decisions, not just trying to survive the moment.
Live Work is Built on Trust
You are not just a technician. You are a partner in trust.
The director trusts you to frame moments they cannot micromanage.
Talent trusts you to catch theirs.
Your team trusts you to show up ready and locked in.
This is what being close to the action really means.
Somewhere in the crowd, a fan is crying during their favorite artist’s ballad—on a sixty foot screen showing your shot. A viewer at home is screaming as their team wins on a game ending play, captured from your point of view.
You earn that trust by being solid. Consistent. Calm in chaos. Ready without fail.
The Performance Inside the Performance
The audience will never know your name.
They will not know that the artist’s wink into the lens—the perfect unrehearsed moment—was because you were ready. They will not know you ducked Matt Bellamy’s guitar flying over a giant inflatable monster while sprinting backstage from one cue to the next.
But the producer will know.
The director will know.
The lead operator. The technical director. The crew.
They have worn the headset too.
And when it is real—when it is loud, when it is live, when it matters—you will be the one they call.
Not just when it is quiet.
But when everyone is watching.
