APS Behind the Lens: Murderball

The first thing you notice is the sound.

Metal slams into metal with explosive force. Wheels collide, lift, twist—sometimes tipping entirely. The court echoes with impact, speed, and raw intent. And yet, beneath the violence of the game lies something unexpected: respect, camaraderie, and an unbreakable competitive spirit.

Wheelchair Rugby—often called “Murderball”—is not a sport you ease into. It demands total commitment, from both the athletes who play it and the photographer trying to capture it.

Photography itself came later in my life. As retirement approached, I found myself searching for something that could challenge both my technical curiosity and creative instincts.

What began as a quiet return to a teenage hobby quickly evolved into an obsession. Joining Castle Hill Photography Club in 2013, and later The Entrance Camera Club, opened doors—not just to learning, but to seeing.

To understanding moments before they happen. And Castle Hill had a long-standing participation in photographing disability sports.

That understanding was tested the first time I stood courtside at a Wheelchair Rugby match.

The game is relentless. Two teams of four players battle not just for possession, but for space—blocking, trapping, and crashing into one another to create a single opening.

The ball carrier charges toward the goal line while teammates sacrifice position and body to make it possible. Every second is unpredictable. Every movement matters.

You don’t take a photograph—you anticipate it.

Among the players, one figure stood out almost immediately. Josh Nicholson. Even before his selection to represent Australia at the 2024 Paris Paralympics, his presence on the court was undeniable. There was a controlled aggression in the way he moved—decisive, fearless, purposeful. You could see the game shift when he entered play.

Later, during the Paralympics, that same presence was impossible to ignore. When Nicholson rolled onto the court against England, the commentator’s voice carried a knowing edge—this was a player who would change the balance of the contest.

This image was captured before that moment on the world stage—but it already held the story.

Shot on a Nikon Z9 with a 70–200mm lens at 1/1000 second, I worked at 20 frames per second, chasing the fraction of a second where chaos becomes clarity. Indoor light pushed the ISO to 3200, but sharpness was never the challenge. Timing was everything.

In post-production, the decision was instinctive. Strip away the distraction of colour. Let the form, tension, and collision speak for themselves. In black and white, the image becomes something else entirely—less about sport, more about confrontation, resilience, and human will.

The photograph went on to achieve international success, earning medals across multiple exhibitions. But its defining moment came closer to home. Selected by the Federation of Camera Clubs (NSW) for the Australian Interstate Photographic Competition, it was awarded first place in the monochrome section—the Herbert Medallion.

Recognition matters. But more than that, this image represents something harder to define. It is not just about impact, or motion, or even victory.

It is about the moment where control meets chaos—and the split second where everything is on the line.