LEWIS CENTER, Ohio — The air was thick with sweat and slogans, the unmistakable scent of cheap cologne, fried food, and sunblock swirling in a high school gymnasium turned political coliseum. The heat was unbearable, an oppressive Midwestern stew of humidity and burning asphalt that seemed to trap the noise and sweat of the thousands gathered outside Olentangy Orange High School. The press credential around my neck felt like both a shield and a target as I stepped into the fray. It was August 4, 2018, and I was on assignment for Zuma Press, one of the largest independent photo agencies in the world, covering yet another ‘Make America Great Again’ rally—this one featuring the man himself, Donald J. Trump, making an appearance to stump for Ohio State Senator Troy Balderson.

Covering a Trump rally in 2018 wasn’t just an assignment—it was an expedition into the molten core of American politics, a swirling, fever-dream spectacle of red hats, anti-media vitriol, and unshakable loyalty to a man who had turned political discourse into a dystopian game show. This was the circus, and I was here to document the madness, my camera a shield and a weapon all at once. A rally like this was always an event, part circus, part sermon, part street brawl. And for those of us behind the camera, it was a test of endurance, patience, and reflexes.

The crowd, red hats, MAGA flags, and homemade signs, stretched across the school parking lot and spilled out onto the adjacent streets. Many had arrived before sunrise, some camping overnight, just for a chance to see the spectacle. For many of them, it was a pilgrimage, a revival meeting where the faithful could bask in the glow of their political savior. 

Outside was what you’d expect: red hats, homemade signs both coherent and not, a few sweaty protesters penned in across the parking lot like livestock, shouting slogans to an indifferent crowd. The heat had transformed the place into a slow-moving circus of T-shirts emblazoned with “Build The Wall” and “Trump 2020—Keep America Great.” Vendors sold everything from MAGA bobbleheads to shirts proclaiming Hillary Clinton as an escapee from Satan’s womb. The line to get inside snaked around the building, a parade of unwavering, sunburnt devotion.

Inside, the first thing that struck me was the sheer density of the crowd. The high school gym, supposedly designed to hold a few hundred people at best, had transformed into a seething human beehive. Fire marshal regulations had been obliterated in favor of sheer Trumpian spectacle. People were crammed shoulder to shoulder, sweating under the halogen lights, their red MAGA hats bobbing in rhythm with the rally’s fever pitch. A woman who looked eight months pregnant leaned against a railing, fanning herself with a campaign flyer. She didn’t seem to mind the claustrophobic crush. No one did. They were here for their messiah, and nothing—not the heat, not the elbows in their ribs, not the smell of human bodies packed beyond reasonable capacity—would drive them away.

I raised my camera, framing her against the backdrop of the stage, capturing a moment of fervor, a moment that would outlast the rally itself.

The media corral—our designated space, fenced off from the masses—was already packed with photographers and journalists from the major networks. CNN, The New York Times, Reuters, and a handful of local outlets all jockeying for position. I was there for Zuma, capturing the event not just for the historical record, but to sell images to newspapers and magazines across the globe. The press pen, had its usual mix of grim professionalism and unspoken camaraderie. We were the enemy, after all—at least in the eyes of the people surrounding us on all sides that we were here to document.

As the event progressed, the VIPs filed in. Governor Mike DeWine and his wife, Fran, arrived, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with the party faithful. DeWine, who had a reputation for being cautious and measured, wore the expression of a man who knew the political winds had shifted and he had no choice but to ride them. Next came Congressman Jim Jordan, the firebrand conservative and staunch Trump defender, his voice cutting through the din as he worked the crowd like a revival preacher. As the event progressed, the VIPs filed in. Governor Mike DeWine and his wife, Fran, arrived, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with the party faithful. DeWine, who had a reputation for being cautious and measured, wore the expression of a man who knew the political winds had shifted and he had no choice but to ride them. Next came Congressman Jim Jordan, the firebrand conservative and staunch Trump defender, his voice cutting through the din as he worked the crowd like a revival preacher.

The crowd gathered and swelled. They were clad in Trump gear, shirts declaring their undying loyalty or disdain for the media. “CNN Sucks” was a favorite, scrawled across banners, hats, and signs. The press pen, where I and my fellow journalists were corralled, had its usual mix of grim professionalism and unspoken camaraderie. We were the enemy, after all—at least in the eyes of the people we were here to document.

Zuma is one of those agencies that thrives in the chaos. Unlike the wire services, which play it safe with middle-of-the-road coverage, Zuma’s shooters get in deep, find the moments, live in the grit. They send us out into the storm, trusting us to deliver something raw and real. And that’s why I was there, wedged into the press pit with a dozen other photographers, sweating through my shirt, waiting for the madness to begin.

The energy in the gym was near-religious. It was the kind of fervor you don’t see at normal political events, an amalgamation of stadium rock concert and revivalist church service. Governor Mike DeWine was already working the room with his wife, Fran, shaking hands, flashing a politician’s grin, doing the rounds. DeWine, Ohio’s old guard, played his part perfectly—the congenial, grandfatherly Republican who had survived more election cycles than seemed possible. He was a nod to the establishment that Trump had gleefully bulldozed, and yet, here he was, still standing, still clapping along with the faithful.

The rally itself was a carefully orchestrated performance, every element designed for maximum television impact. The VIPs had started filing in, each receiving their moment of applause as they walked across the stage. Governor Mike DeWine and his wife, Fran, waved dutifully. Senator Jim Jordan, always animated, took the stage with his trademark rolled-up sleeves, playing the role of the firebrand. The crowd erupted into chants of “USA! USA!”. 

Then, almost like a ghost walking back into the picture, there she was—Hope Hicks. The prodigal daughter of Trumpworld, his once-omnipresent communications director who had disappeared into the ether months prior. Hicks had left the White House in the spring, escaping what many insiders described as an untenable, Shakespearean drama of backstabbing and chaos. And yet, here she was, gliding back into the fold, her presence both a reminder of Trump’s past and an omen of his future.

The press pit, filled with weary reporters pounding at their laptops and sweating through their blazers, perked up at her sighting. They whispered to one another, nudging their cameramen, because Hicks was the closest thing Trump’s White House had to an enigmatic figure—her silence, her evasiveness, her ability to remain an untainted mystery in a West Wing of shattered reputations. What was she doing here? Was this a one-time appearance, or had she been lured back into the circus? No answers, just speculation, because speculation fuels the beast better than truth ever could.

I weaved through the pit, angling for shots of the most striking characters. And they were everywhere. Somewhere in the crowd, I spotted a black man holding a handmade sign—something vague about liberty and justice, though it was hard to make out in the shifting sea of bodies. He was a lone figure in a sea of whiteness, a stark contrast against the overwhelming demographic of the Trump faithful. 

A woman who looked eight months pregnant leaned against a railing, fanning herself with a campaign flyer. She was here, belly swollen, standing with the diehards. She had probably been in line since the crack of dawn, enduring the heat, the relentless slog of waiting, the promise that she was witnessing history. She didn’t seem to mind the claustrophobic crush. No one did. They were here for their messiah, and nothing—not the heat, not the elbows in their ribs, not the smell of human bodies packed beyond reasonable capacity—would drive them away. What kind of world was she about to bring her child into? That was a question I had no answer for.

And then, of course, there were the QAnon people. They were no longer just a fringe presence at these rallies; they had grown into a legitimate faction within the movement. Their signs dotted the crowd—some with cryptic slogans like “Where We Go One, We Go All,” others outright declaring allegiance to the conspiracy that Trump was secretly battling a deep-state cabal of Satanic pedophiles. I caught a group of them standing near the front, their signs held high as they chanted along with the crowd.

As the rally reached its climax, Trump took the stage like an aging rock star who refused to admit his prime had passed, basking in the glow of his own manufactured mythology. He spoke in his signature cadence—wildly oscillating between bombast and whispered conspiracies, feeding off the energy of the crowd, shaping it like a conductor wielding a baton made of pure grievance. The walls vibrated. The floor trembled. He soaked it all in, reveling in the sheer, unbridled devotion pouring from the crowd. Cameras flashed. I snapped away, capturing the sweat on his brow, the exaggerated gestures, the way he masterfully controlled the energy of the room like a seasoned carnival barker.

The press corps around me buzzed, fingers flying over keyboards, dispatching their instant takes to the waiting world. Camera shutters clicked in a frenzied rhythm, each of us hoping to land the shot that would encapsulate the entire spectacle in a single frame.

The speech itself was vintage Trump—rambling, triumphant, peppered with attacks on the media and his enemies, real and imagined. He heaped praise upon Troy Balderson, the Ohio State Senator he was there to endorse, though it was clear that this was not really about Balderson at all. This was about Trump. It was always about Trump.

Somewhere in the throng, a chant of “Lock her up!” erupted, aimed not at Hillary Clinton this time, but at some new target of Trumpian wrath. The collective memory of this movement was short, shifting seamlessly from villain to villain, keeping the outrage fresh, the enemy ever-present.

I navigated the press pit, dodging elbows and maneuvering for better angles, feeling the heat press down on me like a physical weight. The air was thick with sweat, testosterone, and blind faith. The pregnant woman had vanished into the crowd, swallowed whole by the surging mass. The black man with the sign stood his ground, an island in the tide. The QAnon disciples clutched their signs as if they were sacred texts, their eyes fixed on their prophet.

For the next hour and a half, he riffed on his greatest hits: 

“Fake news!” he bellowed, turning to glare at the press section. The crowd The crowd turned, booing some flipping us off as they roared in agreement, jeering at the journalists who were trapped like zoo animals in their designated pen.

A man in the front row locked eyes with me, shaking his head.

I didn’t react. It was part of the job.

The press pit felt like an island, detached from the fervor around us. Reporters typed furiously, photographers swapped out lenses, TV crews whispered into microphones, delivering live updates in measured tones. We were there to document, to capture, to report—but we were not part of this world. And we knew it.

“The Democrats want to take away your guns, your jobs, your freedom,” Trump continued. “But we won’t let them!” More roaring, more cheers. A deafening, guttural affirmation.

“The radical left,” he bellowed, “wants to tear this country apart, but we are bringing it back together, stronger than ever!” Every applause line was carefully timed, every insult aimed precisely where it would generate the most reaction. When he brought up Balderson, the reason he was supposedly there, it was almost an afterthought. “Troy’s a good guy, folks. He’s going to win big, believe me.”

The rally rolled on—waves of applause, moments of spontaneous chants (“Lock her up!” still had some life in it), and more attacks on the Washington swamp, the deep state, the mysterious forces that lurked just out of sight but were always out to get him.

Through my lens, I documented everything—the sweat beading on Balderson’s forehead as he nodded along to Trump’s endorsements, the way DeWine clapped politely but never quite looked at ease, the intensity in Jordan’s eyes as he fed off the crowd’s energy. And the people—God, the people. Faces alight with conviction, anger, devotion. Some here out of pure admiration, others for the spectacle, still others for reasons they probably couldn’t articulate if they tried.

Somewhere near the press section, a reporter checked his phone and saw the news alerts. The rally was already being dissected, minute by minute, across every major network. CNN called it divisive, Fox News called it triumphant, and Twitter called it every name in the book. This was the nature of it all—an endless cycle, a feedback loop of outrage, adoration, and analysis that never stopped spinning.

The rally ended the way they all did, with the strains of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” blaring over the speakers as Trump shook hands and signed autographs. The faithful lingered, hoping for one last glimpse of their leader. The media, myself included, packed up and prepared for the mad scramble to file images before deadline.

I eventually filed out, careful not to linger too long in the hostile air that thickened after Trump had exited the stage

Outside, the stragglers remained, discussing the speech like it was a sporting event. The black man with the sign was gone, likely pushed out before the rally had even started. The QAnon crowd had dispersed, their signs folded under their arms, their mission complete. Governor DeWine had already been whisked away, and Jim Jordan was still in the mix, soaking up attention. Hope Hicks had disappeared again, swallowed back into the machine. The press filed their last frantic updates.

For me, it was just another job. Another rally, another batch of images to send to Zuma. But the energy of these events, the fervor of the crowd, the mix of fear and loathing and devotion—it always stayed with me. There was something deeper at play, something beyond politics. It was spectacle, theater, a movement fueled by equal parts resentment and unwavering belief. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just another campaign event. It was something far more primal. Something deeper. The fire marshal might have looked the other way for this one, but history wouldn’t. And I had a front-row seat to all of it, capturing the chaos, one frame at a time.