New York Giants quarterback Y.A. Tittle after being slammed to the ground by a Pittsburgh Steelers lineman in Pittsburgh on Sept. 20, 1964.
Y.A. Tittle knelt there on the grass, blood dripping from his bald head, eyes blank, hands empty. He’d been hit hard, slammed to the ground by a Steelers lineman young enough to be his son. The tackle had been brutal, a reminder that football was a young man’s game and time spared no one, not even a legend.
Tittle was 38, ancient for a quarterback. He’d seen championships and defeats, touchdowns and interceptions, the cheers and boos of a hundred crowds. He’d given the game everything, his youth, his strength, his will. And now here he was, alone on the field, a proud warrior finally brought to his knees.
The photograph would become famous, a stark black and white image of a man confronting his own mortality. It captured something essential about the sport, the way it built heroes and then tore them down, the way it gave and took in equal measure. Tittle’s face in that image said it all – the pain, the weariness, the grim acceptance. He’d played the game and the game had won, as it always did in the end.
But even in defeat, there was a kind of victory. Because Tittle had played, really played, with all the courage and skill and heart he had. That’s all any man could do, in football or in life – to give it his best shot, to fight the good fight until the final whistle blew. Tittle had done that and more, and no tackle, no matter how hard, could ever take that away from him.
The final moments of a Japanese dive bomber, after being hit by the gunners of the USS Hornet, 1945
A Japanese plane caught squarely by antiaircraft fire leaves a trail of smoke and flame as it falls toward the ocean. The pilot might have already been dead by the time the bomber was going down; getting knocked out would probably be a small mercy compared to being burnt alive or drowning. There’s a passage from an autobiography of a Second World War British bomber crew member called “In for a Penny, in for a Pound”: he describes that if they were to survive a crash but find themselves completely stuck in a burning wreck, they were instructed to stick their face in the flames and breath in. Their lungs would be incinerated from the heat, making them pass out, allowing a quicker and less painful death than being burned alive.
Deep sea diver entering the water 1915
Eva Fridell receives the winners cup at the Washington Tidal Basin beauty contest 1922
Members of the Blackfoot Tribe photographed in Glacier National Park, 1913
In the hallowed grounds of Glacier National Park, against a backdrop of towering peaks and pristine valleys, a group of Blackfoot Tribe members stand, their presence a testament to the enduring spirit of a people whose lives are inextricably woven into the fabric of this sacred land. The year is 1913, and though the world around them has changed in ways they could never have imagined, these men and women remain rooted in the traditions and the wisdom of their ancestors.
Their eyes reflect the weight of a history that stretches back to the very dawn of time. In their faces, we see the lines of hardship and the scars of loss, the legacy of a people who have endured the unendurable and emerged, forever changed, on the other side. And yet, there is a quiet strength that emanates from their very being, a resilience born of the knowledge that they are part of something greater than themselves, something that transcends the fleeting nature of the material world.
For the Blackfoot, Glacier National Park is more than just a place of stunning natural beauty. It is a sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos and the confusion of a world that has forgotten the ancient rhythms of the earth. Here, among the towering pines and the rushing streams, they find solace and connection, a reminder of the sacred bond that exists between the land and the people who have called it home since time immemorial.
11 a.m. Newsies at Skeeter’s Branch, Jefferson near Franklin. They were all smoking. 1910, St. Louis, Missouri.
Strongmen at the Thule Athletic Club, Trelleborg, Sweden 1898
Baseball team composed mostly of child laborers from a glassmaking factory in Indiana 1908
Rod Serling smoking a cigarette while narrating ‘The Twilight Zone’ 1964
“There is an answer to the doctor’s question. All the Dachaus must remain standing. The Dachaus, the Belsens, the Buchenwalds, the Auschwitzes – all of them. They must remain standing because they are a monument to a moment in time when some men decided to turn the Earth into a graveyard. Into it they shoveled all of their reason, their logic, their knowledge, but worst of all, their conscience. And the moment we forget this, the moment we cease to be haunted by its remembrance, then we become the gravediggers. Something to dwell on and to remember, not only in the Twilight Zone but wherever men walk God’s Earth.”
Iranian women protest against an Islamic dress code for all female employees in government offices, 1980
In 1980, Iran was still in the throes of the Islamic Revolution that had toppled the Shah the previous year. The new theocratic government, led by Ayatollah Khomeini, moved quickly to implement its vision of an Islamic society. One of the most visible and controversial aspects of this was a strict dress code for women, requiring them to wear the hijab in public.
This decree sparked immediate protests and resistance from many Iranian women. Thousands took to the streets, marching and chanting slogans like “Freedom of choice in clothes!” and “I am not a second class citizen!” For these women, the hijab was a symbol of gender oppression and a threat to the social freedoms they had enjoyed under the Shah’s regime. They saw it as a regressive step that would erase their identity and autonomy.
The protests were met with swift repression from the new government. Women who defied the hijab law were arrested, fined, and even lashed. Some lost their jobs or were barred from attending university. The regime also mobilized its supporters, including conservative women, to stage counter-protests and paint the anti-hijab movement as a product of Western influence and moral decay.
Despite the crackdown, the protests persisted for months, marking an early fissure in the Islamic Republic’s authority. In the end, however, the government’s coercive power proved too strong, and overt public resistance to the dress code faded away. The battle over the hijab, though, was far from over. In the decades since, it has remained a focal point for debates and conflicts over women’s rights, cultural identity and the power of the state in Iran. The courageous protesters of 1980 were an early spark in a struggle that continues to this day.
A group of immigrants aboard a ship celebrate as they catch their first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty 1900
The deck of the steamer was alive with excitement as the towering green figure emerged through the morning mist. A hush fell over the huddled masses, their eyes wide with wonder, as Lady Liberty came into view – torch held high, a glorious beacon welcoming them to the land of dreams and opportunity that had called to them from across the sea.
Cheers erupted, growing to a deafening roar. Hats were tossed skyward, children were hoisted onto shoulders, and more than a few tears of joy streaked weathered faces. These brave souls who had left behind all they knew, who had crossed oceans with little more than threadbare clothes on their backs and unshakable hope in their hearts, were at last laying eyes on the symbol of all they had journeyed and sacrificed for.
Among their number were Giuseppe and Francesca, a young Italian couple barely out of their teens. They stood hand-in-hand at the rail, the Statue’s green visage reflected in their shining eyes. “Just think, amore mio,” Giuseppe whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “In America, anything is possible. A man can rise as high as his talents and determination will take him, regardless of his humble beginnings.” Francesca squeezed his hand and nodded, a radiant smile upon her face.
Before them stretched a dazzling future limited only by the scope of their imagination and the depth of their grit. With each knot the ship advanced, propelling them closer to the hallowed shores of Manhattan, their pulses quickened with the intoxicating rush of impending rebirth. The ordeals of steerage, the perils and privations endured, faded to insignificance. All that mattered was the glorious road ahead.