Sound, lighting technician gives life to Assembly Hall

It was game day at Assembly Hall, and six hours before fans would take to their feet, before candy-striped pants would trail across the floor and the ball would leave the referee’s fingertips, John Harmon stood under the lights.

He whistled and pushed his cart to the scorer’s table, his shadow gliding across the pale wood.

He pulled off a monitor. This is what the referees would use to watch replays. He pulled off a gray box — the mixer board — and plugged it in with blue and red cords.

Without it, there would be no sound for the Kiss Cam and no “Indiana Hooooosiers” ringing through the arena.

John is usually the first one here and the last to leave, but he would never wear a number on the back of a jersey. He would never see the fans stand up and cheer for him, and he would never hear his name boom out of the speakers in the dimmed lights.

Without him, there would be no sound, no lights and no atmosphere. John is the man who shines the lights on everyone else, but he stays in the shadows. When the first whistle blows and the ball hits the floor, most fans never know he’s there.

***

John is the lighting and sound technician for Assembly Hall and all 13 IU Athletics venue He’s been here since 1997.

When basketball season ends, his job does not. He’s still in charge of other events, including commencement. If there’s a swim meet, he makes sure the team has the right extension cords to run the audio equipment and timing devices. He helps hang speakers for track meets. If someone asks him to take the trash out, he’ll do that, too.

When there’s not something going on, though, John sits alone in his office. It’s a cinderblock room tucked just outside the Varsity Shop, and crowds of people walk by it every day without taking any notice. There isn’t even a nameplate outside.

Inside, he solders wires while “Modern Family” or “Andy Griffith” plays in the background. Some days, he’ll say hi to the worker in the Varsity Shop when he comes in and not talk to anyone else all day. 

“I get more done before 8 and after 5 and on Saturday and Sunday than almost any other time, just because there’s no one around,” he said.

Most of his job is preventative — making it hard for anything to go wrong. But when things do, John is the person people call.

He knows every nook in Assembly Hall, and he can find them in the dark. He’s walked the catwalks high above the court and climbed the steep ladders to the roof.

When the lights won’t get to the right setting, he knows three or four ways to make them work.

“It’s never the same thing every day,” he said. “If it is, I’m a dumbass.”

Even when he saves the day, John won’t take the credit. He just slips back into his room, back to the shadows, and keeps working.

***

“God, I wish I was home today,” John said.

He plugged in the last of the equipment on the scorer’s table — the announcer’s microphone, headphones and wires — to give a clean audio feed to the control room.

John’s head was aching, and he was afraid he was catching the flu from his wife. Still, John is the only person who can do his job.

He’s only missed one full game — a few years back when he hurt his knee — and he talked someone else through it while on a morphine drip.

John’s philosophy doesn’t allow him to have bad days. He just pushes through. On the balcony level, he punched buttons straight down the row and turned the speakers on. When the fans came rumbling in to find their seats, they’d be able to hear the music playing.

Back on the court, John tapped a code into a screen. He made sure the shot clock would run at 35 seconds every time, each half would be 20 minutes and halftime would be 15. He pulled the pair of glasses off the mixer board and put them at the end of his nose.

“Getting old’s a bitch,” he said.

On the screen, he typed the names. “N’Western” and “Indiana.” He looked up at the scoreboard to check.

It would still be four hours until any fans would see the team names.

“We could all probably blow in here two hours before the game and be fine,” he said. “But, you know, if you have a problem, well, where are you?”

***

With three minutes until game time, John lowered the lights in Assembly Hall. Fans filled the seats, and then they were on their feet. The beat of drums pulsed through the still air. John had his finger on the sound board, monitoring the noise.

“Let’s go,” Chuck Crabb’s voice rang through the speakers. “It’s Indiana basketball time!”

The crowd erupted. On the scoreboard above John’s head, images swirled.

“Big Ten Champions,” it said. “Undefeated season.”

John looked at the schedule to his left, his glasses on the end of his nose. Fans screamed, hoping the Hoosiers would beat Northwestern. John unscrewed the green cap of his water bottle and took a swig.

The clock hit zero. On the floor, the players took their positions. The referee threw the ball into the air, and every fan focused. John became just a face in the crowd. Everything was going well, and he could basically just watch. Everything he’d set up was making the game go.

On the floor, Cody Zeller hit a layup, and the crowd buzzed. John checked the sound levels and kept a poker face. He reached into his pocket and popped a cinnamon hard candy into his mouth. He felt the same things everyone else there did, but because he was working, he couldn’t show it.

He only cracked a smile when one of the players missed a pass, and the ball went flying into the hands of an unsuspecting fan.

***

John’s attitude is what most people notice. It’s something he learned when he was only 23.

On Dec. 7, 1978, his dad’s birthday, he got a phone call. His dad had died. It was the worst day of his life, and still is. As he was driving back to work, he saw a kid on the sidewalk with a radio, and he was dancing and singing. It’s probably the best day of this kid’s life, he thought. And no one cares about my problems.

He realized then that he just had to work through it all — through being sick, through being frustrated — and it shows.

His bosses rave about him.

Stephen Solie, director of technical production for IU, has known John for years. Together, they put in hundreds of hours every year getting ready for commencement. John has even had to sleep on the couch in his office some nights.

Crabb, John’s boss and assistant athletic director of facilities, echoed that.

“I always look at John as being that unsung hero,” he said. “He’s the man in the trench that can get it done.”

But John won’t have it. When people say he’s indispensable, he says the cemeteries are full of indispensable people. He says if he dies tomorrow, he hopes people will miss him, but he knows the world won’t stop. There will still be a game the next day.

“I try to make it simple,” he said. “I’m not gonna live forever.”

***

The players ran down the court, and IU took the lead, 22-21. John could feel the heat of the LED lights on the table rising up to his face.  

IU Coach Tom Crean was yelling down the court.

“Slide! Swing!”

John was only a few feet away. He could hear every word, but he didn’t know what they meant. He was just looking forward to getting some food, driving home and having a Bourbon and Coke.

The clock ticked down, 7:49, 7:48, and the score was tied. The fans were on their feet, and Assembly Hall was hot and loud and hopeful. John checked the levels, but he didn’t really need to. He’d done this more than 500 times. He could do it by ear.

Finally, the Hoosiers pulled away, 71-66. The fans left, climbing up and down the bleachers and leaking into the parking lot, smiling and laughing.

Though the spotlights were dimming and everyone was going back to their lives, John had to make it all come apart.

***

When the buzzer hit 00.0, John walked around the front of the scorer’s table. He had to watch for the signal for Crean to make his final remarks. While John waited, he pulled out cords, blue and red, and packed them away.

“Put it together, take it apart. Put it together, take it apart,” he said. He whistled the last chords of the band’s song. The fans were almost all gone, and the quiet was returning.

When Crean was done, John flipped off the speaker and put the last things — the cords, the mixer board — on his cart. A few kids were shooting at the basket. John rubbed his eyes.

“One thing about it is you gotta be patient,” he said. “Just because I’m ready to go doesn’t mean other people are.”

Back in his office, he picked up the phone and dialed Peggy, his wife. She waits up for him after every game, every event.

“Well, it’s over,” he said. “I’m just waiting for Crean to clear the press room. OK, you gonna try to go to sleep?”

He waited and took the microphones back to his room. He grabbed his duffel back and slung it over his shoulder.

In the Hall, all was slow. All was quiet. There were no more baskets, no more towering players, no more shrieks and cheers and chants.

“All the sudden, you’re not in as big a hurry anymore,” John said.

He would be back tomorrow, back when the lights were off and no one was watching. He walked down the hall, whistling a few notes, just another face leaving Assembly Hall.