Witness for once the scrum undone. A wretched stretch of loiterers, sporting recordists and slot-makers, all poised to pounce should an overpaid athlete drop from the ceiling, or a free buffet open down the hall. Mostly though, they just sit there, trading batteries, alibis and fart jokes. A love of lanyards is their dominant trait, sarcasm their native tongue. They travel alone or in pairs, dragging their contraptions from sidelines to half-court to the locker room. After the hunt, they gather in noisy hordes, the clatter of their prattle giving every rent-a-cop within two square blocks a sudden and insistent case of the runs.

They are … The Ploparazzi.

That’s right: I just made up a word. But what else do you call this gallery of rogues? Lens Grifters? Paid Knockabouts? Licensed Wisenheimers? They all fit, but don’t judge these jokers by the cop of their squat, for the scabs on their elbows have better war stories than you. After all, these jaded souls have witnessed the joy of victory and the agony of defeat – often while nursing their own saddle sores. (Hey, YOU sit cross-legged under a basketball hoop for two hours with a boat anchor on your shoulder, or dodge a cross-eyed running back as they tries his bet to spread your skeleton across the end zone.) Better yet, plant your keister on the couch and watch the world through the snipers’ eyes, for not only have they provided fodder for countless newspapers, magazines and SportsCenter, they’ve vexed Presidents, humbled heads of state and slathered indelible images across the human consciousness.

Not bad for a bunch of guys (and gals) in cargo shorts.

(Thanks to AP photog extraordinaire Chuck Burton for this way cool panoramic of news crews waiting to interview the coaches of the ACC. Click and enlarge to see who YOU recognize. Look, there’s Jelly in the middle!)