Super Bowl XLI – “An Average Fan’s Diary”

Monday, January 29, 2007

(6 Days to Kickoff)

I’m sitting in the first class cabin of a Delta 767 that I’ve probably been in before, which is an odd feeling. My stomach is filled with an uncomfortable mix of anticipation and stress. Super Bowl, after all, is the king of corporate events. There isn’t enough time to do it all, and nobody ever has. Even the most interesting and incomparable story on an average day seems almost trivial during Super Bowl week. You can almost hear two people’s voices from Detroit 12 months ago,

“I can’t believe that we just had a beer with Elton John!”

“That was Elton John? I agreed to go horseback riding later with him, and he told me his name was Eleanor. Forget about that, is that Dennis Hopper steering that riverboat?”

Not that I actually overheard that conversation, but I think you get my point. Anything can happen and usually does.

I look up from my book as the plane is loading and I’m shot back 8 years to the Hyatt Kauai and my first experience with the NFL on a personal level. I was having drinks at Sullivan’s Library, the world’s greatest hotel bar, when the NFL Player’s Association checked in to the hotel for the week. It was obvious something was going on; I think I felt the room list a little to the left when these guys walked through the door. After each drink I got a little closer trying to hear conversations and maybe work my way into the billiard rotation. That night I ended up playing chess with Robert Smith, who played for the Vikings for awhile, but more importantly for the Ohio State Buckeyes in the 80’s. He spent most of the night whipping my ass across the chess board and talking down about Auburn and the SEC. I wonder how he felt about that National Championship game (Ohio State losing to Florida in 2007).

I’d like to say that I’m taken back because I see Robert Smith coming through the jet way.  But I also met Shannon Sharpe during that trip to Kauai, and he’s staring right back at me now, 8 years later. I’m not going to bother him even though he’s right across the aisle from me. Shannon Sharpe doesn’t hold the celebrity that my readers are looking for. My nephew Chase is going to hate this decision.

Touchdown in Ft. Lauderdale, and I am following Shannon and his driver down the escalator and there she is…my driver. A girl from Samsung with a cowboy hat on and a sign that reads…wait a minute…not close enough yet. Perfect!

T. Gilbert~Hot Dog King 

Paparazzi is minimal. 

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

(5 Days to Kickoff)

Traffic couldn’t be worse. I’m running a golf tournament at Doral Resort and Spa on Friday and am on my way to the hotel to do a walkthrough. Upon my arrival I’m informed that the resort is a little crazy today because Jim Brown is hosting a celebrity golf tournament. Again, there couldn’t be more going on. Jim Brown…nothing irregular about that.

I get a call on my way out.  My new assignment is to go to South Beach and pick up “some” Super Bowl tickets. The next thing I know, I’m driving in bumper to bumper traffic with 80 Super Bowl tickets in the passenger seat.

My phone is ringing again and it’s a call I’ve been expecting. It’s my assignment for Friday Night’s “Player of the Year” dinner. Earlier, I received the final list of attendees for the dinner. The event is the biggest thing our team does during the week. Various sports and entertainment celebrities attend and the NFL Alumni Organization presents their “Player of the Year” awards. This year the hostess of the event is Samantha Harris from E! Entertainment and the co-host of “Dancing with the Stars”. This worries me a little because I’m confident that I’ll be enamored with her. Anyway, Todd Heap is the Tight End of the Year and I’m being told that I will be his handler. Basically this means that I will have to go up to his room and escort him down the red carpet to his seat in the dinner. I chuckle a little because he was my fantasy football tight end and I have a bone to pick with him: I finished in 5^th place. That reminds me, I owe several people a lot of money. If they only knew exactly where I was on I-95 rolling along at 2 miles an hour with my doors unlocked and $250,000 worth of Super Bowl tickets on the seat beside me.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

(4 Days to Kickoff)

It has started already. The no-sleep thing. Last night I was in bed at 3:30 AM and up this morning at 7. I decided to stay until Tuesday morning after the game to take advantage of Monday and the beach. I will probably sleep all day.

I plan to spend the entire day in our makeshift office inside the Hard Rock preparing for my golf tournament on Friday. I’m unbelievably stressed and need sleep. There are so many names, times, phone numbers, schedules, etc. racing through my head. I hate this part of the job.

I decide to walk around a little and settle for a few minutes at the hospitality desk in the Conference-Center foyer. I’m looking at my computer screen when I hear a faint voice announcing her name and that she needs to check in. The name sounds familiar but it isn’t until after I tell her she is in the wrong place that I really focus. I’m staring straight at Mrs. Cunningham from “Happy Days”. How strange is this? Marion Ross, alive and well. She actually looks really good. Maybe there’s been a little work done.

~

It’s late in the night now and we’re all still working. I get up to take another little walk and decide to go to the bathroom. Stefanie, a girl I work with, stops me in the hallway and we chat a little. She turns to walk away and as I turn the opposite way and start walking with my head down I run right into Prince. Now, Prince is about four-feet tall, so I’m surprised he didn’t hit the deck after even this small blow. I know that he is known for requesting that no one look at him, which is more than odd needless to say.  I wonder how he feels about being physically knocked down? He’s performing at Hard Rock Live tonight and in another example of random things happening at the Super Bowl, I was handed three tickets to his show. The face value of the tickets is $300 and they are on the front row on one side of the stage upper deck. The venue is small, so we’re talking close.

A few hours go by and we’re still working. The show has started and I’m starting to get nervous. I saw Prince at Atlanta’s Fox Theater about seven years ago and he was amazing. Such an unbelievable entertainer. It has come to a choice. If I am going to see any of this show, I have to go now. I lie and say that I am running to my room for something and I dash through the casino and to Hard Rock Live instead. Just as I cross the threshold, I hear those unforgettable words from the 80’s: “Dearly Beloved…we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.” Perfect timing.  I stay for two songs and think about the days when a four-foot black man changed the face of music in “Purple Rain”. Two unused tickets are burning a hole in my pocket as I make my way back to the office. After a few more hours of work, I head up the elevator and prepare for another solid three hours of sleep.

Thursday, February 1, 2007

(3 Days to Kickoff)

Today’s a pretty important day for me. My main function at this event is serving as the tournament manager for the NFL Alumni Golf Tournament at Doral. Basically, current and ex-NFL players litter themselves across the Super Bowl Host City each year to get paid for appearances at parties, events, autograph sessions, and the like. This tournament is for a second client I have on site that has decided to entertain their customers with a golf tournament in which they have the opportunity to play with some NFL greats. All week I have been getting calls from various players and organizers either signing up or dropping out of this event. It’s a tumultuous carnival of changes and has been the source of my stress for the last few months.

Today I have packed a bag to last me two full days and nights and have bid a farewell to my room at the Hard Rock for at least the next 36 hours.

On my way down to Doral with Stefanie, who is assisting me with the set-up for tomorrow, I get the call that I had been hoping for. Actually, Stef gets the call. It seems that once the game tickets were sorted out and divided up among the attendees, there were a few left. They were given to her for the work she had put in throughout the year (much more than me seeing as her office is just down the road in Palm Beach), and she could give the 2^nd one to whomever she wanted. She just couldn’t sell it. Tempting, seeing as it could bring in several thousand dollars.

She hangs up the phone, looks at me, smiles and says “we’re going to the game…and this year we have seats.”

She was referring to last year’s frigid fiasco in Detroit…my first Super Bowl experience. We were working together there as well and although we were given credentials to be in the stadium to assist with a lot of what was going on internally, we were only able to access certain areas. We weren’t assigned to an actual seat which meant that we wouldn’t be seeing any of the game or ever find ourselves comfortable.

I refused that fate and climbed onto a railing to peer over various Seahawk and Steeler fans to see anything I could. That ended up vaulting me involuntarily into one of the most elaborate lies ever crafted. The architect was supermodel Niki Taylor.

20 minutes prior to climbing up that railing, Niki was standing in the concession line behind me getting a beer of all things. I recognized her and we started talking about how it seemed we were the only Seahawk fans in the entire area around our level (I was wearing a small Seattle pin on my shirt). We talked a little while longer about trivial things, she got her beer, saluted me with a “Cheers” gesture and moved on to her seat.

Now, I was a few rows behind her, balancing on a railing and trying to see over her 6-foot head.

The events that ultimately led to me having one of the best seats at Super Bowl XL in Detroit started with a jackass Steeler fan that had snuck into the box where Niki, her father, and a friend were sitting. He had situated himself in the seat right next to Mr. Taylor who was being very patient with the unruly fan. The guy was being obnoxious and on top of that didn’t belong there. People were getting annoyed by his barrage of shouted obscenities and his refusal to go back to his actual seat. When the guy said something rude in the direction of her dad, Niki lost it.

The first thing that was distracting was that she stood up, and she’s got a pretty intimidating stature. She gently pushed her father to the back of his seat and yelled something to this effect…

“Listen you little bastard. Nobody wants you here; you’re not supposed to be here and I’m getting the usher to haul you out of here.”

The guy looked up at her and said, “Lady, no one is sitting here. What does it matter if I’m here?”

Just then I noticed her catch a faint glimpse of me out of the corner of her eye. A chill ran down my back because, let’s face it, I wasn’t supposed to be here either. And then she pointed in my direction as she continued to stare him down. I froze…and she yelled.

“This is my best friend from high school, and because of your fat ass in this seat, he has nowhere to sit! He’s standing back here on this railing and the rest of us have to sit here listening to you. I haven’t seen him in years, and you’re in his seat! Now move!”

Then, she extended her hand and took mine ushering me over the rail. The guy tucked his tail between his legs, left, and the section started to applaud. Nervous that the oncoming usher was going to realize that I didn’t even have a ticket, I pleaded with her to let it go because I wasn’t supposed to be there either. She ignored me, moved her dad a seat down, slapped the seat next to her and said,

“I don’t care, you’re supposed to be here now.”

The rest of the game we all drank beers, rooted for the Hawks, and danced to the Rolling Stones at the half. I spent what seemed like an eternity talking to the guys around us about what Niki was like back in high school and recounting old stories that I simply made up on the fly. What did I care? I was sitting next to a supermodel at the Super Bowl, listening to the Rolling Stones with a beer in hand. Not a bad day.

I haven’t seen her since, but a few emails have gone back and forth. She is an avid motorcyclist and I have tried a few times to join her and Robin, her friend at the game, on a charity ride they do each year. Unfortunately it hasn’t worked out.

Friday, February 2, 2007

(2 Days to Kickoff)

Yesterday is sort of a blur. After a meeting at Doral, the site of my NFL Alumni Golf Tournament, Michele Skolnick comp’d me a room for the night and Stefanie and I got about an hour of sleep – she on a down feather bed and me on a five-foot sofa. Michele is an old friend in the hotel business that is currently stationed at Doral, lucky for me.

It’s 4:45 AM on Friday morning and my alarm is ringing incessantly.  Breakfast for the group starts at 6:00 AM and registration at 7:00 AM. The shotgun goes off at 8:00 AM. Lunch is at 12:30 PM, the NFL Parade of Legends and the awards show begins at 1:15 PM. I have a car waiting to take me back to the Hard Rock at 2:30 PM. In the back of the car is my suit for tonight. I’ll change in the car and be dumped off to work the red carpet. My Todd Heap assignment has changed about twenty times and now I am the floating celebrity escort. That always leads to random situations.

~

Errict Rhett is on the player list today and I’m looking forward to talking to him. He was Emmitt Smith’s back up at the University of Florida and he gave me a few fits while I was in school. I see him open the lunch room door just off the course and he comes right up to me.

“Thanks for everything,” he says, “I had a really good time.”

I ask him what years he played at UF to confirm and after the confirmation exclaim, “You bastard!” I feared him for a few years while I was at Auburn. “Yeah, but you got us,” he replied. Auburn beat #1 ranked Florida 2 years in a row during the 1993 and 1994 seasons. Errict Rhett was the running back in both of those games. He reminds me that the guys that played for Auburn at the time including Calvin Jackson and Frank Sanders, all went to Dillard High School. He informs me that those same guys did the “same damn thing” to him during the Florida State High School Football Championship Game. He couldn’t be a nicer guy. He takes my cell number, we take a picture, and I move on to the sedan that’s waiting for me.

~

I’m asleep in the back of a sedan and my suit is riding up all over my body. Golf went well, and I was given tons of compliments on the fluid registration, play and program. That always relieves you.

A faint noise outside the car becomes louder and louder until it demands a reaction. I slowly sit up, look out the window and witness a frenzy of lights, sounds and attitude. It seems that Henry, the driver, has pulled me up to the red carpet instead of the hotel’s front entrance. The door is opened by the valet just in time for me to scramble upright and throw my legs out without looking too foolish. It was insanity in its purest form. Cameras, screams, and it all ended abruptly when my face was focused on. You can hear the inner minds asking, “Who the hell is this guy?” I had a very brief moment of celebrity until I saw one of the girls we hired to help with escorting on the side of the stanchion ropes near the VIP make-up and staging area. We rented one of the bars in the outside mall to set up hair and make-up so everyone looks in tiptop shape on their way down the red wave of chaos.

Various sports and entertainment celebrities have already made their way into Hard Rock Live for the dinner so the paparazzi and fans are well primed. I’m in the staging area long enough to catch a quick glimpse of Lesley Visser getting freshened up. She’s one of my favorite regular attendees at these events. She was a pioneer for women in sports broadcasting and continues to be a force in the world of overall media. I believe I’m correct to say that she is the only woman ever to be inducted into the NFL Football Hall of Fame.

I met her last June in New York at the Four Seasons of Hope charity dinner at Tavern on the Green. She had a few too many margaritas and came weaving out of the show. I hustled over to her and she grabbed my arm to take advantage of an escort to the bathroom. She told me a great story about covering the Auburn-Alabama game in Birmingham back in the 80’s. She said that in the frenzy of an Auburn victory, she drove back to Auburn with David Housel, the Athletic Director at the time. They were so wrapped up in the moment that she packed up her camera crew and drove the 2 hours to join the fans in rolling Toomer’s Corner. I loved that story. She shouted a “War Eagle” in my direction as she got into her limo that evening in New York.

I walk back to the reception and catch my first glimpse of Samantha Harris, who is quite striking and cute at the same time. She looks like a million bucks. She will be m.c.’ing the event tonight. Her husband played college basketball at Ithaca in Upstate New York, which I know because I read it somewhere. They make a great couple.

I say a brief hello and prepare for what has become my first job of the evening: escorting Troy Aikman through the “back of the house” and into the pre-dinner reception. I’m excited because Jordan Bazant, Troy’s agent, will be with him. I met Jordan and his partners a few years ago now and we always have an opportunity to hang out a little when their clients are doing appearances. I can hear Troy speaking in the reception room so I sneak in and get myself ready. I shake a few hands and wait for my signal from Jordan.

~

The door forcefully opens wide and the light from a Fox TV camera blinds us as we exit. I’m on Troy’s right and Jordan’s on his left. We are whisked into the back of the house through 2 swinging catering doors and our parade to the dinner begins. To our surprise, the hotel staff has lined the back hallway to give Troy a quick ovation as he walks by. The scene is rather remarkable and if I stay a few inches ahead I find I can pretend that this circus is for me. The camera light is still lingering like a supernova over my shoulder and now Jordan starts handing him footballs. A pen appears in his hand as if it sprouted from beneath his tailored sleeve. I guess he’s done this enough to know never to be without a pen.  As we walk, Troy signs a ball and tosses a perfect spiral toward the hotel’s head chef who brings it down with a Franco Harris-like immaculate reception. What takes only about 30 seconds seems to go on forever as we rush along the camera-filled hallway with Troy hurling signed balls to and fro. At the end of the tunnel, a door opens and leads us directly onto the end of the Red Carpet and the gathered crowd I witnessed a little earlier goes crazy. It’s hard to feel sorry for the guy; a lot of people would give anything to live like this just once. I find a way to though. I’ve seen him step away from a crowd and just stand for a few seconds by himself staring at the ground. I always wonder what he’s thinking.

We make our way into the reception and I need a few minutes to rest. I feel like I’m going to pass out in the middle of this event. I make my way through the crowd, past security and toward the Green Room. Just outside the door I run into Samantha and her husband, Michael. This is the first chance I have gotten to meet him. We talk a little while she leaves us to go to the bathroom. He is an interesting guy but also very normal. Normal in a good way. When she returns, we make our way to the Green Room.

Inside the room there are several NFL Alumnus including Don Shula and Mike Singletary. Mike has been with us all week attending dinners and receptions. He looks like he could still play on Sunday and help the Bears out a bit. I briefly met Shula last year but didn’t strike up a conversation with him again fearing that my Auburn roots would become exposed. His son was recently fired from the University of Alabama and I’m not sure how he feels about my state as a result.

It’s quite humbling to see all these great players huddled together giggling and punching each other playfully as if they just left the schoolyard. I just stand next to Terry the bartender and keep quiet.

The room pretty much clears out just before the dinner starts and I’m left to chat with Terry. I have him pour me a drink and tell him to keep it hidden behind the bar. I’ll be back, and I feel like I may need it.

I make my way behind the main stage, through a black curtain and onto the fiasco of the dinner floor. A sea of people have gathered around the tables talking and mingling with players and celebrities. Just before dinner is served I catch a few pictures. One with an old friend from Happier Days and one with the Incredible Hulk.

I decide that I would rather watch the show from behind the stage and see the back of the house action rather than sit at one of the tables behind the production team. After taking another sip from my drink that Terry is hiding for me, I make my way from the Green Room and to the side of the stage. Presenters and award winners are being guided up the stairs in front of me. Samantha sits on a folding chair being briefed by the production crew. These shows really are interesting from this point of view. I watch a few presentations and then settle back into the Green Room.

Suddenly a frenzy of activity comes through the backstage door. Lights, cameras and an entourage come through followed by Nicolette Sheridan of “Desperate Housewives”. This is a little random. I never saw her name on any of our lists. Samantha comes through the door with quite a determined look on her face. I hear her explain to the B-Roll camera crew that they need to send all the Nicolette footage to “E!” by 8:00 AM on Monday morning to have it included in their Super Bowl summary.  This B-Roll camera crew belongs to the Hard Rock and they evidently will be taping an actual interview with Nicolette Sheridan for “E!”.  Samantha asks me if I would try to keep everyone out and quiet. Suddenly I’m standing behind the camera directing the very small crowd. The interview concludes without incident. As the room clears, Samantha hangs back for a quick drink before going back out on the stage. She makes a few jokes with Terry and me and then strikes a quick conversation about my role and where I’m from. She tells me that she would like to leave her agent’s number with me in the event I would ever like to bring her in for an appearance or another hosting gig. She doesn’t give it to me right there because, as she explains, “The last thing I need is for a B-Roll crew to capture me writing my phone number on a napkin at a bar and giving it to some unknown man in a suit”. That’s kind of funny I think.

She leaves and following a security guard, I make my way to Hank Williams Jr.’s tour bus just parked outside to ask them if we could have about 10 minutes of meet and greet for some of the Samsung executives. As I enter the bus, the first person I see is Kid Rock. Another unexpected encounter. He approaches me and introduces himself as Bobby. 2 girls emerge from the rear of the bus and a few things become crystal clear: 1) These girls are strippers, and 2) These girls are “Bobby’s” girlfriends. There are brief introductions and Hank appears. His manager is close behind. I get confirmation and I’m off as fast as I was on. I’m thinking to myself, “How do I end up on this bus after the show?”

Later, as the show starts, I slip out from behind the backstage curtain and make my way to the front of the stage. Hank wails away, Kid Rock joins him on stage and the show is actually quite entertaining. Marian Ross is actually still here. She is right beside me and we make a visual acknowledgement just before we start dancing a little. My surreal alarm goes off in my head once again as I bump hips with Mrs. Cunningham during “Family Tradition”. How many original hips does this lady have, and am I about to crack one of them?

I walk through the crowd and nod recognition here and there. I shake hands with Doug Flutie who is standing just next to…it can’t be. It is. Vanilla Ice.  Vanilla and I “rap” a little and I learn that he actually lives just down the road. He’s friends with Hank and Kid Rock and so we go backstage together to get a different look. He’s actually a really nice guy. I felt a little weird admitting to him that one of my high school girlfriends was in love with him and I split with her in a rage of jealousy. “Let me buy you a drink for that,” he concedes. I think he also asked me if she was here tonight. She would have liked to be.

Saturday, February 4

(1 Day to Super Bowl)

Last night was unbelievable and quite the pressure releaser. My official duties here in Miami are over and it’s time for me to enjoy and embrace the event that is the Super Bowl. After all, the Colts are playing and I’m from Indiana. Doesn’t it only make sense that I’m a fan because of geography? The only problem with that is that I’m not sure they were actually in Indianapolis when I was born. That’s something I’ll have to look up.

As I walk through the corridor leading to the lobby and my cup of Starbucks life, one of the doors to the elaborate pool area opens and the wind ushers in the smell of an open charbroil flame and cooking hamburgers. I make a fairly quick and abrupt right and let the sun and heat slowly drape over me.

Lying too close to the grill for it not to be intentional, I find Samantha and her husband Michael relaxing in a few of the deck chairs. She was truly an excellent hostess at the event last night and was intensely charming to boot. Michael was a little quieter but I was able to loosen him up a bit as the night wore on. I decide to sit next to them while I wait for my fix off the grill. Like me, her commitments are over. She admittedly is waiting for the Prince halftime show and nothing else. Prince…it’s entertaining to think about what he might be doing right now. We decide that will be our conversational topic for the next 10 minutes or so. Little does anyone know that his concert the other night came close to being cancelled as a result of my near full body take down outside the spa. We laugh.

~

It’s later in the day now and once again I’m handed tickets to an evening event that I have no business attending. This one reads “Ocean Drive Beach Party” and has a face value on the ticket of $1,500. Where do people get this kind of money? I am truly out of my league here. I spring to life a little as my head rests on the bus window heading into South Beach and fireworks start exploding to the right over the water. The traffic is unbearable, but I’m finished and I’m going to relax. I open the bottle of wine I snuck onto the bus and share a little with Stefanie.

Once the bus stops, we fight the rest of the way down Ocean Drive on foot. It looks like a snapshot of my 1995 Mardi Gras trip to New Orleans. I still think I might be the only person in history asked to leave a bar’s terrace because they were afraid I might actually fall off, but that’s a story for another time.

The crowd thins as we reach the beach and the security station. Once again I’m whisked through untouched and without question or waiting. These credentials I seem to find dangling from my neck on a daily basis sure do make these things seem a lot less impenetrable than they always have been in the past.

I hit the bar and then glance toward the stage which has been constructed on the beach. The entire area is fenced and no one from the outside can even catch a glimpse of what’s going on inside this VIP fortress. Only the pounding music and electricity make their way over the walls. The bars are giant ice blocks. And fireworks begin exploding over the water. To my left is the VVIP Island that has a separate security entrance, is railed off and lifted maybe 3 feet higher than the sand I’m balancing on. Along the perimeter of the fence are a few unmistakable characters. Hulk Hogan and his daughter Brooke are in a conversation with Scotty Pippen who looks pretty cozy with Nelly Furtado. I hadn’t heard they were an item, and maybe they’re not, but there she is and I’m having a hard time looking anywhere else. I just heard the other day that he was planning an NBA comeback. Carl Lewis passes across my line of sight and breaks my Furtado stare down. He’s moving a little slower than he was in the 92 Olympics, but I decide not to challenge him to a quick 100 across the beach. He says a quick hello to A-Rod on his way up the stairs and into the depth of celebrity central. My eyes are averted back toward the stage where Fergie is belting out a tune and gyrating as only she can do. Wait a minute…look at this girl with A-Rod. A-Rod and A-Bod.

A tap on my shoulder and suddenly I’m looking at Jon, one of the sports agents in a friend’s agency I have worked with a few times in the last couple of years. He introduces me to Nick Mangold, his client for the night. Nick is a mammoth offensive lineman for the Jets and is incessantly bugging Jon about leaving so they can get to the Penthouse Magazine party over at the Mansion on Collins. He asks me if I want to come along, and it’s tempting, but I just arrived here so I politely decline.

As they walk away there is some commotion around the stage. As my eyes adjust to the rising smoke and electric lightshow I am able to catch a glimpse of the new act on stage…J-Lo. The crowd goes nuts as she is joined by her husband, Marc Anthony. This shift in celebrity gears has brought some of the VVIPs down into the peon area. Tara Reid stumbles through the sand trying to convince the world she isn’t loser drunk and Tom Cruise graces the front left of the stage dancing with his latest contract wife trying to convince the world he’s heterosexual. This makes me laugh a little and I need another drink.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day so I decide after a few hours of partying on South Beach sand that it’s time for me to head back. My phone rings. Dallas Roberts, a family friend who finds himself in these circles more often than I do, is hanging on the other end.

“Am I getting correct information that you are in Miami?” he asks.

“That’s right, where are you?” I reply a little puzzled. I even give my perimeter a glance feeling I’m being watched.

“I’m in Miami on my way to the Playboy party in Ft. Lauderdale. Come meet me,” he offers.

I can’t do it. I’m exhausted, so I let that opportunity slip through my fingers like a lock of platinum blond hair slips through the hand of Hef himself.

Goodnight.

Super Bowl Sunday

~ 2007 ~

Miami, FL

An epic day…

The sun rises and I’m wide awake. If you’re a sports fan, this is the day. Super Bowl Sunday is the ultimate crescendo of the sports hurricane. There’s a buzz this morning that you can feel but not yet hear. I spring to life, shower, get dressed and into the chaos.

Although my job is officially over, my client is taking three buses into the mess and I have volunteered to help with that transfer. It’s the least I can do to pay them back for my end zone ticket.

I’m mesmerized by the activity along the entrance road to the stadium zone and my forehead is glued to the bus window like a child on his first day of school. The bus comes to a stop in front of a police barricade and our driver cracks his window. A flood of sounds avalanche through the opening and amp up everyone’s anticipation about 5 levels. As our driver argues with one of the police guards outside of the NFL Experience my phone vibrates in my hands. I look down to find a message from Dallas. He is on his way toward the stadium in a police escorted motorcade. I laugh to myself as I look around the crowded bus I’m on. Our driver wins the argument with the barricade guard, however, and the door to the football kingdom is slid open long enough for our chariot to pass. Dallas seems to be in another world right now, but I decide we’ll be able to find each other and make a plan.

My client has access to a tailgate party in a large circus tent that features a rotation of musical acts, a never ending buffet line, and a ton of NFL players you may or may not have ever heard of signing autographs and taking pictures. As I walk in only one thing floods my mind…beer. I have been so stressed the last few months getting ready for this trip that a beer might just set me free.

I look at Stef as I take my first drink and all we can do is smile. It’s a mixture of exhaustion, delirium and wonder as we take a look around on a daily basis at this unbelievable world that seems to exist on a different plane than the one most of us usually inhabit. It’s all pretty surreal and now I can finally enjoy it. My phone rings…it’s Dallas.

“Where are you?” he inquires, his voice somewhat muffled by sounds of furious activity.

“I’m under a giant white tent in the Coke Pavilion,” I explain. “That’s about as much as I know.”

“I think you’re right beside us. We’re in the Cadillac tent,” he returns.

I walk outside and through the security gate in the front of our tent. Dallas is right; the Cadillac tent is right beside me. This entire time we have been about 20 yards apart. I decide to test my “All Access Working Pass” even further and walk right through the security gate at Cadillac. I’m amazed as no one even bats an eye. I’m in.

The scene inside the Cadillac tent rivals that of the Coke Pavilion. I don’t see Dallas, but I do see a bar in every corner. That’s my cue. As I wiggle through the crowd toward the back of the tent, I notice an entourage of about 6 guys heading in my direction. The crowd seems to part in their wake which I envy a bit. As they pass me by I catch a brief glimpse of Nick Lachey in the middle of the pack. I could stand here and try to figure out exactly why he’s famous, but I don’t have the time. I need to find Dallas and make friends with the bartender now in my sights.

Just as I reach the bar I notice Paul Rudd standing to the right of it. We make eye contact and I see recognition in his face. Paul and I met briefly at Dallas’s 40th birthday surprise for his girlfriend Christine in New York City. Before I met him, I liked him. After learning that he is a down to earth guy, I love him. As I know that they’re friends, I assume that Paul and Dallas are together. I walk over to him and we reminisce a while about the surprise in New York. He explains that Dallas is around somewhere and then introduces me to 2 more of their friends. 1 beer down and thanks to Paul, 1 more on deck in my hand. This is starting to get good.

Once Dallas arrives, the five of us start talking at an alarming rate. I think that we’re all equally excited about the fact that we’re going to the Super Bowl and things couldn’t be more lined up in our favor. We’re drinking free booze, eating free food, littered with credentials and now, as I glance in front of us, 2 girls are gushing and on their way toward us. This is where hanging out with Paul Rudd is going to pay off.

Surprisingly, the girls don’t go right up to Paul. He’s been in several movies and let’s face it, he married Phoebe on “Friends”. Who’s been alive in the 90’s that wouldn’t recognize him for that alone? They don’t go right up to Dallas either, which could have also been a possibility. He gets recognized every once in awhile for parts he’s played in movies and TV shows. They address all of us together which threw me off a bit.

“Who are you guys? You guys are famous aren’t you? We recognize you,” they ramble in an embarrassing tone.

Without getting a straight answer from any of us, they just continue their line of questioning slowly starting to focus on Paul. Once the “Friends” association comes out, the floodgates open. They treat us all like we had been friends for years. We all take pictures and beer number three is popped. Dallas looks at me and says he wants to go outside for a cigarette. We tell the girls goodbye and move to the courtyard.

People must have noticed the pictures being taken just minutes ago on the inside because now people are coming at us left and right. Most of them recognize Paul specifically and a few people are talking to Dallas with some interest. The odd thing at this point is that people are also asking to have their picture taken with me. By association I assume, they think I am somebody worth showing their friends as well. It briefly enters my mind to set them straight but then that moronic idea shoots out of my head like a cannonball. I think the summit of the scene has to be the moment that a girl asks Paul to take a picture of her with me. “Say Superbowl!”

The time comes for us to make our way to the stadium so we grab some road beers and start the long walk into the mess. We’re running a little late so our pace quickens through various barricades and security lines. Our credentials seem to be the golden ticket as we hustle on without anyone questioning us. I start to notice people looking at us as we walk by and even hear some comments, mostly about Paul. It starts to get a little comedic as I take in the situation as a whole. We’re almost running now and people are noticing us in every direction. We all laugh at the various comments and Paul starts exclaiming, “I was in Anchorman people, we need to get through.” All of us are giggling uncontrollably now.

When we finally reach the security line for entrance to the stadium, our bags are checked and Dallas is stopped because he has a video camera in his bag. The security guard is refusing his entry with the camera and we all look at each other questioning what to do. Something comes over me and I decide once again to test my magic all access pass. I step forward and explain to the guard that we were unaware of the no video rule and that the car was too far to go back. I continue to explain that this is a VIP group as I point at Paul and that I have been assigned to escort them to their box in the stadium. I assure him that the camera will never be used. Put delicately, bs is rolling off my tongue like a waterfall. He takes another look at my credentials and at our group and then let’s us pass. Once we’re clear of the security area, I say goodbye to the guys and head toward my seat.

I’m in awe of my seat. Last year I had to sneak into a club level box and get pulled into a giant lie crafted by Niki Taylor which resulted in a very nice position flanked by a supermodel and her dad (this is another story completely). However, the seat was in the upper level. Right now, I’m looking over a railing right into the Colts’ entrance tunnel. Helmets are gathering beneath me like shining marbles of war. Beers are flowing freely now and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt happier or more at peace. The Air Force sends a fly over causing temporary deafness as I look over my right shoulder to give Samantha Harris and her husband Michael a quick acknowledgment. They are sitting directly behind me. We are all wearing trash bags as it has begun to sprinkle and we have prepared for the worst.

The last few days I’ve been working with Samantha, the current host of Dancing with the Stars, who hosted an award show on Friday night that I helped put on. I’ve never watched Dancing with the Stars, but know what it is, and I took to her immediately.

I quickly learn that it hardly matters who you are rooting for at the Super Bowl. About 1% of the attendees are there because they are actually fans of either team. Corporate fat cats have taken over the event much like The Masters at Augusta. Because of this, most everyone seems to be cheering for a good game no matter the result. As halftime approaches, people are getting excited to see Prince. Samantha has grabbed me more than once to make sure that I’m ready to dance during the Prince show. “My own personal Dancing with the Stars” is what I’m thinking.

It’s raining pretty hard at this point as I run up to get a few beers before the halftime show. I run into Michael on my way back down to the seats and he leans in to warn me that we’re going to lose Samantha after halftime because of the rain unless we think of something. I pause for a second letting that turn over in my head and then tell him that I’ll handle it. I retreat up to the concession level and grab another beer. Samantha doesn’t drink beer, but I figure I’ll give it a shot.

As I get back to our section, I notice that Michael is gone. Samantha’s standing there looking like a wet rat staring intently at the field which has become a circus of activity since the halftime buzzer rang a few minutes ago.

“This is for you and you don’t have a choice,” I tell her as I hand her the beer. “You and I are going to make a little wager.”

I continue to explain to her that at the end of the game we are going to add up the total score of both teams and that one of us is going to bet on that number being odd and the other even.

“What are the terms?” she asked.

I thought for a second and came up with a definitive answer. I was feeling the beers at this point and it never occurred to me that there was any chance in the world that I was going to lose this bet. In my mind, it was just a matter of coming up with something I could make her do that would make a good story. It wasn’t going to be money, that’s boring. It had to be something memorable.

“The winner gets to choose the song that the loser then has to sing to the entire casino bar back at the Hard Rock,” I stated without a hesitation.

“Done,” she returns.

~ Indianapolis 29 – Chicago 17 ~

As you have probably guessed, I took odd. I think I was caught up in the Prince show and jumping up and down singing with Samantha. I did keep her entertained. I did keep her there. I did do my job. But I lost the bet.

I think to myself, “She’ll be asleep before we get anywhere near that bar, so I’ll escape with a little dignity on this one.” There’s a feather in my cap.

Stef, Michael, Samantha and I all make our way through the exiting crowd when we pass a beer garden.

“Todd!” I hear Samantha exclaim. “I’m not going to make you sing back at the hotel.” I think my relief could be heard over the over served crowd in the garden. “Here’s as good a place as any.” Damn.

She lasers through the crowd to the front of the bar area and pulls up a bunch of chairs. Unfortunately for me, this looks like it’s really going to happen. She makes us all sit down as Stefanie goes up to the bar for beers. It’s almost as if this has been planned for days. Am I the only one who was convinced that I was going to win this bet?

With the star quality she possesses, she summons everyone in the immediate area to gather for a special performance.

“My friend Todd here has lost a bet with me tonight and to settle that debt he will be performing a song of my choosing for you this evening.”

She looks around at the crowd and then at me. The song hits her suddenly and like an evil genius she gives me one last devilish smirk.

“Tonight, Todd will be giving us his rendition of Kanye West’s ‘Gold Digger’.”

Monday, February 6 (The Day After)

I’m sitting at a bar next to the Hard Rock Hotel’s pool drinking a beer and thinking about yesterday’s activities when my phone rings. Looking at the number on the screen I know by the area code that it’s from L.A. but I didn’t recognize it. When I answer, a familiar voice speaks back to me. It’s Samantha Harris.

“Todd, how’s it going?” she asks.

Quickly dismissing the possibility that this is a call to inform me that she has decided that it’s over between her and Michael and it’s me that she wants, I go on with the conversation in a normal fashion.

“I’m doing alright I guess, kind of a long night.”

She asks me to do her a favor by following up with the camera crew from Friday night regarding the interview she conducted with Nicolette Sheridan. Evidently it never made it to the cutting room floor at E! Television. I promise her I will, we say a few parting words and we say goodbye.

I have my bags packed for my flight home and they are at my feet. I stare into my beer glass one last time and continue thinking of not only the events of yesterday, but the entire week. I pay my bill, collect my bags, and walk around the pool and into lobby area to check out. As the pool door slams behind me I see one last entourage heading for the elevators to my left. In the middle of the pack I see a beaming head of blonde hair. I heard through the hotel grapevine that Anna Nicole was checking in today. It must be her heading to her room. “It’s an odd time to check in,” I think to myself as her elevator opens and they all get in. The day after the Super Bowl? She was going to be in a suite just down the hall from the room I am checking out of. She seems to have really turned herself around, thin and seemingly clean for a change. Good for her.

Afterword

Several things have happened since this Super Bowl trip. My friend and fellow staff member, Stefanie, quit working for the firm that hired me to help with Super Bowl programs in both 2006 and 2007. Stefanie is currently working for the Breeder’s Cup planning and executing programs surrounding the Derby, The Preakness, and the Belmont. We have kept in touch and talk often.

I haven’t heard from Samantha in a while. She texted me last year to tell me that I would be hearing the news that she was pregnant. She also wanted to bet on the sex of the baby, which I now know I have also lost. She sent me a text around Christmas in 2007 to say happy holidays. I haven’t heard from her or seen her since. Her career has taken off as co-host of Dancing With The Stars and she’s doing fantastic I understand.

As I was leaving the Hard Rock, I passed close enough to Anna Nicole and her entourage to smell her perfume. She went in as I went out. That night she proceeded up to her room and never came out. An overdose of prescription drugs ended her tumultuous life that very night just 6 rooms down from the room I had been living in the past 7 nights.