9201030525
DETROIT FREE PRESS
920122
Wednesday, January 22, 1992
METRO EDITION
1C
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL EDITION, Page 1C
Copyright (c) 1992, Detroit Free Press
WRITERS BETTER BE GAME TO WEATHER SUPER BLITZ
MINNEAPOLIS -- I am greeted at the airport by yellow balloons and a woman
with a name tag, who smiles and says "You here for the game?" I say yes and
she points to the coordinator. He smiles and says "You here for the game?" I
say yes and he points to a the bus driver. "You here for the game?" the bus
driver says.
I say yes. He waves me on.
I am a sports writer.
This is the Super Bowl.
At the media hotel, I am checked in by a man wearing a Redskins cap. My
baggage is taken by a bellman in a Bills cap. The place is buzzing. The gift
shop is crowded. ESPN is broadcasting live, in the lobby, and camera lights
illuminate the walls. I step into the elevator, I nod at the bellman.
"You here for the game?" he asks.
I am a sports writer.
This is the Super Bowl.
At the media check-in center, I am processed and photographed. "Smile!"
says the man behind the camera, and in 60 seconds, my face is pressed in
plastic and hanging from my neck. They hand me a briefcase full of
information, media guides, schedules, brochures. I head to my room to study
the info. Every year at this time, I become a student again, a college student
with a big pile of books.
Wait. Here is something from my "Minnesota Fact Sheet": More than
one-third of state residents have fishing licenses.
I make note of that. You never know . . .
I am a sports writer.
This is the Super Bowl.
40 degrees and counting
In the morning, I board the bus for the first "interview opportunity"
I take my seat alongside countless other reporters, who fill up countless
other buses. "How you like the weather?" the driver says. "Going up to 40
today!"
We say that's great.
When we reach the stadium, we march up the hill, men and women,
pot-bellies and skinny legs, computers and cameras and tape recorders. We
are here to talk to football players. At the entrance, a man smiles and greets
us.
"How do you like this weather?" he says. "Going up to 40 today!"
We say that's great.
Soon we are on the field, an army of reporters. And the Buffalo players
are brought in and directed to their places. The popular ones get their own
podium with their names hung above it. The unknowns can go wherever they
want.
"Anybody? Anybody?" yells a player wearing No. 26, waving his arms, hoping
to be interviewed. At least 100 reporters walk right past him. I check my
media guide. There is no No. 26.
Jim Kelly, the quarterback, has the biggest crowd and Thurman Thomas, the
running back, has the next biggest crowd. They are surrounded, but they are
also wired with small microphones, hooked up to distant speakers, and some
reporters simply stand by the speakers and write things down. They call this
journalism. I call it an interview with a Bose 901. But that's just me.
I wander over to Scott Norwood, the kicker who missed the field goal in
last year's Super Bowl. I want to ask a question. I can't. Right now, Scott is
being interviewed by (Downtown) Julie Brown, a British-born MTV personality.
Julie Brown is not a sports writer. In fact, she knows nothing about football.
But she is wearing black leather pants and a pink Lycra body top with conical
breast holders like Madonna wears in concert. She goes where she wants.
"Tell me, Scott," Julie says, in her funny accent, " 'ow do you prepare
for the Super Bowl? Do you walk on hot coals to toughen yaw foot?"
Scott says, "No, not really."
Scott has the humor of a carp.
Get me to the game on time
After an hour of this, the Bills leave and the Redskins arrive. They take
their places, find their podiums. Mark Rypien, the quarterback, has the
biggest crowd. I watch a group of Japanese reporters try to interview a
Washington defensive lineman.
"We speak English no good," they say.
"Me neither," he says.
Oops. Our time is up. A voice booms over the loudspeakers "ALL MEDIA EXIT
THROUGH GATE B." We walk back to the busses, our notepads full of scribble.
Most of it is useless. Mine reads like this: "Julie . . . hot coals, #26 . . .
Japanese . . . gryzph . . . mm! . . . dry cleaning . . . Bose 901."
"How do you like this weather?" the bus driver says. "Going up to 40
today!"
Back in the hotel I wade through the lobby, past the sea of fans and
high-rollers and gawkers watching ESPN. I know from my briefcase full of
information that I could visit the Ice Palace or the Winter Carnival or the
brand new Skyways. I could interview Gloria Estefan or the master chef of the
Super Bowl's "Taste Of The NFL" event.
I also know, thanks to my fact sheet, that Minnesotans have the
third-highest SAT scores in the nation. I am not sure what to do with that.
I go to my room. I write my column. I am a sports writer. This is the
Super Bowl. I get undressed and check the schedule for tomorrow.
"I'd like to leave a wake-up call," I say to the operator. "For 7 a.m."
"You here for the game?" she says.
"Yes," I say. "When does it start?"