As a young person with a dream of working in sports media, I’ve been gifted a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Super Bowl LIII is being hosted in Atlanta, Georgia, a mere 37 miles from my home. The largest annual sporting event in the world, just a 30-minute drive from my house.
Of the Super Bowl events available to the public, NFL Opening Night is/was by far the cheapest. $28 to experience “the first interaction that Super Bowl players and coaches from both teams have with media.”
It was hosted at the State Farm Arena (formerly Phillips Arena), home of the NBA’s Atlanta Hawks. Each team was allotted one hour to interact with media and fans. The in-arena announcers ensured everyone in attendance knew there were 10,000 non-staff in the arena: 2,000 press and 10,000 fans.
The press were crammed onto the court (half of which was taken up by an enormous catwalk) with the players and staff of each team during their session. Meanwhile, the fans were situated in the lower bowl seats, with a few up into the higher sections. There were opportunities for non-press to interact with players, but only if you were against the barricades separating the court and stands.
When I first learned about this event, I knew getting media access would be an unmatched experience for someone my age. I reached out to multiple people in the NFL’s media department, made many calls to their offices in NY, and contacted a handful of people on Atlanta’s planning committee. Only one response from someone with the NFL was sent back, but he directed me to an e-mail address I’d already contacted twice.
I realized I need to take matters into my own hands. There was no way that I could get access to this event as a part of the media legitimately.
So, I did the only rational thing someone would do in my situation. I snuck into the biggest sports press conference in North America.
It really helped I had a field trip that day. We got back to school just over an hour before classes ended for the day. However, everyone on the trip left early. I went home and figured out an outfit. I needed to look professional. No media member would show up to an event like this in sweats and a jersey. I settled on a striped button-up with the jacket from my homecoming suit and wore khaki pants with white Adidas. That gave me a clean, official look but still kept it somewhat casual. I then scrounged my house for a lanyard to wear. It’s a fact that anyone who has any sort of clearance would be wearing one.
After finding the lanyard I still had some time to spare, so I tried my hand at a fake press pass. I didn’t know what they looked like for this specific situation, so I had to come up with a concept on the spot. In short, it sucked hard.
I left my house at roughly 3:00 PM, two hours prior to when State Farm Arena opened to the media. The traffic gods must’ve been on my side because Atlanta traffic kept relatively clear. After a 30-minute drive, I arrived. Before I could enter the parking lot, a bomb dog was required to sniff around the car. This was a bad omen to me. I couldn’t help but imagine security equal to that at the White House.
There’s still upwards of an hour before I needed to be anywhere at this point, so I took a walk around the city. While strolling about, it became evident fairly quickly that everyone who was even remotely related to the non-fan aspect of Super Bowl Opening Night had a pass. Each was a piece of plastic probably 4″ tall and 6″ wide, with a bar code, the owner’s name, and a picture. They had symbols that probably meant something to someone with a pass.
I took a stop at the CNN Center for a bottle of water and to gain my bearings. I asked my Snapchat for any tips. Advice ranged from “hide in a speaker” to “buy a couple of coffees from Dunkin’ and pretend to be an intern.” None of these came in handy to me. I mindlessly walked back to my car and parked in the Diamond Deck. As I was trying to enter the street-level elevator back to my car for a last-minute regroup, I was stopped by a security guard. He asked for my credentials… so I could get back to my car. I explained I was just trying to get to my vehicle (which was only a half lie), and he let me through.
After chilling in my car, I made my way up to the third level of the underground parking garage. I am, luckily, a part of the NFL Communications mailing list and knew exactly where to be at what time to enter the arena with the rest of the press.
I rode the elevator back up one floor, and as I stepped out was greeted instantly by a woman wearing a white jacket. It had a small Super Bowl LIII logo on the breast… I’d be well acquainted with this pullover before the night was over.
“Right this way,” the woman said, as she pointed me to my left. I turned and saw another woman in the same jacket directing me towards a roped off security checkpoint. The back-and-forth line was roughly half full of mostly older men towing along heavy equipment, speakers, boom mics, cameras, etc. I joined in and instantly felt out of place.
Perhaps it was the nerves of knowing I was the only one in that line who didn’t deserve to be there. Perhaps it was that I was definitely an outlier among the crowd. There was one younger guy I could spot in the line, probably twenty spots in front of me, carrying a camera. The few who didn’t fall into the middle-aged man category were mostly women dressed TV ready. The line was a standstill for probably ten minutes, but then it began to move.
Zeke Palermo-Per Sources Sports
A man, probably one of the first employees I’d seen all night dressed not wearing the white jacket, called for those of us not carrying equipment. This was a nightmare. By moving myself away from the pack, I was making myself vulnerable, like a baby zebra straying from the herd. I quickly rushed to the front of the line and emptied my pockets onto a white fold-out table. My phone, keys, wallet, and a portable charger. That’s all I had with me. While others came prepared with backpacks full of notes, papers, pens, and stat sheets. I was armed with the same things I bring to my part-time job.
I had to make the first vital decision of the night. Which metal detector do I go through? It was set up like pretty much any security checkpoint for game or concert. Two pairs of two metal detectors, with one security guard behind each pair to wand anyone who sets off the alarm. After having watched these two for the past fifteen minutes, it was somewhat evident the one on the left was the more experienced of the two.
So naturally, you pick the weaker of the two guards. I went through the left detector on the right side, whilst “coughing” so as to cover my chest. He looked at me with a slight hesitation but quickly returned his gaze to the crowd in front of him.
Just beyond the checkpoint was another white jacket, who directed me through a door decorated in the triangle pattern of the Atlanta Hawks. Before I entered the door, I hid behind a concrete pillar to shove my stuff back into my pockets and shoot my mom a text: “I’m in.”
I opened the door and was greeted by something far different than what I expected. In my imagination, this door led straight to the floor of NFL Opening Night. This door was, as far as I knew, my key to sports media fame.
Boy, was I wrong. This door led to a stretch of hallways that felt incredibly similar to the corridor you walk down when walking from airplane to the terminal. I turned a couple corners, stuttering at each electrical closet, thinking it was where I needed to be. The path was pretty obvious, with signs indicating where media members were supposed to go. It was two minutes before I came across another elevator. This time, it took me and six others down into a
At the end of a hallway that shot off of the lobby was a fork with halls to the left and right. Security was sprinkled around. Instead of wearing the white SB LIII jacket, however, they were wearing suits. There were signs giving directions to places such as “Rams Entry” and “Patriots Entry.” On the right, however, were “Media Center,” “Court Access Ramp,” and “TV Dressing Rooms.”
I followed a small crowd going to the right. Because I was below ground, there was no telling where in the arena we were.
There were doors on either side on the hall, presumably security break rooms and the such. The elegant corridor gradually transitioned into a grimy concrete tunnel with ceilings probably thirty feet high. As we kept walking for dozens of yards, the right wall opened up. In place of the wall were thin black veils hiding black boxes, presumably for holding TV and radio equipment.
Two areas of boxes were separated by a gap that could’ve fit a semi. People were wheeling more boxes down a ramp. Opposite this was a hole in the concrete wall, with a carpeted ramp leading up and to the left. “Court Access Ramp” is what the sign said. There was a taller security guard keeping eye on the ramp. I noticed that if I could find a larger group, walking in with my badges-less chest hidden from a box would be a sure fire way in.
I continued my walk down the tunnel, passing a few folding tables with ten-gallon jugs, two containing hot water, and another two with coffee. A small basket of tea bags and a stack of small paper cups came alongside them. It was interesting to note that while the media were being supplied with drinks, it was dingy and not something you would picture at the most important sports event of the year.
Ahead was another black veil, this time blocking the hallway. This, in all honesty, scared me. I don’t know why. It was fairly thin and wasn’t even one long sheet but rather multiple each on its own rack.
The only way forward was through, so I ducked around two of them. It was quite clear that this was the entry point. There were bathrooms on the right, a ramp up to the court on the left, and more hallway dead ahead. I entered the restroom to collect myself.
Oddly, these bathrooms met the standards of the rest of the muddied concrete section. No clean white tile floors with spotless black grout. No mint-flavored toothpicks by the sinks. Instead, the trim on the ground was scuffed. The floors were uncomfortably sticky. O
I feigned using the toilet to avoid suspicion, took a second in front of the mirror to straighten my hair and clean my glasses, and left the restroom. It put me smack dab in front of a straight ramp. Later, I learned it was the main tunnel for media, as well as the tunnel the away team enters during Hawks’ games.
I straightened my jacket and made up the ramp. I was roughly ten yards behind a pair who entered together and didn’t notice the woman watching over the entrance make a concentrated effort to check passes. This was my opportunity. As I approached the woman, I moved my hand to my inside jacket pocket as if I was reaching for something.
“Excuse me sir,” she said, “Can I see your credentials?” Yikes.
After a split-second of hesitation, I responded. My parents advised me not to make something up and just leave if I were caught. Little did they know, I was named “Best BS-er” at my work’s Christmas Party. I know my way around a lie.
I looked down to my chest where a lanyard would’ve been, looked up at the woman and began to pat myself down as if I were looking for the pass. “Oh, I must’ve left it the restroom,” I replied, then turned around back for the restroom.
After a few minutes gathering my thoughts, I left the restroom again, but this time headed right down more tunnel. On the right was a ramp leading out of the area, but I went straight. There was a light buildup of people because there were multiple guards talking amongst themselves. Despite this, there was no threat of my cover being blown. None of the suited security
I walked through the bottleneck towards an array of dressing rooms. They were labelled for different channels and media outlets. ESPN, CBS Sports, NFL Network all had their own room. There was also a room called “Radio Workroom,” which looked like a packed elevator with no breathing room.
This grouping of rooms was of no use to me. I did an about-face and went back toward the two entries. As I passed through the aforementioned congestion, there was a parade of people moving across from the ramp out of the arena to the court. They were press coming from the Super Bowl Media Center, held in the Georgia World Congress Center.
Looking back, that was my best shot at making it to the court; an incredibly large crowd with passes were moving past one guard who wasn’t stopping each individual to see credentials.
In short, I chickened out. This was the same entrance I had failed at not eight minutes earlier. Sure, I’ve always believed I’m fairly average looking, but there was an innate fear of being stopped again.
This was not, however, the end of the journey. I knew there was still an entrance I hadn’t tried.
I walked back the way I came, this time focusing on the veil that had terrified me earlier. Before I could barge through, however, an older man caught my eye and called at me. Being the easy-going faux-media member that I am, I walked over.
Unlike the first woman, this man was short with me. All he said to me was “Credentials.” Not a question, a statement. Demanding me to provide him with some sort of proof I had earned the right to be wandering the bowels of State Farm Arena.
I gave him the same frantic look I gave the earlier woman, but this time didn’t try to find the pass on myself. “Someone on my team has got it,” I replied. That makes sense, right? Sure I didn’t have my pass, but some intern from the group I’m with has it. He looked over me with suspicion. “Make sure you get that,” he said.
The man walked back towards the coffee table, seemingly letting me free. I carried on through the thin veil. A tall man wearing the same security suit walked through in the opposite direction simultaneously.
By the looks of it, he had just turned the corner from the equipment ramp. Come to think of it, he looked an awful lot like the man who was standing guard there just moments earlier. Had he left his post open? Do I risk having a run-in with a third guard in just seven minutes?
I stutter-stepped in front of the gateway leading to the ramp. It was the half-step back you do when you suddenly realize you’re in front of the right grocery aisle. Glancing left, I thought to myself about the possibilities. There was no way that the security could be lax enough to leave the main entry point unattended… too bad I would never find out. I ducked my head down and kept moving down the hall, blowing what could’ve likely been my best opening.
I reached into my jacket pocket to pull out my phone. Maybe no one would bother me if I pretended to be on the phone.
As I paced up and down the tunnel, I never re-entered the veiled off section. It was probably five minutes before I ended up at the elevators I had taken down to the tunnels. During my ride down, we had made a stop at a level that looked like it was a way into the arena from the Media Center.
Once in the elevator, I asked the bellhop to take us to Level 1 – where I thought I wanted to go. When we got there, it was fairly obvious that I did not want to be on Level 1. This was the entry to the rest of the area. But, I was not ready to give up, so I turned right around and caught the next elevator down.
When I arrived back into the basement of the arena and turned the corner back into the tunnels, I quickly realized it was roped off. Myself and a handful of people were stopped in our tracks. A few credentialed people asked what was going on but got no response. My first thought was that they were not letting anyone else in. Sure there was still about 45 minutes before the event began, but I’d never been to this kind of thing. Who knows when you need to be in the event by.
After a few minutes of contemplating heading back into the general public, I noticed a small handful of policemen enter a ballroom not 10′ beyond the roped off area. This caught the attention of myself and the now growing, yet still small, group of people trapped behind the rope.
Not thirty seconds later did a man with a patchy beard enter the ballroom, accompanied by more police and State Farm Arena security. It took a second for it to actually hit me, but I soon registered that Rams’ HC Sean McVay had just walked merely feet in front of me.
In tow, not a dozen yards back, were the rest of the NFC Champions. Jared Goff came first, and it was then that I realized how massive 6’4″ is. I was able to spot some of the biggest names in football, but to my chagrin I needed to play it cool.
The NFL fan in me wanted to pull out my phone and record the parade. These were men that I had only dreamt of meeting. But remember, I was playing a role. I was a member of the press. I’ve been here before. I casually leaned against the wall and watched the Rams march onwards.
The parade went on for a few minutes until the last few assistant coaches and trainers leaked into the ballroom. The security unhooked the barricading rope and allowed us onwards. I turned left with the rest of the group (now probably twenty people). As we walked through the tunnel, I ended up leading the pack. This would be, I later realized, my fatal mistake.
Because I was ahead of everyone else, I was incredibly exposed – credential-less chest and all. As I brought my entourage through the veil, the man who had earlier caught me stopped me dead in my tracks.
Perhaps this is me wanting to villainize him in my head, but I swear this guard was smugly smiling at me when he said “Credentials,” again (once again, not a question but a statement). Again, I told him someone else has them. “I’m reaching out to someone on my team about that.”
“Well,” he replied, “you can’t wait down here.”
That was it. I nodded affirmatively and headed back the elevator for a third time in rapid succession.
This time, Level 1 was my destination. I worked my way around the arena to where the first ramp I tried led to. There, I watched Super Bowl Opening Night as a fan. Sure, I was the only one in the stands dressed in a shirt and sports coat, but I still enjoyed the event despite my failed attempt to ask questions I wanted answered.
During the two hours allotted to each team, nine players and the HCs were seated at podiums on the court, while the remaining 44 players roamed the 2,000 media members on the court. Often, players would find their way to the stands to sign autographs and whatnot. The drunk Rams fans and even drunker Patriots fans were hard to work around, and I never got to ask anybody anything.
The player that gave me the most acknowledgment was New England’s Ryan Allen. I wanted to ask him about the big FGs made by Harrison Butker and Greg Zuerlein in the conference championship games, and what those shining moments by special teamers mean to him as a punter. Allen turned around when I called his name and raised his arm in thanks. That was the end of our interaction.
As a fan, it was an enjoyable experience. Despite not ever using it, I did pay full price for a ticket and would definitely attend another Super Bowl Opening Night. As you entered the arena, the ushers handed you a small personal radio to listen in on a few of the different select interviews happening on the court. There were hundreds of TV crews of varying notability, from NFL Network to Mundo Deportivo.
Looking back, there were opportunities to join the crowd on the court – all of which I talked myself out of. Those opportunities would probably have been more plentiful had I a lanyard with more than nothing attached.
As cheesy as it sounds, I learned a lot from my experience at Super Bowl Opening Night. I became familiar with the innards of my local basketball arena and hope to return soon with the proper credentials. As a football fan, the experience was a lot of fun. I’m glad I paid $28.
That’s my experience at the 2019 Super Bowl Opening Night. It was a ton of fun. I wish I had gotten a press pass, but I enjoyed the event nonetheless. Have you done anything similar? Could I have improved my tactics at all? Let me know, either on Twitter (@zekepersources) or Instagram (@zekepersources)