On Super Bowl Sunday, I found myself standing with several dozen reporters under a large tent, watching a police dog sniff hungrily over all my possessions. An enormous roped-off area contained dozens of bags, with a massive security team picking over each package and parcel. I was trying to carry in a suspiciously large quantity of items: cameras, videotape, a bag of supplies, and four 2-by-3 foot signs that screamed TURN ON LIGHTS, emblazoned with the Prince logo. I had a legitimate media badge (they get in free), which let me get into the stadium hours earlier than ordinary fans (they have to pay $3,000 a ticket). But now I was trapped in this security compound, surrounded by media, and it wasn't a good feeling. A lot of those guys don't bathe that often.
I tried to look bored, checking my Treo as I watched the dog out of the corner of my eye. My stomach did a lurch as the animal stopped at the signs. He paused a moment, sniffed, and did a little circle. My eyes widened, and I forced myself to breathe calmly and slowly. Then the animal squatted down on his haunches and took a dump on my signs.
The entire assembly of media laughed at this spectacle. "Huh huh, that'll give him something to smell," laughed a portly sports journalist from Indianapolis.
The rest of my team had been detained at the outer perimeter of Dolphin Stadium, which had been transformed into a multi-walled security fortress. This was a Level One security event, normally reserved for Presidential inaugurations. With my media badge, I was allowed to enter early, but first I had to get through eight layers of security screening. In order:
1. Initial guard asks for badge, asks for credentials, asks you to place all possessions within the roped-off area.
2. A second guard gives you a full-body patdown.
3. A third guard instructs you to remove all metal items, then wands you from head to toe. The wands can detect metal as thin as the foil from a chewing gum wrapper.
4. Angry police dogs sniff hungrily over all your possessions, then crap on them.
5. A fourth guard instructs you to walk through an X-ray device.
6. A fifth guard asks for your credentials, your media affiliation, and requests a business card.
7. A sixth guard scans a computerized barcode on your badge, using a handheld scanner.
8. Two uniformed guards ask if you are bringing in any wireless equipment. I responded that I was not, so I was finally allowed to enter the stadium. (Fortunately, I had brought in all my wireless equipment two days earlier.)
Judy Woods was a low-level security guard, one of dozens stationed at every conceivable nook and cranny within Dolphin Stadium. She was guarding the storage area where our 95 boxes of lights were stored.
I rushed in, soaked from the rain, and threw down my materials next to her. "I've got a crew coming to help me unload these boxes, Judy," I said, glancing at the name on her badge. "Could you watch over this camera equipment for me?"
"Sure," she said, looking a bit surprised.
I hustled to the bathroom to towel off. As I walked in, two armed members of the National Guard stood at the sink, chatting casually. I gave them a smile and a nod, and went to the urinal. After they left, I readjusted my tie, and dried my hair with a paper towel. As I was finishing up, a sheriff from the Miami-Dade Police Force came into the bathroom to do a sweep.
"Hey, do you know where I can find a forklift?" I asked the sheriff.
"I think they stopped all forklifts at 10:30 this morning," he said, eyeing my badge closely.
"My team hasn't showed up yet," I explained, "and I need to get two pallets of boxes up to the 100 level of the stadium." I was taking a huge risk, but there was no way we were going to get two pallets of boxes through this army without some heavy equipment. "Do you guys have something I can use to get these boxes out?" I continued, talking quickly. "A motorized cart? Hand truck? Anything?"
"I think the bomb squad has a small flatbed," he said. "Maybe they'll let you use it. They're over near the E gate."
"Bomb squad," I said. "Thanks."
The psychology of cat and mouse is that the mouse will never walk up to the cat and ask if he can borrow a forklift. Mice just don't do that.
But the cat is not to blame, especially if the mouse dressed up in a cat costume that morning. There are many species of cats; who can keep track of all of them? When you're in the middle of a cathouse, with 3,000 cats brought in as additional cat reinforcement, it paradoxically makes it easier for a mouse to slip in.
I don't want to give the impression this was a cakewalk, because I almost got busted several times. The first was when I pushed too hard on the forklift issue. After being referred to three successively higher supervisors, one officer finally told me to call security headquarters, pointing to a phone on the wall. He watched me carefully as I walked over to the phone, then continued walking.
"Hey, where you going!?" he yelled across the loading dock. "I told you to call headquarters."
"I gotta use the john," I called over my shoulder as I walked away.
I really don't like it when people call it the john. I think you understand why. I don't make a toilet out of your name. "Hey, I gotta go crap into the Clarence." I don't say that. "Gotta take a dump on Darlene."
I walked into an equipment room. "Do you guys have some kind of pallet truck I can borrow?" I asked a group of stadium workers. "My team is delayed, and I need to move a ton of boxes before the game."
"Good luck," said a bearded guy in a blue work shirt. "They're not letting anybody move anything between here and the heavily secured areas."
"Wow," I said. "That sucks." I pointed to a hand truck in the corner. "Can't I borrow that?"
He looked around, then wheeled over a large yellow cart. He whispered conspiratorially. "You can borrow this one," he said. "Just please bring it back."
"Thank you, and I will," I said. And for what it's worth, I did return it. But not before I successfully loaded, transported, and distributed 2,350 necklace lights to fans at Super Bowl XLI.
Judy was guarding my bags when I arrived, idly chatting with another security guard. This was good: now there were two guards who could vouch that I belonged there.
I was relying on a basic rule of human psychology: once people help you, they instinctually want to trust you. The unconscious thought process says: "Why would I have helped him, if he didn't belong here?" It was a confidence game, and I was trying to gain the confidence of as many security officers as I could.
The guards left me alone to load up the boxes. It was hard work. Soon I was dripping with sweat, but I didn't dare take off my suit or tie. Fifteen minutes later, as I was finishing my first load, Judy meandered over. "Who you rooting for in the big game?" I asked casually.
"Oh, Colts, baby," she said.
"I'm with you," I told her. "This is Manning's big year."
We talked football for a while. I'm not really a football fan, but I had done my homework. I asked her to watch my stuff, then wheeled my cart through several more layers of security, occasionally stopping to ask directions. Despite what the equipment guy told me, no one stopped me as I wheeled the cart into the general admission area of the stadium, and up to the 100 level.
There I found the perfect holding spot for our boxes: right behind one of the 10,000 alcoholic beverage vendors. There was a large, white temporary wall set up behind the booth, which camouflaged the boxes perfectly: obvious but unobtrusive. The booze booth had babes, each wearing skimpy G-strings that peeked out of skin-tight pants. Their golden breasts, barely harnessed by push-up bras, would provide a much-needed distraction to any male security guards who stopped by. And fortunately, all the security were male.
The fans were trickling in. And so was the sweat in the crack of my ass, as I hauled cartload after cartload from the basement. I didn't dare bring in the crew yet, as I knew my press badge was the magical amulet. I had to make five trips with that cart, and the work was exhausting. I introduced myself to the booth babes, and left a business card with them, just in case anyone found the boxes and panicked. I wanted to avoid an incident like the one that had happened in Boston just a few days earlier.
Once all the boxes were finally moved, I entered the stadium itself. It was a few hours before kickoff, but the lights and noise were already overwhelming. I stood there for a moment, breathing in the scene, trying to allow myself a moment to enjoy it.
There were two civilian security personnel guarding each section where we'd be handing out boxes. I approached the two guys nearest me: fresh-faced, clean-cut college kids. "I'm John Hargrave," I said, shaking their hands. "During the second quarter, my crew is going to be handing out additional audience lights for the Prince halftime show. If you could just try to keep this area clear, I'd appreciate it. Don't want anyone getting hurt."
The security guards could not have been more professional and positive. They did their jobs perfectly. "Sounds great," said Don, the redheaded kid on the left.
"Who's going to win it?" I asked, smiling.
"Bears all the way," Don replied.
"I'm with you," I said. "Manning's going to choke."
Finally it was time to call in the team. We had been communicating through text messages -- cellphone reception was lousy -- and I texted them to meet me at Gate E. They too had to pass through multiple layers of security, along with celebrities like Spike Lee, Johnny Knoxville, and Paris Hilton. Nobody was immune, not even the stars. That's how tight it was.
Joyously, we met up inside, and I handed out costumes. The team discreetly went to the restrooms to change into their stadium uniforms and SCHMEPSI STREET TEAM badges. Then we guarded the boxes through the end of the first quarter, talking casually and pretending to read.
When the second quarter began, we quickly stacked the boxes outside each of the doorways leading into the stadium. At this point, we had to leave the boxes unguarded, and I was quite worried that curious fans would open the boxes and peer inside. I was relieved when they started using the boxes as makeshift tables for their hot dogs and beer. Now everybody knew these things were OK.
The rain had picked up as we walked into the stadium. Picture the scene of the world's biggest football game. It is a chaotic maelstrom of sensory meltdown. An enormous Jumbotron, millions of lights, howling rain, howling fans. Apparently there was also a football game going on somewhere.
"This is Moses!" I yelled to Dan, the security guard from earlier. "He's going to be handing out the lights!"
"Right!" said Dan, shaking Moe's hand.
"Just try to keep the aisle clear!" I yelled.
"No problem!"
I turned to leave, when a large black man in a black windbreaker grabbed my arm. "I just want to let you know that I'm not in the way," he said.
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm in a terrible hurry," I said quickly, pulling my arm free.
"I'm not in the way," he repeated, smiling. "I'm a federal agent."
"Gotcha," I said, giving him a wink.
As I deployed the rest of the team, I realized we had nothing to worry about. An undercover federal agent had just given me the go-ahead.
The team quickly distributed 95 boxes, executing our plan with the speed and precision of a military operation. Each box had 24 "Party Packs," labeled by seat number. All they had to do was get the box started at Seat 1; the fans distributed the rest. On their way back up to fetch another stack, the team would collect the empty boxes that had made their way across the adjacent section. And in this way, we distributed 2,350 necklace lights to an entire section of Dolphin Stadium, just as the TAFKAP (The Artist Formerly Known As Penis) made his grand appearance.
We quickly grabbed our TURN ON LIGHTS signs, ran to the bottom of each section, and held them high.
It was a brilliant moment. Imagine standing there, the rain coming down, thousands of lights burning your secret message to 93.1 million people around the globe, and Prince providing the soundtrack for the greatest prank of all time.
And that's how we made history.
