Day 7 - The Longest Day

Overview - alarm goes off at 7am on the Sunday. Time to get ready for what promises to be a genuinely intriguing day. It is then 4am on Monday before I eventually finish the final item for the day and switch off the lap-top, utterly exhausted, brain like mush. That's a 21-hour day for those who are counting (lord knows, I couldn't by then).

I have never written so much in one go, on one game, with virtually no pause once things started. But it was thoroughly worthwhile for what turned out to be an impossibly memorable Super Bowl (Best ever? Best touchdown catch? Best final drive? Let the arguments begin!).

In chronological order they were:

The live 'runner' for SunSport online, taking the game drive by drive (see it here if it is still online).

An immediate full re-write "on the final whistle" (as they like to say in the UK). Game report.

And, to complete the 'hat-trick', a considered (considered? at 3 in the morning? Yeah, right!) piece for SkySports.com, looking at the immediate reaction to a momentous event.

Roughly 4,300 words churned out from just prior to kick-off (actually, at around 5pm), right through to the game's uber-dramatic conclusion, and beyond. I think I just might have earned my corn today (For once - Ed).

But wait. That’s putting the cart before the horse. Let me try to steer you through the day with some semblance of order and less breathless exhaustion….

Oh no, it’s I-4 again!

Like I said, the day began some 11.5 hours before a ball was even kicked in anger. With three journos to mobilize (myself and the two Nicks), there is always the possibility for someone to be late or engaged in an unforeseen story. Happily, that wasn’t the case here. All three of us are on time and suitably unencumbered by unexpected work.

After a couple of phone calls with the Sun office to establish what was required there, and a chat with the Online desk to make sure I had their details for the live runner (it being the first time anyone had trusted me to file on an almost play-by-play basis), we were on the road shortly after 8.30am.

The by-now maddeningly familiar stretch of I-4 to Tampa is pretty dull by this stage in the proceedings, enlivened only by Nick Z’s continuing fascination with the vast tractor, bulldozer and crane depot along the side of the road at the junction with Highway 27, and our own ‘Fan Count’ of cars sporting the various colors of the teams.

(Unofficial total – Pittsburgh cars, 107; Arizona 5. Further evidence – as if we needed it – that the Steeler Nation can still turn out in force, while the Cardinals fans represent not so much a nation as a tiny principality in the Northern Territories)

The weather is bright and promising; only in the 60sF but mainly sunny and suitably hospitable for a Super Bowl day (unlike the grey, chilly gloom we encountered in Jacksonville and the totally misery-inducing and unseasonal rain of Miami – two less-than-inspiring scenarios from recent years).

Arriving near the Media Center is a doddle, parking even more so. Our chosen spot is just two blocks from the Convention Center and, at a cost of $10 for the day, a true bargain (unlike the $10 beer at the stadium later on. Rip-off? Very possibly).

The Great Brunch of '95

It is still a bit of a walk to the Hyatt Hotel for the Pre-Game Brunch, but, in the absence of anyone else on the streets in downtown Tampa, it is easy enough and completely without incident (apart from a certain hurry-up element in need of the restroom. Yes, that second cup of coffee I had before leaving was definitely not a good idea!).

How to describe the Pre-Game Brunch?

This is most definitely a Super Bowl institution of many years standing, enlivened over the years by the efforts of various British journos to eat their own weight in the vast spread of food on offer. I’d go so far as to say the Brunches in Miami 1995 and Phoenix ’96 were near-legendary for the dining achievements of several of ‘Her Majesty’s Press.’ Alan ‘Macca’ McKinlay of the Daily Mirror (sadly absent in recent years) may not LOOK as if he could consume the culinary contents of a semi (or even a small saloon come to that), but he can pack it away like few I’ve seen. If eating were an Olympic event, he’d be looking to get gold, silver AND bronze. And still look in need of a square meal.

But I digress.

This year’s brunch is a more modest affair than many we’ve seen, but is still impressive. Rumor has it, the NFL – in today’s new world of fiscal frugality – ordered a late cut-back in size from 2,000 to just 900 attendees, and one chef manning an omelette station insisted the extent of the food offerings was very much ‘average’ in their overall scale of things.

However, despite the relative parsimony of the occasion (relative to the extent that today’s brunch was still equivalent to an absolute 20-course feast by the standards of other sporting events – try expecting the Football Association in England to lay on a pre-game meal of any significance and you could have a long wait indeed), it is still a spectacular event.

The brunch fills a whole ballroom in the hotel, with large circular tables surrounded by multiple serving stations positively groaning under the weight of food on offer. All the usual suspects are to be found – mountains of scrambled egg, bacon, sausages, country-style potatoes, waffles, omelettes, fresh roast sirloin and all manner of pastries – along with an impressive dessert table featuring cookies, brownies and fresh fruit, the latter cunningly disguised as palm trees (so cunning, in fact, that I was stopped by one woman who, seeing my fruit plate, asked imploringly where I had found these particular delicacies. As we were standing right in front of the ‘palm trees’ at the time, it didn’t take much effort to point out that the fruit was all stuck to the ‘trunks’ of the trees with cocktail sticks. Actually, it took several efforts before she could see what I was pointing to – perhaps a case of the chef being a bit TOO creative with his design?!).

The scheduled meal conclusion of 11am had long passed before we managed to ease ourselves away from the table (in our defense, it was gone 10am before we arrived), fully sated and ready to take on the world. In truth, we had probably eaten enough to last the rest of the week, let alone until game time, but it would seem rude to spurn the NFL’s hospitality by not partaking of as much as possible. So we didn’t.

The calm before the storm

The walk back to the Media Center was much needed, but also generated the first surprise of the day. It had gone. Well, not so much disappeared as been dismantled. Where previously was a medium-sized exhibition hall filled with rows and rows of long, bench-like desks equipped with all the necessary internet cables and power supplies, now there was a medium-sized exhibition hall filled with not very much at all.

Outside the hall, the host stands for South Florida and Texas were rapidly disappearing as well, as zealous maintenance folk unscrewed, un-hammered and generally disassembled the accoutrement of the previous week. We wondered if we had wandered through some kind of weird time warp after leaving the Hyatt. Had we somehow lost a whole day and missed the game, passing straight through to Miserable Monday, when the ‘after the Lord Mayor’s show’ feeling is usually in full swing?

Apparently not. This was either a further indication of modern cost-cutting, or merely ultra-efficient organization, removing things that, in all honesty, were no longer really required. Fortunately, there were still a few desks and chairs left in the Radio Row area, as the various presenters, DJs, radio jocks and assorted hangers-on had decamped already to the stadium.

The three of us managed to spend a quiet hour or so catching up with the day’s newspapers and preparing suitably fitting and witty intros for what we anticipated later on (none of which turned out to be in any way usable, as it happened).

By 2.30pm, we were ready to roll. Game faces on, we headed for the shuttle buses to Raymond James Stadium, fully prepared for a long drive in heavy traffic and then a scrimmage at the other end to get into the stadium itself, as can be the case. Within half an hour, we had arrived (albeit with a final 10 minutes of arcane maneuvering around a police-imposed one-way system that made the Minotaur’s Labyrinth look like a walk in the park).

The walk from the drop-off area was equally hassle-free, and made more enjoyable by the arrival, nano-seconds ahead of us, of the Arizona Cardinals cheerleading squad. OK, so they weren’t in full regalia, just in black-and-red tracksuits with nary a pom-pom on view, but they certainly caught a few camera lenses all the same.

The usual security procedures (a cursory pat-down, electronic screening and a police sniffer dog to examine all our bags) were easily negotiated and it was colored line time.

Follow the Yellow Brick Road (kind of)

Now, the NFL has developed a system of navigation around each Super Bowl stadium the likes of which can only be described as Wizard of Oz-inspired. With various members of the media needing one of the two main press boxes, or the field, or TV trailers, or Radio Row, or the Working Room, or, well, you get the idea, they would need an army of people to keep herding the stray masses in the appropriate different directions, so they don’t bother.

Instead, they give you a color and a line, and it is up to you to work it out. We are ‘Auxiliary Press Box’ (we are always auxiliary press box, by the way) and our ‘code’ for the day is gold. Only it isn’t. It’s more like burnt orange. Happily, gold/orange is fully locked in to our destination and, up two long escalators, a short ramp, and a corridor, we are safely arrived behind some of the swish executive suites at the APB.

Located in the north-east corner of the stadium (at the same end as the famous Buccaneers ‘pirate ship’), we are actually pretty early and there is not much to see yet, although it is pretty clear we are not so much in Tampa as Pittsburgh South. Steeler fans are everywhere, and you immediately begin to fear for Arizona’s chances of even being heard. Some estimates put the AFC fans at about 80% of the stadium’s occupation, but I think that may be a touch conservative.

The APB takes a bit of effort to climb into (if you are in the middle of one of the rows, you either need to get multiple people to move for you, or climb around the back of the row, mountaineering around the many TVs that stick out to block the way) and, once suitably ensconced, it seems too much effort to climb back out again. So I don’t (actually that is a slight exaggeration – I do manage to extricate myself on two occasions in the next six hours, once to scope out the concession stands nearby in search of a good cup of coffee, cappuccino-aholic that I am, and once to visit the loo!).

Now it really is time to focus on the day at hand. The stadium’s sound system is already at ‘kill’ level it seems, but the raucous renditions of ‘For Those About To Rock’ and ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ serve to pump up the excitement significantly. The initial arrival of one or two players on the field (just in tracksuits or shorts) sparks the first genuine fan frenzy, and the video tribute to former Cardinal Pat Tillman serves as an emotional and sobering counter-point to the sporting excesses.

The Florida State University marching band put on a stormer of a show and the pulses are now officially racing in anticipation of the kick-off. All the pre-game festivities take another 30 minutes out of our lives and eventually, finally, we get to Super Bowl XLIII.

Incidentally, the coaches must really have their hands full at this stage, as you can positively sense both teams chomping at the bit to get started. The preliminary hoopla takes on an interminable quality that must test everyone’s patience and nerve to the limit and it is easy to imagine the players pleading ‘Just let us OUT THERE!’

An XL-ent half

Once we finally get to the action, the game seems to go by on Fast Forward. Doing the live up-dating certainly adds to this feeling as I am either trying to watch replays of the action or typing furiously. The end of the first quarter comes as a huge surprise as there are only three possessions (actually two-and-a-bit, as Pittsburgh’s second possession carries over into the second quarter, where they promptly make it 10-0), and I’m as breathless as the Cardinals defense.

The press box is kept supplied by an ever-willing army of helpers, who come out at regular intervals with sodas, bottled water, lunch boxes (one for each desk, containing a turkey sub, chips, cookie, granola bar and an apple) and coffee (although I could have done with more than one round of the latter). I also seem to remember some hot-dogs going round at one stage, but much of the game was such a blur, spent hunched over the lap-top trying to record every moment, that I could easily be wrong!

The final action at the end of the first half is a stunner; I have already penciled in a score of Pittsburgh 10 Arizona 14 when, in the space of 20 crazy seconds, the whole game is turned on its head. After dominating much of the half, the Steelers are suddenly looking vulnerable to Kurt Warner’s pin-point passing. But, just as the Cardinals are about to cash in on the lone Ben Roethlisberger turnover, the NFL’s Defensive Player of the Year steps in to break Arizona hearts with his 100-yard interception return.

“Mayhem,” I write in my Sun running report. And that’s an understatement. But that’s why Pittsburgh have the No 1 defense and why James Harrison will go on to have one of the greatest careers of any modern player. This linebacker corps are easily the most destructive group I have seen in my 20 years of covering the NFL and Harrison’s drive and tenacity epitomise their ethos. You have to feel sorry for the Cardinals as this level of defensive brilliance almost seems unfair.

Hopefully, the high quality of the first 30 minutes should also give the lie to those who proclaimed this a feeble match-up. I’m sure there are still plenty who will try to insist Arizona’s regular season record makes this a ‘poor’ Super Bowl, but all the actual evidence points to the very opposite. I had high hopes for a great contest of contrasting styles (as I did for Seattle-Pittsburgh, which proved to be horribly turgid), and the first half more than lives up to that promise.

The Springsteen half-time show is a predictable mixture of high-energy performance and big-stadium rock bombast. I’m not keen on the choice of Tenth Avenue Freeze Out as the opening number and Glory Days is an OK finale, but Born in the USA or Dancing In The Dark would have been better – and more appropriate. In truth, I can’t really take it all in as I am still furiously typing out the breathless finale to the half for The Sun.

More drama than the RSC

Doing the play-by-play reporting makes it hard to get a full appreciation of the general ebb and flow of the game, but the overall feel is still easy to absorb, and this is clearly bubbling up nicely with Pittsburgh in control and the Cardinals hanging on by their finger-tips. BUT – the gap is only 13 points and, as I never tire of telling my colleagues (go on, ask them – they were all heartily fed up with it by the end!), this Arizona team is perfectly capable of scoring points in bunches.

As drama is piled on drama (the Royal Shakespeare Company has nothing on this!), it is clear we are witnessing one of THE great Super Bowls; the big plays come thick and fast and the overall level of play is positively stratospheric (another major poke in the eye for the nay-sayers – take THAT you doubters).

Both teams could have been forgiven for leaning on each other, gasping for air and declaring the contest a draw but, as we now know, the Steelers saved the best for last and Santonio Holmes became THE big story of the day with his corner-of-the-end-zone miracle. I was convinced Ben Roethlisberger was just throwing the ball away (something which Warner should have done in the same position at the end of the first half) as, from our vantage point, the ball seemed to sail way too high for anyone to get near it, let alone haul it in.

But then history will reveal that Holmes had ‘the fluence’ on that final drive, that indefinable quality of greatness and indefatigable will to win which make genuine champions. A worthy MVP winner, Holmes must now come to terms with being the new ‘greatest’ in the NFL and not become the new Toxico Burress. His post-game interviews certainly indicate he may be OK on that score, but his past also displays a few worrying signposts.

Yet that is a story for another day. The MVP award may have seemed a bit of a snub to Roethlisberger – after all, it was his arm that propelled the ball into Holmes’s grateful hands on each of those 9 occasions – but I can understand the voting panel shying away from the big quarterback as he was actually outshone, statistically at least, by Warner, and there would have been a lot more argument in going for Big Ben.

And what to make of Kurt Warner? The 37-year-old certainly did everything in his power to carry the day for the underdogs as his fourth-quarter display may never be equaled (14 of 19 for 224 yards and 2 touchdowns), and his final stats were truly startling. But that one INT (and the seven points the other way) to go with the three TDs looks awfully accusatory in a four-point game.

Warner is simply one of the most admirable men to have played this game in recent years and there can be little doubt Arizona would never have got to Tampa without him. His ability to rally the Cardinals from 20-7 down was remarkable, and yet fortune – or whatever you like to call it – was not with him when it mattered most, at the very end of both halves. The Hall of Fame arguments will continue in earnest but, from where I was sitting, I’d have him ahead of all but Tom Brady of the current crop of QBs.

So, with that utterly breathtaking and eye-popping ending, we had Super Bowl XLIII becoming another Steeler-fest, virtually all of which passed me by as I hastily bashed out another 13 pars as my quick-hit re-write. Nick Szczepanik was equally hectic at the finish as he rushed out a live story, and all three of us positively reeled out of the press box at around 10.45pm.

Bus ride to the Twilight Zone

Realistically, that should just about have been the end of it, but there was one final episode to negotiate. As we departed the stadium (having to walk down a seemingly endless ramp, as some dimwit Jobsworth insisted we couldn’t use the escalator), the color-coded line did its job in helping us re-trace our steps back to the shuttle bus (with the distinctive UCF Golden Knights banner emblazoned on the side, indicative of the range of transportation options pulled in for the day). But there our final agony of the evening began.

With my head down over the lap-top (frantically typing out my SkySports report), I was only dimly aware of several stops and starts in our journey, which seemed to be taking forever, even though we were clear of the stadium traffic pretty quickly. The next thing I knew, we were performing a slow-motion U-turn on a major road and trundling back in the direction from whence we had come. Not good.

Our progress also seemed to be mired in an ever-deepening quicksand as our bus slowed from 40mph to 30 and then 20. As we finally sighted the towers of downtown Tampa, we were just crawling along the highway and then, as the bus driver made a gallant late bid to take the off-ramp in the rough direction of downtown, the engine sputtered one last choleric heave and died completely. In the middle of the off ramp. With nowhere to go. And a paramedic unit right behind us with its emergency lights and siren on.

Had we blundered into a modern episode of the Twilight Zone? Were the football gods mocking me for picking Arizona to upset the odds? Either way, we were well and truly stuck, and the bus driver wasn’t about to let anyone off in the middle of the highway (fortunately, the paramedic unit was able to squeeze past with a bit of judicious maneuvering). What now? It was ticking ever closer to midnight and the possibility of making it to the post-game buffet (or ANY kind of meal, come to that) seemed unlikelier by the minute.

In an act of true desperation, the driver gave the ignition one last hopeful turn and, lo and behold, the engine coughed its way back into some semblance of life. Off we went at a cracking 5mph – all of 200 yards before the awful silence of engine cut-out struck again. Thankfully, we were able to coast another 200 yards with the down-slope and managed to get off the dreaded highway ramp on to the fringes of the city proper. The driver angled his propulsion-less carriage towards the sidewalk (narrowly avoiding taking out an off-duty fire engine along the way) and we coasted to a final, irrevocable stop.

OK, we thought, we can see where we needed to be (on the other side of downtown), and it can’t be more than, oh, 30 blocks or so. So off we all set, all 30 of us on that fateful bus, in the vague direction of the Marriott Waterside.

Happily, we hadn’t got more than half a block when another bus pulled up with the clear intention of coming to its stricken mate’s aid. Rescued! With the driver leaning out to shout to those who had already partly galloped off on foot, we managed to round up most of our 30 fellow Twilight Zone travelers (I’m not entirely sure we got all 30, though, as there didn’t seem to be quite the same number as had alighted from Bus No 1 – somewhere in downtown Tampa there may still be one or two brave souls desperately trying to find the hotel!) and trundle off.

Our belated arrival back at the Media Center (adjacent to the Marriott) was greeted with a thunderous round of applause – and a mad scramble to see if there was anything left of the post-game buffet.

Very happily, it was still in full swing at several minutes after midnight and we were able to partake fully of the vast spread laid out in the ballroom amid some significant crowds. A fresh carvery station, Mexican table, huge selection of hot sandwiches and much more greeted our grateful eyes and, while it was WAY too late to do it serious justice, the three of us did manage a significant plateful or two (and some much-needed coffee in my instance).

At around 12.40am, the driver in our group (that would be me), called ‘time’ on proceedings in the interests of getting back home to Orlando before sun-up. We still had about a 4-block walk back to the parking lot where we had left the car, seemingly about 20 hours ago, and then the exit navigation of downtown Tampa. Finally, I-4 seemed like a trusted friend once again as we eventually made it onto the highway at around 1am.

It was something like 2.15 before our Super Bowl domicile greeted our return, and there was still a SkySports.com piece to be written, emails to be sent to the Sun with a line for the news desk on a follow-up story (Santonio Holmes, naturally enough) and then finally, blissfully, the long, long day was over as the mournful blue light of the bedside clock shimmered past 4am.

Super Bowl XLIII was well and truly over for this particular reporter (at least until follow-up story time in, what, five hours’ time?). In many ways it had all passed in a blur, while other parts of it had seemed interminable (the horrendous bus ride and the morning drive down, most notably!).

It capped a week of truly memorable events, fun and sporting drama, the likes of which we may not see again in a long, long time. It also sealed a season of the utmost unpredictability; five months of impossible-to-imagine results and stories of unexpected teams on the rise (Miami, Baltimore, Atlanta and Arizona) and others falling sharply off cliffs (Dallas, Tampa Bay, New York Jets and Denver).

So, anyone care to make a prediction for next season then…………..?