Super Bowl Diary: Midnite Vultures

Wednesday, January 24, 2001
Way Past Late, EST
SUBURBAN ORLANDO

Dear Diary,

The word of the day is "vultures."

During the week leading up to the Super Bowl, you hear a lot about vultures. Of course, it's usually in reference to the media that circle around the players, waiting for them to crack, hoping to break the next Eugene Robinson scandal, or trying to get that year's Ray Lewis to bare his soul to the crowd, then die a slow death as they pick at his carcass.

But I wasn't prepared for what greeted us on the road to Tampa this morning.

Vultures. Real vultures.

Were we dead meat or what? I mean, I know Reimer and I stayed up way past our bedtimes working on yesterday's stories. And we did roll out of bed looking like the sleep-deprived love spawn of Steve Buscemi and Linda Tripp. But I'm usually good to go after my first cup of coffee.

Those vultures circled over our dusty two-lane highway as we rolled toward Tampa Wednesday morning, sparing us for now in favor of some fresh roadkill (and reminding us that we'd missed breakfast). Was it a fitting metaphor for a couple of logy reporters headed to the Super Bowl, looking for yet another big story?

And if so, were we the vultures or the roadkill?

Only time would tell.

The media geek in me is loving this week. To sports nerds like us, the Super Bowl is like the Oscars, the Presidential election and Mardi Gras all rolled into one. This spectacle is attended by everybody who's anybody, and a bunch of us who aren't. You name the bigshot sportswriter or broadcaster, and he or she is here.

I even got a chance to meet the best writer in the country, CNN-SI's Peter King. Sorry, that's just my opinion, but if you've read his weekly Monday Morning Quarterback column you know why I think he's the bomb. And a nice guy too. Big hazelnut latte lover.

But back to the game. It's going to be seen by some 800 million viewers in 200 countries and broadcast in 26 languages, if that gives you any idea of just the electronic journalists who are here. Throw in all the ink-stained wretches from every daily fishwrap from here to Nepal and a few of us cyberguys, and the estimated total of media is up to 3,000 here in Central Florida this week.

And today in the Media Center at the Tampa Convention Center, it seemed as if they were all crammed into makeshift booths along "Radio Row." In a marble corridor about a first-down wide and an extra-point long, the nation's sports-talk radio this week is being generated by a legion of hacks, hypesters, and yes, a few solid broadcasters sprinkled in to appease the FCC.

Jim Rome currently hosts the nation's most popular sports radio show, and when you see the parade of stars that ventured down Radio Row to chat with the man, you understand why. Among the more recognizable names and faces: Monday Night Football's Melissa Stark, ex-49er great Joe Montana, current (for now) 49er great Jerry Rice, Arizona Cardinals head coach Dave McGinnis and the comic genius of FOX television's pregame show, Jay Mohr. Not a bad little roster of guests.

Meanwhile, most of the shows were settling for the contributions of Dave from Annapolis or Al from Uniondale to fill their three-hour slots. Aside from Rome's show, the whole scene seemed pretty mundane. And when the strains of "Who Let The Dogs Out?" filled the air like the background noise the song has become at most professional sporting events, we had officially achieved sports-clich? nirvana.

Except when you turned around, you quickly realized it wasn't a tape. The Baha Men, working furiously to extend their 15 minutes of fame, were huddled around a microphone singing for a gleeful radio host.

And that's when it hits you. You are at the Super Bowl.

I'd love to tell you more about the local cuisine here, but darn it all, we've been treated to a daily feedbag that's been pretty spectacular. Tonight at the banquet/press conference for the Miller Lite NFL Player Of The Year (Marshall Faulk won, by the way), the spread at the Marriott consisted of fresh, hot Cuban sandwiches and quesadillas, coconut shrimp, lemon chicken wings, and grilled vegetables. Hard to go wrong there.

But on the way home, Reimer decided that he must share with me a local delicacy -- boiled peanuts. They come in a Styrofoam cup, steamy and seemingly innocent. You crack them with your hands, the shells warm and moist, but still, how bad could it be, right?

Then you pop them into your mouth, and you quickly discover that they are the most disgusting confection known to man. Imagine chewing a mouthful of swamp mud that had been scraped from the bottom of a sweaty fisherman's hip-waders and you're about halfway there. Reimer says they're basically boiled in water and dirt, and I believe him. If I were starving and he handed me a cup of boiled peanuts, I'd eat the cup.

Reimer finished them, however. One man's poison is another man's pleasure.

Well, it's past my bedtime again, and it's time to hit the sack. I just hope we don't find any vultures circling our bedrooms in the morning.

Previous Diaries:
Tuesday, January 23 -- Throng Of The South
Monday, January 22 -- And We're Off