WORK/LIFE BALANCE
A Super Sunday For an Off-Duty NFL Announcer
Five years after calling my fourth Super Bowl, I wasn’t where I wanted to be on Sunday; but where I was supposed to be
Appetizers were disappearing fast, while the main course waited to be roasted and grilled. The house was filled by in-laws invited for our semi-regular Sunday dinner, which on this once-a-year occasion doubled as a Super Bowl viewing party.
It was after 6 o’clock, about a half-hour to kickoff, and where was I, the biggest football fan in the family? Not home; not yet. Twenty-five miles from chips and cheese board, and the pale ale I’d picked up solely for the game, I was in one of the last places I typically want to be: a crowded and noisy shopping mall, subjected to the aromatic alchemy of the nearby Food Court. And I was growing increasingly impatient, waiting for my 12-year old to reemerge from a high-voltage playground known as Level 99. “A first of its kind,” according to its website, Level 99 features “ over 50-real world physical and mental challenges and games, craft drinks and elevated dining.”
Hours earlier, I’d driven my daughter there from drama practice — she’s playing Amanda Thripp in her middle-school production of ‘Matilda’ — to a meetup with friends. Resistant to the allure of ‘craft drinks and elevated dining,’ I gave her some independence from Dad and became a mall walker.
Wandering in search of a Valentine’s gift for my wife, I went in and out of anchor department stores and weaved around kiosks, evading the many retail interceptors pitching makeup and moisturizers, fidget spinners and cell phone cases. Could there possibly be so many people for whom phones are fashion accessories?
Occasionally, I scrolled for news on mine, which is still protected by the same black case I bought with my device several years ago. Otherwise, I remained disconnected from the event most Americans were fixed on. Missing pregame programming wasn’t a bother; I’d missed it before.
The past four years, for instance, I chose, like this one, to bypass the hype with the same elusiveness I showed sellers of minerals from the Dead Sea. In prior years, I had no choice; I wasn’t watching because I was working — at the games. Nope, I didn’t catch any of NBC’s chatter before Super Bowl XLIX. Or FOX’s for LI, NBC’s ahead of LII or CBS’s in the hours preceding LIII. I had my own broadcast to call.
On those afternoons, outside of Phoenix and in Houston, Minneapolis and Atlanta, I was getting ready to go on the air of the New England Patriots radio network. It was my voice (and that of partner Scott Zolak) heard on Pats broadcasts when Malcolm Butler intercepted Russell Wilson, James White ended the first Super Bowl overtime by scoring the last six points of the largest comeback in the game’s history and Tom Brady took a knee on the final snap of New England’s sixth championship victory. And, yeh, we also called (less enthusiastically) the unanswered Hail Mary at the end of the highest-scoring Super Bowl, won by Philadelphia, 41–33.
Reality Check
When asked what it was like in those moments, my response is any of the following: Out of body. Surreal. Incredible. Unbelievable. And years later, while waiting to the whiff of fast foods, dings of arcade games and flashes of laser lights while two of my peers were saying hello to audiences in Kansas City and San Francisco? All of the above, and more. And how!
At that moment, I even wondered, as I sometimes do, ‘did they ever occur at all?’ To me, they can feel as ephemeral as they are eternal. They were real; and yes, they were spectacular. And I was lucky as hell to experience them.
Snapped back to the reality of the present, my waiting game had to end. Back home, chicken and steak tips had gone on the grill. Vegetables were in the oven. Checking the GPS on my phone, I confirmed it would be impossible to get back there in time for the opening kick. I needed to go in.
Inside was chaos arranged in a maze of rooms and activities. I didn’t see my daughter at first. Nor her friends. Again the craft drinks on tap behind a long bar beckoned. Again I resisted. I stepped out, thinking I might have missed her. I texted, without reply. I went back in, without a sighting. I left again. This time, I called. Again without reply. I returned inside. And there she was.
We have to go, I said. I have to get my phone, she told me, leading me to a small storage locker. It didn’t open. Not on the first try. Nor the second. We found an employee to assist. He quizzed her on the contents, and turned his key. Just as she said, a $10 bill and phone, in its yellow case, rested inside.
With my car parked close to the exit, we hurried to leave. I backed out of my space and, of course, started the wrong way inside the garage. Turning around, I got us out, with a good 25–30 minutes still ahead of us. I turned on the radio. Former Super Bowl most valuable player Kurt Warner was interviewing the quarterbacks.
Wired from the blast she had with her friends, my daughter plugged in her playlist. The soundtrack of “Hamilton” blared, and she happily sang along. Just as she did the previous night, during a similar drive home in darkness from a dance showcase, where she performed beautifully.
As game time approached, I convinced her to get an update from Las Vegas, site of LVIII. Post Malone was singing “America The Beautiful.” Put your right hand on your heart, she told me. I couldn’t, shifting lanes approaching the highway exit on our right. Two hands on the wheel, I told her, even as Reba McIntyre sang the national anthem.
A few minutes, a few S-curves and a left turn later, we pulled into our driveaway and hustled to the front door. I couldn’t wait to eat. San Fran was driving promisingly in the opening series. The grill, my wife informed me, wasn’t going so well. Not hot enough. Its flames, but, thankfully, not my patient relatives, were doing a slow burn. I poured a beer, just as Christian McCaffrey fumbled the ball to KC, and went out to the patio to assess the situation.
One out of three burners was cooking. Great batting average. Not good enough to feed the hungry guests, or hosts. We called an audible, opting for a run inside. Thankfully, we fared better than the 49ers on their first drive. The food turned out great.
Real and Forever
Typically, I’m not one to enjoy viewing parties. I prefer watching sporting events I’m most interested in with little background noise and activity, which you might find strange, considering that during most games I care about, I’m talking over the sounds of 60,000 plus.
On Super Bowl Sunday, I watched the first half, as little cousins shrieked and laughed over announcers Jim Nantz and Tony Romo and our dog determinedly pushed past me to reach my overly generous, food-sharing father-in-law. Eventually, I pulled him back and the house emptied of visitors.
Around the time Usher took the halftime stage, our viewing party was down to my son and I. It ended, as you know, watching Patrick Mahomes roll right and toss the title-clinching touchdown pass to Mecole Hardman.
Like the Patriots I described more recently than it sometimes seems, the Chiefs were overtime winners and champions for a third time in five seasons. But unlike those Pats’ wins, there was no celebration to attend; only bedtime after I finished cleaning up.
Not the ending to Super Bowl Sunday anyone associated with an NFL team hopes to live. But when your biggest gripe on the biggest game day of the year is going to the mall or grilling on a stove top instead of a Weber, you’re living well. Especially when you can watch your daughter dance and hear her sing, and talk about the game with your son sitting next to you. Those moments are real; and they’re forever.
Originally published at www.bobsocci.com. Bob has been the New England Patriots radio broadcaster since 2013. He also writes for Boston’s 98.5 The Sports Hub.
