Press box horror stories

Should be like stealing your horse in the old west -- you could shoot the guy and no sheriff would think about arresting you.

 

Variation: I was in a men's room at Augusta National and the guy next to me ripped a big one. He looked at me and said, "well, if you can't fart in here, where can you fart?"

 

My only horror story came during high school basketball playoffs here in KS. In KS, the state athletic association picks eight sites which feed the winners of the girls and boys into the state tournaments. The sites are determined before the season ever begins and then each site is seeded.

I had been asked by a family of radio stations who cover area teams to broadcast the play-by-play from a couple of games from this particular site on Friday with the results determining if I would come back. When I arrived well before the games were to begin, I noticed there wasn't anywhere for the papers to sit as I was at the scorer's table as it housed the one working phone jack and the station wanted me on a landline, and had cleared reserving my seat at the table. Because I knew my sports editor would be there to cover a game later, I casually mentioned to the AD I knew there would be some newspapers there and they would be looking for someplace to sit. The AD was quite gracious, saying he hadn't even thought of it and he would take care of this. As I was setting up my gear, he had students bringing in a table for any papers which might attend.

On Saturday, the only game the radio station would be bringing from the site was the boys championship game between one team which was 20-1 and one team 19-2, both schools who were covered by the station. Knowing my seat was reserved, and having all of my starting lineups/info ready, I knew I didn't have to be there right at the tip of the girls championship game. I showed up about the middle of the first quarter and was surprised to find a writer from Big Time Metro paper in my seat. I figured it wasn't that much of a problem for the first half as there had been a sign which said "Reserved for Radio Station" when I left the previous evening. Big Time Metro writer had turned over the sign and set his laptop down on top of the sign. I also thought when he saw me showing up, he would pack up and move up to the table.

I soon realized Big Time Metro writer had no intention of moving. I wanted to be as polite as possible so at halftime, I said to him, "Excuse me, and I hate to tell you this, but this spot is reserved for me." Big Time Metro writer scowled before responding, "What am I supposed to do?"
"Well, sir, this spot has the only phone line in the gym and it was reserved for the radio broadcast tonight. I anticipated something like this happening and there is a table for your use, right up those steps."
"You mean I'm supposed to pack up and leave?"
"Again sir, this is reserved for me as said by that sign you turned over and placed your laptop on. I don't know what to tell you but I'm sorry as I need to get my stuff set up for the next game."
"This is a huge inconvenience for me. All of my stuff is here and you want me to leave."
I shrugged and apologized again. Mind you, his stuff was a laptop, three pens, two legal tablets, a laptop case and the program. He made a scene of throwing his stuff into his case, slamming stuff around and stomping up to the table.

Even the official scorer looked at me and said he was incredibly rude.

 

I have a similar story to CharBroiled, but it wasn't at a sporting event.

I cover a school board where usually nobody shows up to meetings, so reporters just sit in the audience. That particular week, there was an especially hot topic. With a large crowd expected, the school district PIO made large signs reading "reserved for media," and taped them to three seats.

I show up to find two women who flipped the signs to the back and sat there. When I politely approached, they seemed indignant that I told them to move. They asked "who are they reserved for?" and I so much wanted to say "It doesn't matter, it's not f'ing you."

They finally stomped away.

 

It's not just professional events. I was covering a state softball semi finals once and some TV guys were setting up for the final the next day and arguing over where they were going to have their announcers sit. I looked up and said, "Hey guys, do you mind, I'm on deadline here." They looked at me like I was speaking Greek, but went off to find something else to do for the next 15 minutes until I was done writing.

 

Not a press box, but my first Pacquiao press conference was a sobering experience as a young journo. I still had my serious journalist! face, so I was really passionate about the "not looking like a fan" thing. I still am, actually, but after a while, you find reporters who sneak autographs and such.

Anyway, Pacquiao. It's in New York, but somehow it seems like the Philippines sent EVERY reporter from EVERY island to cover this thing. Once the cameras are off and it's feeding frenzy time, the guys from the Philippines rush the front with Pacquiao sneakers, gloves, posters, shirts, press packets, and sharpies. It turned into an autograph session.

Thank goodness my editor had a good relationship with Arum and Top Rank, and helped me get the 1-on-1 time with Pacman after it was all said and done. There was free food, so everyone who didn't want an autograph was distracted by the spread at that point.

*****

A diminutive fellow with thick frames, greasy hair, and unkempt stubble once decided it'd be a good idea to complain to me about Yankees PR immediately after he was reprimanded for speaking to the starting pitcher in the clubhouse. I saw them looking in his direction when he approached me, and I knew they were trying to figure out who he was, surely to make sure he'd never receive credentials again. Distanced myself quickly, especially since I didn't know the guy. Maybe he thought the outlet I was representing gave me some juice? Either way, I wasn't interested in his story.

*****

Aside from that, most situations involve obnoxious beat reporters behaving as though they're best friends with the players in the clubhouse, and hogging up prime Q&A moments between training room visits.

 

Post-game interview with girl who just scored her 2,000th point.

My wife, who at the time appeared to be hiding a basketball under her shirt says, "We need to go.

I said, I need to finish.

She said, "We NEED TO GO!"

Thank goodness we were a PM. I filed after the baby was born.

 

I hope they did it in the restroom. If so, well, isn't that what restrooms are for?

 

Legwork? Give me a break. The home team is supposed to provide rosters and most do. I asked this guy if I could just borrow them and copy some names down. He said no, acted like a dick. So I took them. I really don't give a damn if you think that's classy or not.

 

It's not classy. Maybe next time you wait until he writes his story and steal his laptop.

 

Covering a game at Mississippi Valley State once was a hoot. Not only is it a long drive through some of the most godforsaken territory on the planet, the press box is (or was at the time; I think they've remodeled in the last year or two) worse than a lot of high schools. It actually looked like a high school press box -- basic wooden frame on top of metal bleachers, a few small booths open to the whole box.
The SID at the time was Chuck Prophet, who was there during the Jerry Rice glory years and many before and after. He was also the AD. Chuck's wife cooked up some chili for the pressbox meal and he spent more than a few moments during the game itself spraying wasps that had nested in one of the corners of the pressbox. Only the ones that flew a little too close, though. That golf ball-sized nest hanging near the door? Not a problem. You were welcome to borrow the spray, though.

Come to think of it, you can probably fill a couple pages of this thread with SWAC horror stories. Offhand, I know of people who have been trapped in elevators more than once, postgame stats that routinely took a couple hours to get, one SID who would always ask you for pictures (in their media guide they even listed as a requirement for photo credentials that you provide them with a few), and another that aggressively shooed reporters away from the only veggie plate in the pressbox because it was for the president's booth.

 

Maybe not plush and filet mignon, but fun memories nonetheless. Right? I mean, you'll remember those wasps forever.

We had an HBCU SID who would just belly laugh when, even mid-season, we would ask when the media guides would be ready. One year I think we got them about eight games into the season. But he was a good guy. You learn to deal with it and move along.