… as a shoveler.
So, let’s start on my third day at MetLife, ten days before the big game. It’s the morning after a gorgeous eight-incher, single-digits frigid. I’ve come prepared with multiple layers and ski goggles.
Super Bowl XLVIII (photo courtesy Christian Science Monitor)
Fortunately, the sun’s out, and there’s no wind, so things aren’t gruesome. I shovel hard as I listen to tunes and imagine that I’m a character in a video game. I’m with a crew, but I don’t utter a word to anyone, losing myself in the labor. For the most part, everyone respects each other’s space. We shovel the snow into a funnel so that it can be pushed onto the field and later removed by mini trucks. In this high-tech universe, this system is medieval, but it works.
After about two or three hours, not surprisingly, snow removal becomes monotonous and tiresome. Fortunately, at around noon, it’s time for some well-deserved, complimentary fingers and fries. Since we’re at the mercy of the temp worker bus, it’s not as if we can go out for lunch.
After a little more than half an hour, we return to the field level for more of the same. At about 5 p.m., it’s quitting time. MetLife isn’t game for overtime. As we check out, new shovelers arrive for the evening shift. When we hit the parking lot, the bus is there, which isn’t always the case.
The following day, I return for an encore. When I take a nature break, the restroom is smoky and reeks of weed. Every shoveler has their process.
As the day comes to an end, guys come around with salt and start chucking handfuls of it somewhat indiscriminately. By some minor miracle, I don’t take some in the eyes. I’d retired my goggles because they were cumbersome, and it had warmed up. As we board the bus, we’re told to be ready because another storm is coming.
Photo courtesy The Weather Channel
I’m ready. I love shoveling. I’d shovel elephant dung at the circus. But the storm doesn’t happen—bummer. My Super Bowl is over…and the circus isn’t hiring. And then I’m given a reprieve. The Friday before the big game, surprisingly, I’m called in. There’s no snow; however, there’s a ton of salt in the stadium.
Indeed, MetLife is absolutely filthy. As I sweep salt into a bucket, the Super Bowl television crew rehearses, confirming that their equipment is functioning correctly. A high school football team serves as stand-ins for the Broncos and Seahawks and runs plays. They also rehearse pregame field entrances—fireworks and everything—as each team’s real cheerleader squad cheers them on.
When we break for lunch, the real Broncos take the field and practice. Someone in authority sternly orders me not to look at the field. He’s concerned that I’m a spy. No, Shovel-gate doesn’t have a great ring to it.
At about 4 p.m., MetLife orders us out. As I exit the stadium, hordes of high school students, unpaid halftime extras, stroll into the stadium for their rehearsal. As I wait in the parking lot for the bus, a tall, athletic man ambles by with a two-person film crew. He has stylish shades and a garish watch, and he walks with a slow, confident gait.
I overhear him boasting to a young woman, probably one of the halftime extras, that he’s a Seahawks player shooting a documentary. Mr. Seahawk poses for photos with some of my sweeper cohorts. After collecting salt for hours, they’re psyched to be hanging with an actual Super Bowl participant.
Now, we’re really a part of this extravaganza. After a few minutes, Mr. Seahawk and the crew leave us to enter the stadium. But they’re turned away.
No credentials.
Photo courtesy Facebook
As they retreat to the parking lot, security people demand their footage. I wait for Mr. Seahawk to identify himself as a player, but he doesn’t. Instead, Mr. Seahawk attempts to sneak away with the camera (and whatever footage) as his two-person crew is questioned. Before he can escape, security orders him back.
Mr. Seahawk is no Seahawk. He’s just a Borat wannabe.
It was a good try. He had me…for a second. I’m beat, and my BS detector isn’t on. When I ask one of the security guys what went down with Mr. Seahawk, he gives me a condescending glare.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a salt collector.”
He walks away.
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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available illustrated by Coverkitchen
