It's amazing the places a press pass can get you.
People don't know who you are; all they know is that you have this little red card attached by a string hanging around your neck. Throw in a bad attitude and you're suddenly an authority that can travel anywhere.
Drew Carey wrote in his book, "Dirty Jokes and Beer," that he liked to go to the airport wearing a red vest, solely so he could push old people around in wheelchairs and drive that flatbed cart. While any type of prank at an airport nowadays is a horrible idea, Carey was on to something.
Those looking for adventure might try attending sports events wearing random, brightly-colored cards around their necks and see where it gets them. Maybe doodle some "credentials" and a team logo on the thing to make it look official. Be sure to use a good writer name which can really be any name, so long as you include the middle initial.
Really, what's the worst thing that could happen? Aside from being arrested.
Just this last weekend, I hit the Kansas City Comets soccer game at Kemper Arena. I went not just because I love soccer, but also because they had a superhero halftime game. (More on that in a future column, trust me.) A Comets press pass gets you anywhere you want to go, free food if you arrive early enough, a free program and possibly even a smile from the cheerleaders.
Yes, life is good with the little red card hanging around your neck. It awards you respect, even if you don't deserve it; people stay out of your way. It allows you to enter and exit at will and do unusual things with no questions asked. I really think sometimes that I could go up to the concession stand and squirt ketchup all over the floor while laughing maniacally. People would initially look at me strangely, but I'd hold up the red pass and wink, and they'd be like, "Oh, sure. Sorry."
Meet the press
I'm sitting with my buddy James Starkweather er, I mean, my "photographer" James Starkweather in the press box. These are decent seats; we're at midfield, halfway up with a nice table to set our drinks on. The media director stops by and makes sure I'm living OK, and asks if I know where to take photos from. I tell her no, and she drops some knowledge on me: My press pass can get me anywhere. So we can either go up to the front row, or, even better, down to the penalty box and shoot from there.
The view from the penalty box sounds like a winner, so Stark and I begin to make our way over during halftime. Before we arrive, I elect to take a pit stop in the men's room. I'm minding my own business when this guy asks me if he can smoke in the restroom.
"I don't know, I don't smoke," I tell the guy.
"Well, that sign there says, 'No Smoking Beyond This Point,'" the guy says. "But that sign over there just says, 'No Smoking.' So "
"Yeah "
"So do you mind if I smoke in here?"
"I don't care what you do."
"Well, you work here, right?"
That's when I realize that this guy was harassing me about his nicotine fit because of my little red press pass. I should have told him he could smoke, but only during the 30 seconds it takes him to urinate, and then he must immediately extinguish his cigarette or face a $1,000 fine.
We saunter over to the penalty box, and I advise Stark to "just act like you know what you're doing." We march right into the box like we own the place. One person glances in our direction, sees our red cards, and immediately accepts that we belong there.
The view from the penalty box is stellar. It's like standing on the field. About 10 seconds into my tenure there, a ball is scorched right at me. I react by throwing my hands up and ducking back, just to have it hit the post right where I was standing. Can't get that kind of life-threatening attack in the cheap seats.
Toward the end of halftime, the coach of the visiting team comes over to us and starts shouting madly something about starting the game late and that we aren't being professional. The guy next to me just smiles and nods, and I do the same. Then I think he mutters something about my mother and stalks off. I try showing him my red card, but he's already gone.
With three minutes left in the game, one of the Comets players is called for an intentional handball. Stark and I scoot over, and the athlete joins us.
"What's up, guys, it's been a while," he says as he enters the box. "Does anyone know why I just did that, because I'm still trying to figure it out."
We confess to having no idea why he touched the ball. Then the game resumes, and he starts screaming at his teammates to play defense. Despite the penalty, the match ends with a Kansas City victory. Rather than taking the regular way out of the stadium, we elect to walk across the field and through the goal to an exit. It's basically a way to see if the pass can get us one more smile from the cheerleaders.
Turns out one smile is all you get.
As we exit, a random man stops Stark and tells him, "Hey, you guys put on a helluva show tonight." Stark does not respond.
"Was that guy talking to me?" he asks.
I think he was talking to the red press pass.
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