It happens the same way every year. Anticipation ... buildup ... excitement ... exhaustion. That is the Winter X Games in Aspen, Colo.

This year, I worked on videos for X Center, a post-event, late-night edition of SportsCenter, with our TV production group and caught up with as many athletes, coaches and industry folks as time allowed. And, like every year, I spent most of my evenings dancing the night away with friends at the Target Chalet. Gotta exercise.

BCDC, AN AWESOME ACDC COVER BAND, PLAYED LATE NIGHT AT THE TARGET CHALET ...

On Sunday, one of my friends who was watching at home on TV texted me to point out what he thinks is the coolest feature of the X Games. And I had to agree. Unlike the Olympics and other large, multi-sport events, there is no Para-X Games. Adaptive athletes compete the same weekend at the same event and on the same courses as able-bodied athletes. The monoski athletes race down the same dangerous cross course that took down Olympic skiercross racer Darren Rahlves--Heal up quickly!--and caused more accidents than Talledega. A new event, called adaptive snocross, or adaptive snowmobile racing, was one of the most exciting events of the weekend. It meant the return of motocross champ Doug Henry, who was paralyzed from the waist down in a practice accident in 2007, to competition. In the final race, former snowcross champ Mike Schultz, whose left leg was amputated above the knee after a racing accident in 2008, came around a turn and his prosthetic flew off. He drove to it, picked it up and rode with it to the start/finish, where he had help putting it back on. Then he won the dang race. Now, that's something you don't see every day.

In the halfpipe and on the slopestyle course, there was lots of fun competition to distract me from the pain in my frozen feet. Three Aspen locals--Gretchen Bleiler, Peter Olenick and Jen Hudak--won gold medals, which filled the friends & family sections and added to the festive atmosphere at women's snowboard halfpipe, men's ski high air and women's ski halfpipe. The Bleiler-Kelly Clark showdown in women's halfpipe was one of the most exciting and most progressive finals the sport has seen. Although Ellery Hollingsworth didn't land her cab 1080 in competition, she nailed it in practice a few moments before the final. That made me wish she'd have a chance to land it in Vancouver.

WOMEN'S HALFPIPE FINALS SATURDAY NIGHT ...

There were also tons of new faces at the event, which was super exciting for me, since I'm always looking for new stories. A few of the gold-medal winners, including Halldar Helgason of Iceland and Torstein Horgmo of Norway, were Winter X Games rookies. (You might remember them from my day at the DC Mountain Lab in Park City a couple weeks ago.) Stories like those two made up for the overabundance of four- and five-peats at the event. Man, there's nothing less exciting to write about than the same person winning an event for half a decade. Fortunately, that shouldn't be happening too much in the future.

SO HAPPY TO TRADE THE SNOW FOR A WEEK OF STORYBOOKLAND SUNSHINE ...

After a fun, exhausting five days, I am excited to be home in Santa Monica for a full week. No Super Bowl this year. Instead, I am going to spend seven days defrosting, running on the beach and catching up with friends. Next Tuesday, I leave for the rest of the month to cover the Winter Olympics in Vancouver.

The week in Aspen was a nice warm-up and stretch session.

A few years ago, I started this blog because I wanted a place where I could share my experiences–the stories behind the stories, if you will. When I come home from a reporting trip, the questions my friends ask, the things they really want to know, are rarely answered in the 2,000 words that make it into The Magazine. So I try to answer them here. And hopefully provide a little behind-the-scenes access to the folks who are kind enough to read my posts. (Hi, mom!)

The day I launched this "On the Road" blog, I was in Napa covering the Oakland Raiders. It was scorching hot. It was a long day. And I hadn't been home in a couple of weeks. But just as I was about to complain, I overheard a fan say he had dropped $20,000 in a charity auction so that he and his family could attend a day of training camp. The same day of training camp I was being paid to cover. My job is unique, and I am acutely aware of this fact. I try never to take for granted the fact that even my most vexing tasks would fulfill someone's adult Make-A-Wish. I am a sports fan with an all-access pass.

And that's why I love The Fan Issue.

Two years ago, we published our first Fan Issue and sent our first Fan Army on the road. I had a blast credentialing my friends and sending them to report on sporting events. I was so excited when we decided to bring the Fan Army back this year. Here was another chance to play Fairy Godmother and give a new crop of diehard fan friends the chance to choose one game in any sport and play ESPN reporter for a day. The only rules: Dress professionally, act professionally, no cheering in the press box and put that pass to use. My advice to each of my five friends: Do one thing you will remember for the rest of your life. Man, they listened.

And let's just say that after reading their stories, my colleagues and I are worried about our job security.

To read "Fans With Benefits" as it ran in the magazine–with photos!–you'll have to pick up a copy when it hits newsstands Wednesday, January 27.

To read the awesome, unedited versions of my Fan Friends' stories, click on their names below. Read them! They are guaranteed to make you smile–and a little jealous. Every one of their stories gave me goosebumps.

CHRIS MAY, Cleveland, Ohio ... Chris watched the Browns beat Big Ben and the Steelers for the first time in the history of the universe. (Okay, it hadn't been quite that long.)

JENNIFER MAY, Cleveland, Ohio ... Jenny learned what it's like to interview superstar athletes in tiny towels after watching her Cavaliers down the Trailblazers.

MONICA PAULL, Los Angeles, CA ... The star of the opening photo spread, Mons did double duty for The Mag, covering the Suns at the Lakers and the Stars at the Kings.

SEAN SULLIVAN, Los Angeles, CA ... A lifelong Steelers fan who grew up in Cali, Sean took his first trip to Steel City to cover an historic rivalry: Raiders at Steelers.

JEFF YANCEY, Atlanta, GA ... Jeff made a full day of his chance to cover the 2009 Iron Bowl in his hometown of Auburn, Alabama. He actually might still be there.

My life began on December 23, 1972.

This wasn’t the date of my birth. It was the date of my first memory. Of anything.

We were living in the San Francisco Bay Area and my parents were Raiders fans. Everyone in Northern California back then was a Raider fan. The 49ers sucked. Joe Montana was still in high school. “The Juice” was sports vernacular for only one thing: Orenthal James Simpson (the 49ers eventual starting tailback).

It was the last play of the ’72 AFC playoff game between the Pittsburgh Steelers and Oakland Raiders, when the image of a bearded man in black and gold scooping up a deflected ball and running it down the sidelines for the most improbable of game-winning touchdown was etched in my young mind forever. My life’s first ever memory was the Immaculate Reception.

I remember stumbling around the house in pajamas with feet, so excited I couldn’t stay upright for more than a few seconds. Not so much because I understand what has just happened—I’m not sure I even had any teeth yet. But I simply had never seen my parents react so emphatically towards anything. Not pacifiers thrown on the floor, uneaten mashed potatoes (we were Irish, so mashed potatoes counted as baby food), or any bit of strategic wailing through the night had ever caught my parents’ attention like this. It was at that moment I became a life-long Steelers fan in a land of Raider faithful – many of whom also didn’t have any teeth.

Now, nearly three decades later, I’m looking forward to replaying my life’s first recorded event, but with a twist. I haven’t yet had my own great moment in the sun. In fact my doctor has told me to stay out of the sun. More luck of the Irish. But I’m now plotting how I’ll handle the droves of fans that catch a glimpse of my unbelievable all-access ESPN reporter pass as I stride into the locker room, and interview my new-generation Steeler heroes at their most talkative and wittiest. I’ll turn in to the magazine all kinds of great quotes and antidotes relayed to me by guys who couldn't wait to read what I had written about them. The Steelers are such heavy favorites they won’t need a miracle of their own to beat the Raiders this time. No, this is to be my day. The day that, as an ESPN reporter, I’ll be receiving my own immaculate reception from all with whom I came in contact. It all sounds perfect. Until…

The night before the game, my laptop’s hard-drive crashes. I’m half expecting someone to helicopter into my hotel room and furnish me with the latest technology to ensure facilitation of my communication of valuable insight to the world. But the next morning, I awaken to a still-crashed hard drive. That’s OK, I tell myself. This is just a test. Nothing the likes of which MacGyver or anyone who has ever won Survivor hasn’t had to overcome. So I’m writing everything, from this point forward, on Hampton Inn Post-its.

Game day starts with a free shuttle to Heinz Field. I soon learn why it’s free—because it doesn’t exist. At least my reservation doesn’t. I swear to God I’ve been standing in front of the hotel waiting for the bus they tell me has already come and gone. After I supposedly miss the second bus, too, I tell them, “this is completely unacceptable. I’m covering the game for ESPN.” They ask, “well don’t you already have a ride to the game, then?” Touché. But I’m unfazed. Because this is my day. “I prefer to travel with the people,” I say. Which is true. Any person in fact. Just get me the hell out of here. “Oh, wait, a new batch of pancakes.” OK, I guess I can wait for the third shuttle.

Once I arrive at the stadium I expect to be greeted by the team’s PR department and several other “oohs and aahs.” But instead, I’m met by what seems to be just plain, ordinary folk. Just doing their jobs. My thoughts quickly swing the other direction. After I get my badge, I half-expect to be stopped by somebody. Revealed as the imposter I am. My stomach clenches as I approach the last security check before entering the field. My mouth turns dry. They stop me. Take a close look and wave me through. Yes! This is the kind of treatment I’ve been expecting. And it’s ridiculously cool. I make a beeline for the field and over the next half hour stand beside over 20 people I’d only ever seen on TV. I asked Lynn Swann what he thought the new players are feeling about this decades-long rivalry. Lynn said, “I don’t think any of them are old enough to remember it.” And walked away. Lynn Swann spoke to me!! I wonder if later he’ll remember our discussion. I think he will.

Suddenly, the loudspeakers pump up the Kanye and the Steeler players burst through the tunnel onto the field. I jump up and down. A reporter leers at me. “Chilly today, right?” I ask.

I pull out my almighty pen, a fresh pad of Post-its, and set forth to make sports reporting history. I astutely observe that ...

• Each guy warms up in his own unique way. In general, the starters have an air about them physically and mentally that the reserves don't. But so far the reserves are proving to be much better dancers.

• I can’t tell if Limas Sweed is counting the blades of grass underneath him or rapping? One of the coaches comes by and Limas quickly starts warming up his bench muscles. And, looks like he tweaked one.

• Here comes Big Ben rolling through, encouraging each dedicated soldier with a high-five and the kind of inspiration only a team leader can deliver. Harrison, Timmons and Woodley seem unimpressed. But luckily for the team, Matt Spaeth is excited and on board.

• The stadium seats are starting to fill. I notice many of the Steeler men have bigger boobs than the Steeler women. And nearly all the Steeler women have bigger forearms than me. I make a special note that brawling in this town is to be explicitly avoided. Especially with the women.

• Speaking o f… me being an all-access ESPN reporter, I envisioned propositions from the most beautiful girls in the city from the time I touched ground. I could almost feel the sadness in their eyes when I would have to tell them my heart was already captured by my girl back home. But the most immaculate reception I’ve gotten so far is from a local camera-man who keeps telling me how big his facility is.

The game is getting ready to start so I make my way to the press box. This is where I’m planning to kick it up a notch. I expect we’ll all swap war stories. Debate Texas’s overturned call against Nebraska last night, or Jake Locker’s draft status, or Matt Schaub’s injury-free year. My fantasy football team had drafted him early in a two-QB league and I think they’ll be impressed with that pick.

But when I get inside, no one seems impressed with anything. In fact, they’re talking about the same s**t everyone talks about at work: What is the team serving for lunch? Are there any hot chicks here? And what job openings has anyone heard of?

What other jobs? Are these guys crazy?

So I force the issue, (which I’m sure makes me extremely popular). And lo and behold, I get a lot of great insider tips: (1) Get to the shuttles early or they won’t wait. Got it. (2) Don’t cheer in the press box. Sure, I’ve already been grilled on that one. (3) Pittsburgh is all about the strip-clubs. Ah. Ok.

When I get to my press box seat, I spend 30 seconds there only to realize I want back on the frozen tundra. I spend 30 seconds back on the frozen tundra only to realize my Blackberry wants back in the hotel. More technical malfunctions. More Post-its.

The Steeler’s first half is as underwhelming as my reception thus far. The Raiders are playing everything very close to the vest, not giving the Steeler’s outside pass rush enough time to disrupt things. Luckily the inside blitz is working. Suddenly, the shade devours the Steeler sideline, dropping my body temperature an extra ten degrees. The whistle blows, mercifully ending the first half.

Time to take inventory of the game so far:

• Bruce Gradkowski is looking soooo much better than JaMarcus Russell. (And, while we’re at it, Ben Roethlisberger.)

• Steeler O-line has already been stood up more times than Jessica Simpson.

• One can start to smell fear in the Heinz stands.

Hmmm, I think. I should have a lot more by now. That’s okay. The second half is where it will all come together—for me and for the black and gold.

But the third quarter begins the way the first two did. The Steelers can’t get into any kind of rhythm on offense. Their secondary is making Higgins, Schilens and Miller look like Branch, Biletnikoff and Casper. And the Raiders are starting to have success picking up the inside blitz. At least that last observation’s good, I think. I can almost feel scouts around the league shaking a little in their boots. Oh, wait. That’s me. I can no longer feel my toes.

It’s the fourth quarter now and everything has turned to ice. The stadium. The players. The fans. And as soon as I say that, touchdown Raiders!

Here come the “boos.” Could the black-and-gold even possibly consider losing a game that would most assuredly end their repeat chances?

But just as I say that, the Steeler offense gets serious. Ben’s signals grow louder than they have all game and his tone of voice suddenly has distinct purpose. Even the way guys are lining up, this looks like a whole new offense. And it is. In just over a minute, the Steelers retake the lead. “Whew.” Is that all we needed? If we could just muster that kind of focus in the playoffs… No! The Raiders take it back! This can’t be happening. The season can’t be… Wait, the Steelers retake the lead again! Oakland couldn’t possibly have enough time to reach the end zone. The Steeler D needs just one big play to stop…

A Raider touchdown. It happens mere feet from me. With nine seconds left in the game. No one can believe it. For the first time today I feel completely numb – and it’s not from the cold. It’s from the acknowledgement that, if the Steelers are to have any chance of a vaunted playoff run this year, they’ll need an Immaculate Reception 2.

But it is not to be.

In a flash the game is over. I feel like I’m actually holding back tears. Or the five hot dogs I had for lunch. It’s a tossup. I think Tomlin’s coming over to give me a hug. I sure need it. And I think he does too.

But that isn’t meant to be either.

Still stunned, I sit before him at the post-game press conference. I know I was supposed to have questions ready to go. But for some reason my mind is a blank. As I hear questions fired out from other reporters, I notice, first, they’re not shouting. Second, they all call him “Mike”—not coach or Mr. Tomlin. Third, everyone in the room seems emotionless, as if this is just another day at the office. Even Mike, who’s had but a mere 10 minutes to digest what’s probably the end of his team’s season.

Finally I know what I want to ask, but can’t tell if it will come out of my mouth the way it sounds in my head. The conference is winding down and think I’m gonna regret it if I don’t ask at least this one question. A Steeler rep asks if there are any more questions for Mike. He looks around the room as if to say, “going once, going twice…” OK, last chance.

“Uh, Mike!” I yell. Oops. All eyes turn to me. Even the 8-year-old in the room. (How he got in here, I have no idea.) I ask what the offense can start doing earlier in games to muster the same kind of urgency and increased focus they showed once they got behind in this one. (Oh, s**t. Did that make any sense?) Tomlin says, “I don’t know. “Mmm Hmm,” I say, nodding in deep revelation. I write his response with purpose. Even though my pen has now run out of ink.

In the locker room, I half-expect Mike Tomlin to pull a Mike Singletary. And hope he doesn’t. In fact, I’ve heard that the losing locker room is typically more naked than Penthouse. Not good naked. Very bad naked. But as guys start coming out of the showers, they’re either wearing towels or holding their valuables. I guess that’s one way to avoid ending up on the internet.

Okay, here’s where I plan to put the pedal to the metal. I expect that my job as a reporter is to get someone to say something the whole industry could buzz about for weeks to come.

And how hard can it be? These guys are mostly 20-somethings. Rich 20-somethings. But kids, nonetheless. And since half of them graduated with a degree in “sports nutrition” from schools that were about as hard to get into as Paris Hilton, I expect to have them eating from the palm of my formerly pre-law hand.

But I find just the opposite. No matter what I or any other reporter poked them with over the 45 minutes or so that we were in the locker room, the most controversial thing I heard a player say was in regard to Big Ben’s concussion from the week before. “You’re not going to make football safe,” Hines Ward said. “It’s football.”

Wow. Stop the presses!! We have a new cover story.

Okay, so maybe trying to get players to say things they don’t want to isn’t all that cool anyway. The game is over. The Steelers lost. Time to move on. Big Ben tells me, “hey, we’re six and six. Next week is a new week. We’ve just got to be ready to go. And that’s it.” Sounds like a CEO, not a QB.

But he’s right. The game is over. And now, I figure, is when the real fun begins. Now everyone can stop concentrating on work and start focusing on the real reason we’re all here: My destiny.

I walk out of the locker-room to a bevy of camera flashes and players’ families. I can finally feel my energies swell. I’m part of the team. I’m part of something and everyone can see it. But as we near the awaiting masses, there’s no one I know and no one who pretends to know me.

As I arrive next to a woman with her two kids, she says, “are you OK, baby?” I think I’ve never seen her before. But lumbering up from behind me is, Max Starks, all 6’8”, 350-plus pounds of soft depression. She gives him a hug. And all I can think about is… That’s one large baby.

The lobby of the first floor is now deserted. Maybe my welcoming party is waiting outside. I exit the stadium into the gorgeous sunset. It’s f*****g freezing. I’ve forgotten about my lower body now because my upper body is an icicle, too.

That’s fine. Only a few more steps and I’ll be at the shuttle pick up, where I can finally tell somebody who’s impressed with my credentials about the experience I had. Alas, the shuttle back to the hotel has already left. (But the joke’s on them, I resolve. I used up all their Post-its).

My last resort. I text my girlfriend back home that I’ve had a full day of reporting and I’m just gonna cab it back to my room and watch some SportsCenter. “So far, no one’s recommended I see anything downtown except for the strip clubs anyway,” I say. She tells me, just for the record, she doesn’t really mind me going to those, and has faith nothing would happen. That’s the shot of confidence I was looking for. The person who knows me best has faith nothing would happen to me at a strip club. Hmph.

Okay, so maybe I’m not quite the hot shot I thought I was going to be. And for the first time today, I lose a little hope. I think, “there isn’t going to be any immaculate reception, is there?” Not for the Steelers. And not for me.

As I watch the last outside vendor stuff terrible towels and foam fingers into the back of his station wagon, I think, no immaculate reception for him either. In fact, there wasn’t one for anybody. Not even he of the $100+ million contract, Big Ben. I start to play back in my head everyone I met from the time I reached the stadium until this very moment. Heck, throw in the shuttle driver, too. It isn’t about an immaculate reception for these folks. This is their reality. They’ve all just been doing their jobs. From the guys on the field to the guys hawking hot dogs (who are really persuasive, btw). No matter who it was or what their profile, they were at work. We were at work. There was nothing immaculate about it. It was work. And you know what? I got to be a part of it.

So when I think back to that day now, I remember not the reception I didn’t receive, but the work that was done. By everybody. And what wonderful work it was.

I grew up in the Cleveland area, which means I am a Cleveland sports fan. Yes, that’s right. I admit it. I am part of a rare breed that loves their Cleveland teams, no matter how bad a season they are having. Our motto is “there is always next year” and, despite terrible odds, we go to sporting events hoping that somehow our beloved Cleveland team will win their game. When they don’t win, we still love them and we come up with reasons why they should have won. Such as: “They were robbed,” “We had bad calls” or “They are still rebuilding.” Only in Cleveland would fans hold a parade for the Indians after they lost the 1997 World Series. Yes, we are the only town that adores our teams and is proud to be number two. Going to a Cleveland sporting event is always an amazing experience.

Imagine my excitement when I had the chance to see a Cleveland team with a winning record and a good chance of winning the game! The Browns had just beaten the Steelers in an amazing game the night before. My husband went to the game and I was a little jealous that I could not go, too. I had to watch the game from home. Everyone in Cleveland was on a euphoric high. Once again, we had a reason to be proud to be Cleveland fans and I was going to see the Cleveland Cavaliers play Portland at the Quicken Loans arena.

If you follow basketball at all, you know LeBron James. Clearly one of the best basketball players of his time, LeBron is one of those players who people will always remember. LeBron is a local hero. He grew up in Akron, which is about 30 minutes from Cleveland. Not only would I watch him lead the Cavaliers to a victory in a close, exciting game, but also have the opportunity to go to the locker room for the after-game press conference.

The whole basketball experience is intense. It is almost like a concert with special effects. It is certainly an entertainment event. There are fireworks and a jumbotron, and halftime entertainment. The announcer encourages the crowd to be involved. The jumbotron shows images of the players asking the crowd to cheer. At one point during the game, LeBron appears on the jumbotron screen and asks the crowd if they want to win. Then he says that they can win with the crowd’s help. He asks the crowd to get on their feet and cheer and the fans obediently obey their leader, their legend.

Now here is the one problem, I was not supposed to cheer. I was representing ESPN The Magazine and I was not supposed to show my bias. I was not supposed to “stand up and cheer for your Cleveland Cavaliers”. So as the Cavs scored, I smiled to myself, but did not clap or cheer. I did a pretty good job of not showing my bias. But it was hard. In fact, some fans sitting by me asked me for whom I was rooting. I told them that I was writing a story. They then asked where I was from. I told them the Cleveland area and they said, “Oh, then you’re a Cavs fan.” They knew. They were part of the Cleveland sports fan club. They kept asking me my opinion on calls and I would just smile. “Come on,” they pleaded, “you’re a Cleveland fan. You hated that call, too.”

I realized that most people in the press area were really working hard. Could you imagine this being your job? They were very serious and were typing away intensely on their laptops as those around them were enjoying an exciting game. I am sure that many of them are fans and that they love their jobs, but they were very disciplined.

After the game, I had access to the locker room. Yes, I would have a chance to see LeBron up close. First, Coach Brown gave his after game interview while the players showered and got dressed. I stood right in front of Coach and heard all of his thoughts on the game. He talked about the team coming together and how they worked together as a team to the game. Then they opened up the door. They checked everyone’s press pass twice to get into the locker room. It made the experience that much more exciting to be included in an elite group that had access to the locker room. I felt almost out of place. I was surrounded by the media, professional writers and sports anchors. I tried not to stand out. I tried to look as if I knew what I was doing. I followed the crowd and tried to look like I belonged.

Once in the locker room, everyone ran over to interview LeBron. He was sitting on a bench in front of his locker. I looked around. All of the players’ names were above their personal area. I was surprised how comfortable they were. The players did not seem to mind that women were in the locker room, despite the fact that some of them were only wearing towels. Many of the players were not there. Varajo had a great game that night and I am sure the press would have interviewed him as well, but all the reporters were surrounding LeBron. He was much more soft spoken then I expected and, to my surprise, he was a person, not just a legend. Somehow, seeing him in person made me realize that he was an amazing athlete, but he was still just a guy. I almost felt sorry for him as the questions continued. I could tell he was tired as he was icing his knees. I know it is part of his job, but can you imagine working really hard and being really tired and then having to answer questions? I have worked trade shows and I knew the look. You are so tired and just want to go back to your room, but you have to smile and continue to be pleasant. You have to be on until you close your door. I am sure he was ready to go home. But I was intrigued, so I stood there with everyone else wanting to hear his thoughts on the game. I did not take very many pictures during the game because I was waiting for the interview. I did not realize that you can’t take pictures in the locker room, and actually pulled out my camera. Well, at least I went in the locker room—unlike my husband.

All in all, the experience was amazing. A Cleveland team winning an exciting, close game and the chance to meet a Cleveland legend all in one night. What more could a Cleveland girl ever want? Except maybe the Browns/Steelers game, too?

What better game to be granted a press pass than the Browns verses Steelers? As a Cleveland sports fan, there are only a few great games each year—Michigan-Ohio State, Indians-Yankees and Browns-Steelers. To be given this opportunity is an adventure of a lifetime, even when the wind chill is -12 degrees. On the way into the stadium, as my fingers and face were starting to freeze, I had one thought in my head: to get inside and go to the press box. When I finally made my way to the media entrance, I found out my press pass was not there. I was totally impressed that it only took one phone call to Browns Public Relations from the NFL editor at The Magazine and I was in within 15 minutes.

Unfortunately, with the spot access, I was not able to go onto the field before the game. This was especially disappointing because, as other northern NFL fans will attest, when I was looking for my warmest coat, hat and gloves to keep warm, I realized that everything I owned had the Browns logo on it. Since I had been told that I could not cheer or show favoritism, I could not wear any of it. With the arctic chill in the air that night, finding what to wear turned out to be very difficult. But I managed. And I couldn’t even put my neutral covering to use on the field.

I was lead to the press box by a Browns’ employee. We walked through the back corridors of the stadium and took the service elevators, which are far different from the public side of the stadium and club level I was accustomed to. On the way up to the press box level, we passed the Browns tunnel entrance to the field and the Browns locker room. The excitement started to build. Then we passed the visitor’s locker room and got to the elevator. We are almost there, I thought. The doors opened. Here I am at the Browns/Steelers game in the press box. The night of a lifetime, and then it hits me: The press box is almost sound proof. The view of the field and sidelines was the best I have ever seen, but I could only see about 20 percent of the fans in the stadium. Between the loss of crowd sound and the limited view of the crowd, the press box was an almost emotionally deprived experience. For someone who likes to jump up and down and throw the remote at the television, this was a bazaar experience. The only sound was the stadium announcer describing the play after the whistle. “Quinn with a handoff to Harrison for a gain of four,”in a very monotone voice. After each quarter, we got a handout describing every play, the players involved and a gain or loss. Also we were given team stats and quotes from the Thursday night telecast. With all of this information at our fingertips, I now know how the announcers have so much information on the players and history of the teams.

When the Browns were the first to score, I could sense the excitement of the crowd building throughout the game. Even with the sound buffering, I could actually feel the press box start to vibrate from people in the crowd pounding their feet and seats whenever the Browns would score or get the 4th and short. As the Browns maintained their lead, I started to think this could be the end of the defending Super Bowl champion Steelers 12-game winning streak against my Browns! After the game was over, I stood in the press box for a few minutes still in shock because the Browns had actually held out for all four quarters to win their second game of the season and it was against the Steelers in a televised Thursday-night game. And I had witnessed it from the press box.

As I followed the crowd of reporters down the elevator to the service level to the pressroom and the locker rooms, I felt like a kid in a candy shop. I didn’t know which way to turn. There was a cool down period for the players before the reporters were allowed in the locker room, so I took the opportunity to walk onto the field and look up at the almost empty stadium. On my way back to the locker room, Eric Mangini was giving the coach’s interview and I went into the room to watch. The interview was more informal than I had anticipated. As I was standing by the door, the legendary running back Jim Brown came in and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me. I turned and greeted him with a handshake. One more event to make this the best night a Browns fan could have. Once Coach Mangini’s interview was over, I spotted wide receiver Josh Cribbs across the hall giving his interview. There I was standing six feet from Josh Cribbs!

Back down the hall to the locker room I went, but on the way, I saw another interview room. This time it was Brady Quinn at the podium. He had already changed into a well-tailored suit. He was giving his interview and I was impressed with his sense of team and how often he used the words “we,” “he” and “they” instead of “I” or “me” in his interview. This says a lot about Brady Quinn and his attitude about the team.

At this point, most of the players and the coaches were walking down the hallway. The halls were crowded with lots of players and support staff for both teams. I was surprised that other than some of the linemen, most of the players look like anyone else. But I figured out how to tell the players from the Browns support staff: They were wearing very expensive shoes. Some were dressed down, but they were still wearing high-end shoes. It was nice to see some of the players walking out with family. I always knew there was a family section for the teams, but to watch players walk out to their cars or bus with food in one hand and family around them reminded me of school ball. Even though they get paid and have many more fans, the game still remains the same. Friends and family getting together to play the game they love.

Even though I never made it to the locker room, as a Browns fan, this is one of the greatest experiences I could ever have. I was an ESPN The Mag reporter for a night and it was one of the best games ever. It was cold outside, but at times I wished I was out there with the other fans. My wife had the opportunity to go to the Cavs game as a fan reporter the next night and she sat in the arena surrounded by Cavs fans. She could not cheer, but she could still feel the excitement around her as she witnessed LeBron and the Cleveland Cavs win against Portland. Although I was at the more exciting game, the sterile environment took away some of the energy of the experience.

Reporting Live From Jordan Hare Stadium, Some Guy.

After years of unsuccessfully trying to convince me to abandon my work as a nerd in the engineering world and accept a full-time position as a sports writer, ESPN The Mag finally offered me an opportunity that I couldn’t refuse: sole coverage of the greatest rivalry in sports, the Iron Bowl, Auburn-Alabama game. (Yes I’m biased, and I’m also right).
My good friend at the magazine, Alyssa Roenigk, explained the situation: Pick any game, cover it for The Mag and do anything I want. Without going into detail, I’ve got a reputation for white lying my way into things. The fact is, when you’re an astronaut, priest, food critic or limo driver, more doors open than if you’re … well, if you’re You. The rules: Don’t blow my cover – No biased attire – Be professional – No cheering.

I was born in the beautiful southern town of Auburn, Alabama. My family moved away through my high school years, but I returned to get an Engineering degree at the University. I grew up with pictures of Heisman winners Bo Jackson and Pat Sullivan on my wall. I loosely understood that our head coach Pat Dye and Ronald Reagan were the most powerful men in the country. I was the beneficiary of biased cultural conditioning. Auburn sports was life, and nothing was bigger.

Auburn University is a country mile or two from Georgia in the east. The University of Alabama, in Tuscaloosa, is on the Mississippi side of the state. There is not a more distinct interstate rivalry in the nation. It’s a year-round fight. It never stops. It is viciously fantastic. And so, with any game in any sport at any level to choose from, I chose the Auburn-Alabama football game.

The night before the Friday-after-Thanksgiving game was as sleepless a night as I can recall since I stopped believing in Santa Clause. I showed up early. Apparently the media gate does not open up at sunrise for an evening game. Rookie move. I already looked like an idiot. I called my friend at ESPN, who was asleep on the west coast. She immediately laughed at my eagerness. I posted up with some security guards at the gate, practicing my ESPN lines and building up a little bravado. Of course I knew Stuart Scott, he owed me a beer.

With media credentials hanging from my belt (editor’s note: another rookie move), I walked to the football complex, which was closed to the public. It must suck to be the public. “Jeff Yancey with ESPN The Magazine, I’m supposed to be inside”. And boosh, I was inside. Amazing. Don’t think for a minute ESPN is not an omnipotent acronym.

Auburn’s Tiger Walk is the century-old tradition of players and coaches walking from the dorms to the stadium amidst a sea of fans, thousands deep. I found the man in charge of game-day operations and told him the truth: I was there to cover the game for ESPN and wanted to take part in the Tiger Walk. Twenty minutes later, I was at the top of the walk talking with legendary Auburn head coach Pat Dye, who was walking that day. As the players started the walk, Coach Dye hit me on the back and said, “Well, let’s go”. Coach Pat Dye, a man I’d admired and watched lead my team for the first half of my life had just hit me on the back and told me to follow him to the stadium … All my cool was gone. I was a grinning idiot.

Jordan-Hare, like most SEC stadiums, is impressive. As I walked into the access-only areas, I decided a Martha Stuartesque mom must’ve decorated the interior, but a rabid sports fan Dad was in charge of the walls and corridors. They were a homage to Auburn history. The first room I entered felt like an oversized family room. I stopped to pour over the life-sized memories and walk through a visual history of Bo Jackson, Cadillac Williams and Running Back U. Then I turned and realized I was at a neighborhood barbecue. I didn’t recognize anyone, so I assumed it was mostly the family of recruits, sitting around on plush couches, watching big screens, laughing and eating elite tailgate flavor. These people were having a blast.

I finally pulled myself away and continued my stadium tour. I turned a corner and saw the field. I had almost forgotten where I was. You know the schmuck in those potato chip commercials who pulls a label off a bag and gets magically transformed from his couch to the Big Game? I felt like that shmuck.

I found Bo Jackson on the sidelines, walked up and introduced myself. Not one of my thoroughly prepared questions made it from my brain to my voice box. My recorder was deep in my pocket as I caved and told him I was a fan (rules be damned), asked for a picture and talked some Iron Bowl predictions. I had just met a childhood hero on the very field where he had become a legend, decades earlier. Ear To Ear.

Five minutes into college games, the press is herded off the field, into their box. I managed to tuck my notebook away and stand on the 25 between the coaches and the athletic director. Standing shoulder to shoulder with athletic director Jacobs, I made small talk as if we knew each other. Surprisingly, he never asked me what the hell I was doing there. The one piece of advice Alyssa gave me was to act confident. You can pretty much walk into any situation without question, if you believe you’re supposed to be there, and act respectful and confident. She was right. Hiding there, I stayed on the field through the first half. By halftime, I was cold and hungry, so I decided to check out the press box, where I should’ve been anyway.

I wasn’t expecting dancing girls or a top-shelf open bar, but man, the press box is boring. It’s a huge, glassed-in aquarium, filled with people who, for the most part, looked like they had never stepped on a playing field without pen and paper. No cheering. Barely a word spoken. They all looked stressed, which reminded me they were working. They had deadlines or something. While they worked, I ate a lot of chili dogs and drank a lot of coffee. Outside of a special teams argument with a writer from Mobile at the chilidog tray, I was bored. I wanted back on the sideline.

In the final 10 minutes of the game, the press is allowed to return. Auburn had led the entirety of a game that no one had given them a chance to win. There was gnashing of teeth and a dust cloud as the media raced back to the field. Suddenly, they looked like athletes.
A close game ended with Auburn losing the Iron Bowl for the second time in eight years, and me getting a huge reminder about who plays these games. Not adults. In the post-game press conference, the leaders of the team were called into a huge, cold room where the media grilled them, one by one. Auburn had come in a huge underdog, and they led the entire game until the final two minutes, when their archrival pulled it out. Brutal. Their hearts were broken, but they sat there and did the last thing they wanted to do. They respectfully answered moronic questions (“How does it feel?”... Seriously?) with class, until every question had been answered. The kids in that locker room were far more disappointed than any adult fan in the stands. The pressure the media puts on these 18- to- 21-year-olds kids is enough to break most adults. Their maturity was amazing. I was the only ESPN reporter there, so I had the clout to ask questions. But I didn’t ask anything. And, after that experience, you will never catch me degrading any kid when he fumbles the football, while trying to win for his team.

All in all, it was a sports fan’s dream day. I met childhood heroes. I took part in pre-game traditions. I taunted friends in the stands via text. I heard moving, pre-game speeches. I heard disappointed men give inspiring post-game press conferences. I saw parts of my stadium I had never seen. But honestly, the experience was about perspective. It was a game I’ve seen countless times, for the first time. I’ve watched the War Eagle circle the stadium, but today I had to slowly pivot 360 degrees to watch his entire flight. I stood level with the players as they ran by me onto the field. I looked up at the cheerleaders when they were thrown into the air. If the football was in the air, it was above my head. When I stood next to Nick Saban I looked dow … well I suppose some things are the same no matter where you’re standing.

Watching a game in the stands is going to be tough now … which is why I’m submitting my resume along with this article. Dear ESPN The Magazine, I want in.

I never thought I would say this, but I found myself sitting front and center at a Lakers’ game surrounded by men, none of whom were cheering, drinking beer, or even harder to imagine, watching the Lakers’ girls in all of their half-naked glory bounce up and down. How is that possible, you might ask? I was sitting in the press box as a fully credentialed ESPN reporter for their Fan Issue.

I love sporting events. I’ve been to surf contests, snowboarding contests, supercross, motocross, baseball and even NASCAR races. Ever since I was young, I could go to a game and know nothing about the team, and end up emotionally attached to the outcome by the time it was over. My favorite however, remains basketball. My love for the game was ignited when, as most men suspect, I used to attend games with my ex-boyfriend who had sweet season tickets. I attended the first game as a gesture and because I could count on some nachos and a beer. However, as the season went on, I learned about the players, where they were from, how hard they worked to make the NBA. Sitting alongside the other season ticket holders, I commented one night that, “watching the Suns is like watching a well-choreographed ballet.” Please note that this was before they traded Marion for Shaq. Oh man, talk about the kiss of death. To be a woman at a sporting event, you can get lumped into one of two categories: Bored girlfriend or pro ho. But as time went on, I found myself yelling out loud when someone would score, or worse, miss. Attendees on either side of me usually left with bruises on their arms from me punching them during the more turbulent moments in a game.

I distinctly remember attending a charity bbq in Arizona with some friends and while all the girls sat around sipping their Pina Colada’s and Chablis, I ducked into the den with the guys to watch the Suns game. Soon enough, I realized I was a fan.

Now, I learned early on that my mind had no capacity to retain facts and figures without a tremendous amount of effort. And even then, it was in one ear and out the other. So, when talk of sports came up, as it often does in a room full of guys, my ears would perk up yet my commentary was often lacking. My position as a fan was on occasion called into question. So, I couldn’t help but wonder, what really makes a true fan? Is it their vast knowledge of the sport, and the team that they pledge their allegiance to, or their passion for the game? And, can a woman really have any credibility as a sports fan? I was about to find out. As a fully credentialed reporter for ESPN, naturally. Did I mention that already?

There are some things you might not have guessed about being a reporter. You can go anywhere you want. I was allowed to walk right onto the floor. This was a moment that I didn’t take for granted. The girl in me knew that I had to stop, pause and really soak it in. The guy in me couldn’t wait to get to get to my seat to have a beer. I strolled past the usual cast of characters who were sitting courtside, you know, Maria Shriver, Diane Lane, some guy from the show Entourage, and of course, Jack. I felt like I was the member of a very elite club as I sauntered past everyone else in the “cheap seats,” credential waving in the wind. My life had suddenly become more exciting, more adventurous, somehow, more meaningful.

My mouth finally stopped watering when I arrived at the press box. Dudes. Lots of them, all staring at me with a look in their eye that might suggest I was crashing their party. Most of them look like people you might find playing video poker, a game of chess, or buying a frozen dinner at the market. And doing so with an extremely apathetic air about them. Short, tall, bald, hairy, you name it. They all looked different, but had two things in common: a very ambivalent expression on their face, and none of them were enjoying a nice cold beer. I suspected at that moment that I might not be cut out for the life of a reporter.

Now, having worked for a surf company, I’ve been behind the scenes at a million surf events and seen the abs of every pro. Having worked in fashion, I’ve even seen celebrities and models naked. Nothing could have prepared me for going into the Lakers’ locker room that night. I’m pretty sure I was less nervous the night I lost my virginity. All of the poise and professionalism I’d worked to cultivate as an executive went right out the window as I entered that den of testosterone. And it didn’t help that my very first sight was an extremely large, extremely muscular and extremely naked Lamar Odem. What was I doing here? My face turned bright red, and I know this because someone pointed it out to me. A big smile broke out on my face, and it wasn’t a warm confident, “I’m okay with this because this is totally normal,” smile. It was an “oh my God, Lamar Odem is naked in front of me and I’m so nervous I think I’m going to barf” smile. Standing around him in the “scrum” was a mass of about 20 reporters, who all patiently watched him dress, much like someone waiting for their food to finish cooking in the microwave. If I had to use one word to describe the expression on their face, it would be “eh.” I was fascinated by how everyone seemed immune to this pink elephant in the room, pardon the somewhat appropriate pun, if you know what I mean. And, knowing that they were all waiting to talk to him, he took his sweet time, putting one foot inside of his pant leg, then the other. He even moisturized. That’s right, he moisturized. And, when it came time to “interview” him, and I do use that term loosely, the only question I could spit out was “Mr. Odem, do you think a true fan is defined by knowledge of statistics or a passion for the game.”

I held my breath and awaited a sour expression and smart as comment, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t say, “passion, absolutely.” I was victorious! My response, you might be wondering, was “nice answer.” That will go in my “lamest thing ever said” file, which is overflowing. Nonetheless, I did it, my first question had been asked and my confidence was slightly boosted. I decided to head over to the Suns locker room and who was standing there, to my relief, a fully clothed Steve Nash. He was nice enough to ask me if I needed anything, and when posed with the same question, he had the same kind answer. “Passion and a love for the sport is what makes a fan, the details come later.” More questions flowed after that, I knew he loved soccer and was able to actually interview him about his role as a fan. Afterward, I felt higher than a kite. This was someone that I had watched act as a true leader and team player on the court, I’d yelled for him, jumped up and down for him, felt sad for him when he lost, and he was enthusiastic, and above all, genuinely kind. He made me proud to be a basketball fan, and I felt fully qualified at that point to classify myself as such.

A few weeks later, I “covered” a Kings hockey game. That was a wee bit different. First of all, at the Lakers’ game, I was going as a fully credentialed reporter. Nobody from the organization knew that I was really a fan working undercover. Because I had a photographer with me at the hockey game, the guys from the NHL were on to me. They had been alerted in advance that we would be there, and that I was a “fan.” This gave the experience a less professional feel, and more of a Make-a-Wish Foundation quality.

Nobody in the media room could figure out why I had a photographer following me around, taking photos of me getting a cup of coffee, for example. At the Lakers game, I felt the need to remain very professional and calm, this time I decided I was going to be the fan that I was, and freak out that I was allowed in all of the places that most people weren’t. We went in to the rink when it was totally empty, I was so excited, I jumped up and down. We went underground and found the Zamboni’s. I climbed all over them and secretly enjoyed the thrill of possibly getting caught. Kings ATV – I sat on it. Press box, I spun around in the office chairs as they tested the bad techno music on the sound system, laughing hysterically.

And finally, when the game was about to start, and I was about to enter the arena where everyone else sits, when it occurred to me that I could watch the game from anywhere that I wanted. So, I went to the tunnel and watched the refs skate out. Then I ran over to watch the players filter out of the locker room and onto the ice. I learned a valuable lesson at the last game though: Being a true fan means that you feel nervous for the team when the national anthem plays; when the gloves come off, you want justice to be served, and if given the choice, don’t watch it from the press box if you want to have fun. As appreciative as I was to have had the chance to live out my dream of being a reporter, a fan in the stands is where I’d like to stay.