Super Bowl’s over, baby. My final column

There are sporting events – then there’s the Super Bowl. I covered my first in San Francisco in February 2016 and it was everything I expected: ticketless fans offering $US6000 for my press pass; police escorts to media conferences; circumcision protesters with fake blood splattered across their crotches; and VIP parties with international superstars like Shaquille O’Neal, Ludacris, some bloke from Entourage, and Anthony Minichiello.

There was also an extravagant Bud Light activation in Union Square featuring big screens, buckets of buffalo wings, and a giant hand holding a football made from beer cans.

The match at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara was a defensive grind but the great Peyton Manning guiding the Denver Broncos to victory against the Carolina Panthers in his final match made for a great yarn.

The next morning, I went to Union Square to jump on one of those hop-on-hop-off tourist buses and was shocked to discover the Bud Light site had vanished.

“What happened?!” I asked a tourist operator.

She looked me up and down. Rolled her eyes. Flicked her hair.

“Super Bowl’s over, baby,” she said. “Super. Bowl. Is. Over.”

And so is my time as the Herald’s chief sports writer. I’m taking the redundancy loot and heading for the hills, unsure where or when I’ll stop, probably when I run out of petrol although most likely money.

Here are my highlights from the past 11-and-a-half years of fooling you that I know what I’m talking about.

Best footballer: The nicest part of this job is having a front-row seat to greatness. I covered the career of Andrew Johns and never thought I’d see better. Then Johnathan Thurston came along and entered the same stratosphere. Around the same time, Cameron Smith, the ultimate pro, was staking his claim for future Immortality. I suspect I’ll be telling my imaginary grandchildren I also covered the career of Penrith halfback Nathan Cleary, who has pretty much done it all, including four consecutive premierships and counting, and at the age of 26 has so much more to achieve even though he’s already achieved it all.

Most entertaining footballer to watch: I’ll never forget the first time I attended a match in which Latrell Mitchell was playing: August 6, 2017, Brookvale Oval. Playing left centre for the Roosters, he was unstoppable in the first half, ripping the ball from Daly Cherry-Evans close to the line to score a try then setting up another, busting tackles with his size and footwork before flick-passing to his winger.

Favourite interview: Buboy Fernandez, a cuddly, Barney Rubble-like character who grew up on the streets of General Santos City in the Philippines alongside his best friend, 13-time boxing world champion Manny Pacquiao, who in 2018 was preparing for his fight against Brisbane school teacher Jeff Horn. I met Buboy in a Manilla Starbucks and he told me the story of how he and Pacquiao went from homeless kids to boxing box-office gold. There were tears.

Most embarrassing moment: Going on a road run the next day with Pacquiao, falling behind the pack, having an asthma attack, then getting lost in the backstreets near his home.

Biggest clusterf— #1: Let’s start with rugby union, whose players, coaches, officials, and volunteers have deserved so much more from the people at the top. How did the smartest, best-educated men in the country get it so wrong?

Biggest clusterf— #2: The slow-moving car crash that has been the Wests Tigers can be summed up with an exchange I had with a high-placed official about then coach Michael Maguire. After 15 minutes of talking about himself, the official said: “Look, I don’t really care what you write about Madge, as long as you don’t bag me.” If you consider what Maguire’s achieved since leaving, you understand he wasn’t the problem.

Greatest Olympic moment: The uninhibited joy of sisters Jess and Noémie Fox after they won whitewater gold in their respective events at the Paris Olympics.

Biggest change: The rise of women’s sport, particularly among the footy codes, from the Australian rugby sevens team winning gold at the 2016 Rio Olympics to packed stadiums around Australia for the 2023 FIFA Women’s World Cup. Meanwhile, the NRLW is a juggernaut.

Best coach: Craig Bellamy’s ability to rebuild the Melbourne Storm following the salary cap apocalypse makes him the greatest of the NRL era and, probably, all time.

Definitive Peter V’landys moment: At the media conference declaring the NRL had been grounded because of COVID-19, the ARL Commission chairman vowed to get the competition going again before the end of May. “We’re a can-do organisation,” he said in response to my question with a smile and wink. The NRL resumed on May 28.

Best reader feedback: Property tycoon Lloyd Williams sent a bottle of Dom Pérignon after I couldn’t get excited about him winning another Melbourne Cup with one of his expensive European stayers few had heard about. I sent the fancy bubbles back and said I’d prefer an interview, to which he agreed but never delivered.

Bravest athlete #1: Sydney Swans icon Adam Goodes, who was effectively booed out of the game he loves for standing up to racism. We sat down in the old Allianz Stadium café in September 2014, and I walked away thinking he was the most impressive person I’d ever interviewed.

Bravest athlete #2: Sam Burgess was never going to allow a pesky broken cheekbone and eye socket stop him from leading South Sydney to their first premiership in 43 years.

Greatest match: Super Bowl LI at NRG Stadium in Houston when quarterback Tom Brady and the New England Patriots reeled in a 28-3 deficit to beat Atlanta in overtime. From the moment the Pats started scoring late in the third quarter, you just knew they were going to win. It was truly spooky. When they drew level as normal time expired, I thought about the fans who’d been in US$5000 seats near the international press benches … but left just before the biggest comeback in Super Bowl history.

Weirdest match: Team USA taking on Russia in the men’s ice hockey at the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi. President Vladimir Putin sat in a suite just above the press tribune and rode every moment right until an under-strength USA clinched it in overtime, prompting him to storm off in a huff with his security detail in tow.

Weirdest fan: Vlad’s best mate Donald J. Trump, who strode into T-Mobile Arena in Las Vegas for a UFC event last year to a hero’s welcome. He sat ringside on his own, watching the undercard, barely talking to anyone until his Fanta-coloured head flashed on the big screen. The crowd erupted before the camera shifted to Wollongong’s Alex Volkanovski. Tellingly, the cheer was louder.

Weirdest finish: I don’t suspect I’ll ever again cover a match in which a tubby, bald, spray-tanned 33-year-old from Tempe streaks onto the field as Wati Holmwood did in the dying moments of the deciding 2013 State of Origin at the Olympic Stadium. Now that’s what you call “obstruction”.

Weirdest media conference: LeBron James discussing Cleveland’s loss to Golden State at Oracle Arena in game one of the 2017-2018 NBA finals with the distinct aroma of marijuana wafting through the room. I ordered five pizzas soon after.

Best response to a question: AOC president John Coates when the Good Weekend’s Jane Cadzow asked if he regretted calling Australian Sports Commission head John Wylie a “c—” and “liar”: “No, no, no,” Coates said. “That was genuine.”

Best corporate suite experience: I once got in a shout with Bob Hawke at the Sydney Test. He set a cracking pace, but I eventually wore down the 85-year-old former prime minister.

Favourite banner: “Mitchell, call me — Bella.” A fan held aloft this sign at Mitchell Pearce’s comeback from an eight-match suspension for having simulated sex with a poodle-cross during a drunken night out. Bella is reportedly dead while Pearce no longer drinks and considering a conversion to Islam.

Favourite colleague exchange: In hindsight, I could’ve picked a less hectic day to come out on the front page of the Herald than Victoria Derby Day at Flemington. After taking a flood of calls and messages while searching for a story (and, for some ridiculous reason, punting like Kerry Packer), I returned to the pressroom and plopped down next to turf editor Chris Roots. With sweat dripping from his brow and remnants of the pie he’d just smashed all over his face, he looked at me, smiled and warmly asked: “Any response to your column, mate?” Love ya, big man.

Best assignment: For reasons known only to them, the editors of this masthead in 2014 sent me to the FIFA World Cup in Brazil, not to cover the Socceroos but to “soak up the atmosphere” in megacities São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. And soak I did. They were wild times in a wild country whose people put football and having a good time chugging free-poured Caipirinhas ahead of everything else in life. One night, I was invited into the Vasco da Gama favela where chain-smoking men watched fuzzy TVs in ramshackle bars while seven-year-old kids played football on a floodlit basketball court. Those children would still be there at 3am because their parents were selling drugs to put food on the table. The mood was buoyant, but there was underlying anger about the Brazilian government spending billions on new stadiums and other infrastructure while they couldn’t afford basic healthcare. Once the interviews were done, we ventured deeper into the favela and attended a street party. As the sun came up, it struck me that it might be time to write some words about this magical evening. Instead of filing from a dreary hotel room, I found a kiosk on Copacabana Beach, opened my laptop and a long neck of very cold Antarctica beer and, as the pink sunrise lit up the waves and the famous stretch of sand, I started to write. I’ve never been happier.

I love the Herald. I’ve wanted to write for this masthead since I was 12. It breaks my heart to leave.

Thanks for indulging me and my silly columns over the years, as well as your kind messages, especially the last month.

It’s meant the world.

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