As long as I can remember, I’ve been infatuated with the Dallas Cowboys. They were my first love, America’s team. I was the proud owner of a Cowboys helmet, jersey, jacket, sneakers, comforter, pajamas, underwear, and dozens of other accessories. My favorite possession was a scruffy little teddy bear, a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt squeezed onto his chubby torso. I named him Roger, after our scrambling, never-say-die quarterback (his two enduring nicknames were Roger the Dodger and Captain Comeback). My mom, aunt, and cousin were also huge fans, often gathering together for important games. One of my earliest- and fondest- memories as a child was when Dallas beat Denver in the Super Bowl. The ‘Boys returned to the title game two seasons later, losing a nailbiter to the hated Steelers, my brother’s team. Dallas declined steadily over the following decade, bottoming out in 1989, the year I graduated high school, winning only one game. Four years later, however, they returned to glory, advancing to the Super Bowl. It was my good fortune that the game was being played at the Rose Bowl, the home stadium of UCLA, the college I was attending. There was no way I could miss it. The only problem was- and it wasn’t a trivial one- I couldn’t afford a ticket.

To pay for school and expenses, I worked part-time as a sales rep for the Los Angeles Times. From 4-8pm weeknights, and occasional Saturday mornings, I knocked on doors all over the city of Los Angeles, selling subscriptions. It was a brutal job. Aside from the constant, mind-numbing rejection, I was frequently yelled at, threatened with violence, seduced by older women and gay men, and attacked by a variety of dogs. The scariest night was when riots broke out after the Rodney King verdict. I was soliciting papers in a run-down section of Culver City, a block of cruddy apartment buildings. I rapped my knuckles on a door and, moments later, a stout, fortyish African-American man opened it warily. He gawked at my young, white face. “You better get in here.”

I watched TV on his living room couch, watching mayhem unfold less than 10 miles away. Not a word was uttered, though the racial tension was palpable. The genial man provided safe harbor till the LA Times van picked me at the designated street corner two hours later. I rode a metro bus home to Westwood that night, genuinely terrified, witnessing the city burn around me. Despite the horrors I endured on a nightly basis, the job taught me valuable skills, namely the ability to sneak into secured apartment buildings and the mental strength to shrug off rejection. It also provided me with an employee badge, the iconic Los Angeles Times font printed neatly over my picture. I would need the skills and the badge if I was to pull off the ultimate caper.

As luck would have it- destiny?- the Cowboys practiced on the UCLA campus the week leading up to the Super Bowl. The venue was fitting. After all, five Bruins were on the roster, including quarterback Troy Aikman- the new Roger. Appropriately, the Buffalo Bills, Dallas’ opponent, held their practices crosstown at USC, our bitter rival. I watched them scrimmage every chance I could, skipping a few classes in the process. Of course, this ‘watching’ was mostly seeing the uniformed players tramp past me before and after practice. But there I was, standing next to a slew of reporters, glimpsing the heroes of my youth. I noticed that all the media personnel had press passes dangling around their necks. The key was the lanyard, a thin metal one, composed of small, silver balls. I would need that exact type of lanyard if I was to pose as one of them. Chatting up one of the reporters, I uncovered valuable information: the media bus would be departing in front of the Century Plaza Hotel Sunday morning at nine.

I told my co-workers of my plan to crash the Super Bowl using my LA Times badge. The supervisor, Rob, a short, thirtyish Filipino, was surprisingly blase. Not only did he not try to quash my attempt, Rob encouraged me to ‘go for it.’ Bobby, a pudgy, affable Persian, expressed his desire to join me in the quest. He didn’t know the first thing about football- as I would soon find out- but he was up for an adventure. Bobby picked me up early Sunday morning at my fraternity house. We were both decked out in khakis and white dress shirts, my opinion of what sports reporters would wear to a landmark event- simple and classic. On the short drive to Century City, I coached Bobby on our backstory. We were interns at the LA Times: Bobby, the cameraman; me, the beat writer. To burnish his credentials, Bobby brought along a Nikon camera- not professional grade, but decent. For my part, I got hold of two lanyards with the little silver balls.

We loitered around the media bus with the reporters, our LA Times badges dangling on the shiny new lanyards. I recognized a few of them from the Cowboys’ practices. Despite our relative youth, we blended in fairly well, though we were careful not to interact with them. When the bus doors finally opened, Bobby and I filed on and plopped down in middle seats. So far, so good. Then, a harrowing thought crossed my mind: ‘What if it’s a full bus and every seat’s spoken for?’ Surely we’d be exposed as frauds. This apprehension vanished when the engine fired up. I flashed a grin at Bobby, the plan working beautifully. My anxiety returned, however, when Bobby nudged me. “What time’s kickoff?” I gritted my teeth, praying that no one around us heard him. “Don’t say another word,” I warned. We rode in silence the rest of the way.

The bus arrived at the Rose Bowl around 10. The golf course surrounding the historic stadium was already packed with cars and RV’s; the tailgating had started two hours ago. We were herded over to the Punt, Pass, and Kick exhibit, a variety of games where you test your football skills. The best part was the complimentary buffet for media members. Bobby and I scarfed down doughnuts and danishes, making sure to fill up before the game. Food at concession stand prices was not a luxury we could afford. After an hour or so, we were escorted towards the media gate.

This wasn’t my first time crashing an event. I had sneaked in to practically every UCLA home game, though student tickets were a mere five dollars. I credited my success to two reasons: having friends in front and behind me to provide cover as I fumbled through my wallet looking for my ‘ticket;’ and knowing the person manning the gate, typically a fellow student, didn’t really care all that much about the job. This time, though, would be different. The line to enter the stadium was orderly, single file, and the behemoth African-American man guarding the gate actually did care. He looked like a former NFL linebacker hanging on tangentially to the game he devoted his life to. Bobby and I stepped up to the gate. The man took one glance at our badges and snickered, bemused at our audacity.

“What? We’re interns.” The linebacker scoffed. “You can get that laminated at K-Mart.” Bobby tried to dart past him. The man grabbed hold of Bobby’s flabby arm, a hint of menace cracking through his calm demeanor. “Don’t.”

We were screwed. We would be stuck in the parking lot for the next eight hours or so, wandering around aimlessly, refugees refused access to the promised land. I almost cried knowing I was going to miss the game, a game I’ve been waiting for since I was six. Who knows if we could even get a ride back to Century City? Some of the reporters surely saw us get denied- laughed at, no less. I regretted the whole stupid plan. I would have been infinitely better off staying at home and watching the damn thing on TV.

Our options limited, I reasoned that our best shot was an old fashioned bum rush. Bobby and I waited in line with paying fans, who fished tickets out of their wallets and purses. Not only was the line single file, there was a staggered nature to it, a five second lapse between ticket holders stepping through the turnstile. This would be tougher than the media gate. Bobby was next. He strode towards the turnstile, camera slung around his shoulder, radiating confidence. I stood there, 15 feet behind the gate, my heart thumping. Bobby didn’t flinch. He marched right through the metal bar, holding up his camera, bellowing “I’m a camera man!”

The attendant at the gate, a pretty blonde in her late twenties, barked at him. “Hey!” She gestured angrily at Bobby, who didn’t break stride. “He doesn’t have a ticket!”

Scores of policemen were stationed all over the stadium, but apparently they didn’t hear her plea for help. I quickly trotted towards the turnstile, taking advantage of her diverted attention. My stomach touched the metal bar just as she locked it. The attendant glared at me, desperately trying to restore her authority. I explained that I was a reporter here to cover the game.

“The media gate’s over there.” And pointed to the spot where we were unceremoniously mocked. I turned away, discouraged. I was now alone, in a worse situation than before. Heck, Bobby made it inside and he didn’t even like football.

I had to give it one more shot. I owed it to my mom. aunt, and cousin- and myself. I met Bobby halfway around the stadium. I stood there, fingers clenching the chain link fence- me on the outside, Bobby on the inside- and devised a plan. It would be like a prison break, only in reverse. I would have to summon all my door-to-door experience, all my (limited) acting ability to pull this off. I waited in line at another turnstile. This time I pretended to be highly agitated. I glanced around, frantically searching for someone, as if my life depended upon finding this person. I noticed a policeman perched on a stool twenty feet from the gate I was about to crash. It was my turn to proceed. As I ambled towards the turnstile, a look of utter surprise spread across my face. I peered past the attendant and right at Bobby, who also acted bewildered.

“Jesus! There you are! You were you supposed to be at lot H!” I yelled. I hiked straight through the turnstile, flashing my LA Times badge. “I’m press!” My eyes never left Bobby. I heard the attendant holler at me, but I didn’t pay him any mind. I wrapped my arm around Bobby, “let’s get the hell outta here.” We walked briskly to the other side of the Rose Bowl, out of harm’s way.

The first thing I did was make a triumphant phone call to my mom. Thankfully, my cousin was there to enjoy the fruits of my scheme. After the call, Bobby and I bought a couple of beers, then tried to find seats. That, of course, was the tricky part. I didn’t think that far ahead. Naturally, the game was sold out (duh). We sat down in various aisles for short stints, until the ticket holders got upset at our presence. After all, they paid good money- hundreds if not thousands of dollars for their seats- and didn’t want some squatters cramming up their space.

We saw most of the game on TV’s positioned around the food and beverage stands. But as Dallas increased their lead in the second half, some Bills fans left the stadium. Bobby and I ended up watching the fourth quarter in seats, not far from where I watched dozens of UCLA games. Sipping beers, I shouted down a drunk Bills fans who cheered belligerently when Dallas’ Leon Lett famously fumbled away a sure touchdown late in the contest. “Scoreboard!” I screamed, silencing him. The Cowboys won, 52-17. I swaggered out of the Rose Bowl, a smile stapled to my face.

We rode the media bus back to the Century City hotel. The reporters who witnessed us get rebuffed were either too drunk or too nice (or indifferent) to raise objections. I regaled the Super Bowl story to my fraternity brothers and co-workers, many of whom were envious that they didn’t participate. Eight months later, I crashed the MTV music awards. Chris, my big brother in the frat, wanted to go with me. Aware that a fellow salesman on the crew (Brent) never got his badge- and that he and Chris looked alike-Chris and I drove to the LA Times headquarters downtown. In my new role as assistant sales manager, I explained to the security officer that ‘Brent’ needed a photo ID. After verifying his status as an employee, a picture was snapped and a badge produced.

Chris and I sneaked into the Universal Amphitheater (now the Gibson)- no drama this time, easy peasy- and hung out backstage with the likes of Michael Richards, Sinead O’Connor, and the band Arrested Development. A week later, after hearing all about my  exploits, Brent decided it was high time he got his badge. Imagine his surprise when he was informed, “you were just here ten days ago.” The next afternoon, I was summoned into Rob’s office where his boss, a hefty, bejeweled woman in her fifties, waited for me. Rob lobbied in my defense- I was, after all, the top salesperson on the crew, a young star on the rise- but the security breech was simply too much to overcome. I quietly surrendered my badge, knowing I’d never crash another event again.