Round Two: A brief forray into sports sabotage

Saboteurs have been part of sports for as long as sports have been part of the human condition.

Opposing basketball teams routinely accused the Boston Celtics organization of cranking up the heat in the visitors locker room at old Boston Garden, turning the cramped, dingy space into a sauna.

Accusations that a host team purposely cut off the hot water — or the water, period — to the hotel rooms of opposing players are made across the sports spectrum.

It’s not at all uncommon for the visitors sideline in a football game to experience a mysterious loss of headset communication with their coaches in the press box— or a total loss of electricity on their side of the field altogether.

And teams throughout the ages have spared no effort in trying to steal their opponents’ signs and signals, some of those schemes being more underhanded than others (I’m looking at you, Michigan).

And we won’t even go into the Tonya Harding-Nancy Kerrigan debacle.

Well, one night in September 2017, I, myself, entered the cloak-and-dagger world of sports sabotage.

But I didn’t mean to.

It all started innocently enough. It was early in the high school football season, and I was assigned to cover the Buckeye at Cloverleaf game for The Post Newspapers of Medina County. Not being all that familiar with that area or those teams, I made a point of getting there extra early so I could park, find a spot in the press box (never a slam dunk) and get situated.

Prior to leaving for the game, I had been advised to enter Cloverleaf’s stadium via the back gate because there would hardly be anyone there, which was due to the fact that most people, including those from Cloverleaf, didn’t know the stadium had a back gate.

Everything went according to plan. I parked adjacent to the back gate and, sure enough, there was nobody there— including ticket-takers. The “gate” was just an open door in the chain-link fence that you could walk through and watch the game for free if you knew the “gate” existed. Apparently it was some kind of service entrance, but since I was working media and wasn’t going to be charged to get in anyway, I didn’t feel like I was pulling a fast one as I walked through the “gate” and into the stadium.

But that’s not the sabotage part of the story.

This is:

As part of my marching orders, I was assured in the days before the game that The Post’s reserved spot was in the press box on the visitors side of the stadium. The first thing I pictured in my mind’s eye when I heard “visitors press box” was a rickety little crow’s nest perched precariously at the top of the stands that may or may not come crashing down if a stiff breeze picked up.

Much to my pleasant surprise, however, it was an actual press box — nothing close to the gleaming, oversized press box on the home side (where my mind’s eye saw everyone inside it stuffing themselves with complimentary pizza and wings) — but an actual press box nonetheless. Plenty of room to spread out and work.

I sat down in the main center area of the press box, looked around and realized I was the only person there. I knew company was on the way, because the first partition upon entering the press box was a small area for members of the visiting coaching staff who were going to sit “upstairs” for the game. And sure enough, a short while later I heard some Buckeye coaches come in, set their gear down, talk for a few minutes, then leave as they headed down to the field for their team’s pregame warmups.

At around the same time, a couple high school kids from Buckeye came in. They were obviously the team’s video crew, trying to get the best angle from the press box for their iPad to film the game. Finally satisfied after several minutes of moving from one spot to another, they, too, exited the press box. I was alone.

I thought that would be a good time to sit back, relax, pull out the game program and study the rosters. And that’s when the trouble started:

I had forgotten to buy a game program.

Since I had entered through the service gate and walked behind the back end zone to the visitors press box, I hadn’t crossed paths with anyone selling programs. By the time I had reached the press box, getting a program had completely slipped my mind. Now it was about 15 minutes before kickoff, and I had just realized that I forgot to buy a program. I had no choice: I had to hurry down to the main gate and buy one. I needed those rosters.

As I headed toward the press box door, I saw the Buckeye film crew’s iPad and other expensive-looking equipment sitting on the counter, then I noticed headsets, clipboards and duffel bags belonging to the Buckeye coaches in their booth area. I was the only person remaining in the press box and I was leaving, and having all that equipment sitting around unattended in a packed football stadium didn’t seem like a good idea at all.

I stopped when I reached the door. Should I stay in the press box until someone comes back? What if no one comes back in time for me to run down to the main gate and get a program?

It came down to a question of priorities: What was more important, all that expensive equipment, or a game program?

That was a no-brainer: the game program. I couldn’t write my story about the game without having the rosters. Not to mention, I was only going to be gone from the press box for a few minutes. What could go wrong?

So I closed the press box door behind me and quickly made my way down to the main gate area. Once there, it was hand-to-hand combat trying to get through the crowds of people and find where game programs were being sold — if there were any left. The clock was ticking, I had left the press box undefended, and I needed the rosters. My blood pressure was rising by the second.

Finally, I located the programs, snapped one up and headed right back through the mass of humanity. Only about five minutes or so until kickoff. It was going to be close, but it looked like I was going to make it.

The football gods, however, were conspiring against me on this night. Upon breathlessly reaching the press box, I grabbed the doorknob, tried to turn it, and it wouldn’t budge. I tried again. Nothing. I tried harder. Still nothing. Hoping someone might be inside, I started knocking on the door.

“Don’t bother, nobody can get in there,” I heard a man’s voice say behind me. I turned and looked. It was a Buckeye fan all decked out in his brown and orange. “Some guy left a few minutes ago and he must have locked the door.”

Apparently, Buckeye superfan had seen someone else trying to get in and couldn’t. I thought, Who would be dumb enough to lock everyone out of the press box? And then I realized: Me, that’s who. I was “some guy.”

But all I did was close the door. I didn’t know someone had left the doorknob in the locked position. I don’t know who locked it and when, but it was a disaster waiting to happen.

And it was still unfolding, because just then I saw the Buckeye booth coaches charging gangbusters up the stadium steps toward the press box. They were going to need to get in there, and it wasn’t going to happen.

Sitting in the stands a few feet away, I cringed as the Buckeye coaches reached the door, tried to open it, couldn’t, began knocking on it, then began beating on it. “Dammit, someone locked the door!” one of them exclaimed, their agitation growing by the second as kickoff drew dangerously near.

After several exasperated moments, the group decided to task one of the coaches with finding someone from Cloverleaf to come unlock the door. “And tell them don’t lock this damn door again, we need to be in there!” said one.

They had already convicted the innocent, when the guilty party was hiding in plain sight right in front of them.

The coach left and quickly returned with a Cloverleaf rep, who unlocked the door. We all piled into the press box, made kickoff (barely), and Buckeye won the game 28-14. Crisis averted.

So there you have it: I locked the Buckeye High School football coaches out of the visitors press box right before the start of their game. My one and only descent into the dark world of sports sabotage.

Of course, it was inadvertent.

But then again, isn’t it always?