How a Few Comedians Nearly Pulled Off an Epic Super Bowl Prank
Just after the New Year in 2007. John Hargrave, longtime friend and the publisher of ZUG.com, a comedy website specializing in pranks, called me up. I knew him, he knew me. John asked if I could meet to discuss a stunt designed to help him promote his book, Prank the Monkey.
“What’s the prank?” I asked. With Hargrave, you always knew there was the potential for something a little nuts.
“I can’t tell you over the phone,” he said, uncharacteristically serious. “But it’s big.”
Hargrave had history of pulling off imaginative stuff. He’d gone after Michael Jackson, Ashton Kutcher, and Bill Gates, even the United Nations and the U.S. Senate, with varying degrees of success. He was ambitious.
I agreed to meet him the next day at a coffee shop. When I arrived, he had his PowerBook open and his back to the wall.
I plopped into the booth.
“Okay. What’s the gig?”
After swearing me to secrecy, he leaned forward. “We’re going to pull off the biggest media prank in history,” he said in a whisper. “We’re going to hack the Super Bowl.”
He laid out the plan, a high-tech version of the 1961 Great Rose Bowl Hoax. During that game, students from Caltech switched out over two thousand placards that were supposed to spell out WASHINGTON in the stands when fans flipped them over simultaneously. As the program neared its conclusion, the messaging seemed altered, and when fans flipped the final cards, the word CALTECH appeared instead.
Good prank.
Our Super Bowl prank would follow the same template, but instead of having fans turn over placards, Hargrave and the team would tell fans we were handing out “Prince Party Packs” containing six-inch LED light necklaces that would spell out PRINCE when lit up.
In fact, ZUG.COM would appear—advertising the comedy site’s URL to a worldwide Super Bowl audience of 93 million.
In order to pull off the Super Stunt, as Hargrave named the operation, the team would need to smuggle 2,250 lights into a Level-One (that’s as high as it gets) national-security event—in advance—and stash them in the bowels of Dolphin Stadium until halftime of the big game. On the day of the Super Bowl, they would infiltrate the stadium posing as event staff, with fake IDs and uniforms, and hand off the sequenced lights to the fans. All of this would be done under the eyes of stadium security, multiple state and federal law-enforcement agencies, hundreds of uniformed police officers, and 3,000 additional security personnel.
On the surface, the very idea of attempting a prank of this magnitude would appear to be insane—as it appeared to my wife even as she reluctantly agreed to let me participate. But we were simply carrying on a long tradition of very public pranks, from Alan Abel’s storied hoaxes (including smuggling a fake referee onto the field during the 1983 Super Bowl; the guy actually called some plays), to the activist Yes Men “hijinks” to the ones perpetrated by Sacha Baron Cohen masquerading as Borat or Ali G.
But still: Why do we do this stuff?
For me, the love of pranking large public entities for all the world to see probably stems from my 1960s upbringing, an extension of the question-authority ethos fueled by things like Mad magazine and the anti-war movement.
For Hargrave, “It’s about finding contradictions that exist in the system that allow you to do something that hurts no one but is also funny and enjoyable for other people—while still making a political or social point.”
And as any improvisational actor or comic will tell you, the unpredictability of this kind of comedy gives you a huge rush, whether it works or not.
It did for us, anyway.
The Super Stunt began with a reconnaissance mission.
Hargrave traveled to Miami’s Dolphin Stadium (now Hard Rock Stadium), host of the 2007 Super Bowl, for the December 10, 2006, Patriots-Dolphins game. He was spared the indignity of watching his hometown Pats get drubbed 21-0 because he was, as they say in criminal parlance, “casing the joint.” What he did not expect was the ease of access to areas not generally considered part of the fan experience. He brazenly walked up and down back stairwells. Nothing was locked. The national-televised NFL carried on while a man who staged pranks for a living roamed freely through the building.
Recon completed, Hargrave next had to assemble his team. He enlisted frequent ZUG collaborator Moses “Moe” Blumenstiel and myself, a real-estate writer with a side hustle as a comedian before reaching out to what was then a small fraternity of online prank practitioners to bolster his ranks. Most were intrigued but declined due to fears of, you know, going to jail. He was able to recruit Rob Cockerham, who had been publishing pranks on the web since 1998 on Cockeyed.com, to fill out the squad of improv comedians. Hargrave also needed a videographer/photographer to document the prank, and enlisted Mike “Little Mike” Berlin, a New York-based freelancer. (I was Big Mike.)
There were legal questions, and to answer those Hargrave hired a Miami-based attorney who advised him that in a worst-case scenario, security officials might view the prank as a terrorist act, which could escalate to a Homeland Security incident—which could potentially result in a shutdown of the Super Bowl and an evacuation of the stadium.
Hargrave sought a second opinion from a criminal attorney. That lawyer shared the view that the worst-case scenario was a possibility, but concluded that if the stunt were to fail, it would fail early. If we could make it past security, he said, we might actually be able to pull this thing off.
Two days before we were set to fly to Miami for Phase One of the Super Stunt, a news story ratcheted up our jitters.
On January 31, authorities in Boston found a suspicious object affixed to a steel girder underneath Interstate 93. What they thought might be an improvised explosive device (IED) sent the city into a panic and shut down roadways and portions of the public transportation system. By early afternoon, they had determined that it was not an IED but a Lite-Brite–looking toy, one of a few that had been placed throughout the metro area as part of a nationwide guerrilla marketing campaign designed to promote a movie version of the Cartoon Network’s stoner cartoon series, Aqua Teen Hunger Force.
The incident, now known as the “Mooninite Panic”, received national attention, much of it mocking the government officials and their handling of the situation. But the news story had a chilling effect on some of the prank team. “After the Aqua Teen Hunger Force hoax, I didn’t really want to do it anymore,” said Moe. “But I felt committed to it.”
On the Friday before the Super Bowl, with the Aqua Teen controversy still smoldering, the Super Stunt team left for Miami. When we landed, the van we had rented was too small to accommodate the entire load, which meant that we would have to make not one but two trips past Homeland Security.
As we were driving to the stadium, Hargrave drilled home our mantra. “Be honest at all times,” he said. “You’re working for my company, Media Shower”—ZUG.com’s parent company—“and you’re handing out audience lights for the Super Bowl halftime show. All of that is true. Remember, you can’t get in trouble if you don’t lie.”
At the Dolphin Stadium security checkpoint we were greeted by two Homeland Security officers. One was carrying a clipboard and approached Hargrave at the driver’s side window. The other peered into the windshield of the van before coming over to the passenger side.
“What are you guys here for?” the officer asked.
“We’re delivering a bunch of audience lights for the Prince halftime show,” Hargrave said in an even, almost disinterested tone.
“Do you have a Vehicle ID?”
Hargrave had uncharacteristically overlooked the fact that there would almost certainly be a manifest—a list to gain access to the stadium. He swallowed, then deadpanned, “No, we didn't get one.”
“You didn't get one,” the officer repeated, then walked slowly away to confer with his partner. After a few moments, he returned to the van. “All right, you’ll need to go down there and have your vehicle scanned,” he said, pointing to the X-ray crane off to the side. “The rest of you guys go with my partner.”
While we were escorted to a tent to have our licenses run for background checks, Hargrave drove the van to the screening area. As the van was being scanned for hazardous materials, he was questioned by a female agent, who held up his license. “Sir John Hargrave,” she said slowly, casually tapping the license on her index finger. “There’s something familiar about that name.” A simple Google search would have instantly revealed his long pranking career.
Just then, Hargrave’s cell phone rang.
“Hello?” he said, then whispered to the officer: “It’s my five year-old.” Then back into the phone: “You’re baking a cake?”
Hargrave’s son had clearly inherited his father’s gift of timing.
The interruption proved to be the perfect distraction. The officer issued Hargrave a parking pass for the service entrance to the stadium. The entire crew was given fluorescent-blue wristbands granting us unfettered access to the complex during rehearsals for the pre-game show.
We located a handcart large enough to accommodate the entire pallet in one trip and carefully began transporting the over-stacked load inside. We made our way deep into the belly of the stadium and unloaded our cargo next to some boxes of industrial-grade tile and plumbing fixtures.
Game day.
A light, warm rain was fell Miami that morning as Rob, Moe, and I pulled our street clothes over our official(-looking) EVENT STAFF uniforms. The badges and headsets were already in the stadium, stashed along with the boxes of Party Packs. Kick-off was at 6:30 p.m.; we headed to the stadium a little after noon. The mood in the van was tense, not unlike the pre-game jitters I imagined the Super Bowl players were experiencing themselves, but we were able to calm ourselves with a steady stream of comic chatter.
At the stadium, Hargrave had the unenviable task of hauling the ninety-five boxes up from the warehouse to the 100-level of the stadium, wearing his suit and tie and a headset to communicate. With the assistance of stadium staff—a key element throughout the prank—he located a large hand truck and transported the boxes up one level via a long, winding handicap-accessible ramp, making five trips in all. He found an empty area near the row of concession stands and, mindful of the Aqua Teen Hunger Force debacle, explained to the concessionaires and security personnel that the boxes contained lights for the halftime show—leaving his Media Shower business card in case anyone had questions.
All day Hargrave engaged security and event staff around him with light conversation, creating a sense of belonging—a sense that on this big day, we were all in this together. About an hour later the prank team entered the stadium using our legally purchased tickets and headed to a men’s room to begin our transformation into event staff, including headsets and fake badges that identified us as the Pepsi Street Team.
Little Mike took the duplicate press pass and headed to the press box.
It was show time.
Wearing the staff uniform inside the building immediately made Rob nervous. After he peeled off the shirt he was wearing over his stadium jersey, as soon as people saw EVENT STAFF on the back, they started asking things like whether he could refill the paper towel dispensers. In about 10 seconds, he just became staff. He got on his radio and pretended to order more paper towels and walked out, thinking to himself, Oh my God. This is going to be amazing.
Fully costumed, we reported back to Hargrave, who was bantering with security about our awesome PRINCE light display. He introduced us: “This is Mike—he’s going to be doing section 115 and 116. This is Moe…”
We began transporting the boxes to the seven tunnels leading to the seats as Hargrave continued glad-handing with ushers and security as if he were the Mayor of Dolphin Town. All seemed to be going well, but as I was standing next to my load of boxes, nervously awaiting go time, my eyes met the gaze of a burly uniformed security official who appeared to be in charge of…something. I looked away, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see him striding directly towards me, with purpose in his gait.
This is it, I thought. We’re toast.
I remembered the instructions Hargrave had hammered into us: Be honest. Don’t try to talk your way out of it. And don’t resist. I took a deep breath, but my heart pounded even faster. He was now in front of me, and for a moment I just froze.
He looked at me. Then smiled, stuck out his hand, and said, “Have a good game.” He was almost whispering, and nearly crushed my hand in his powerful grip. Catching my breath, I managed to say, “You too, man,” and gave a weird little salute.
The game was soon underway, and midway through the second quarter I saw Hargrave waving at me: “Go! Go! Go!” I grabbed the first pair of boxes and ran down to the stairs to the lower end of my first section. I gently tapped a guy wearing a Peyton Manning jersey on the shoulder and yelled our well-practiced line: “Your souvenir Prince Party Pack. Please take yours and pass it down. Enjoy the show!” To my amazement, he pulled out his packet and dutifully passed the box down to the next guy, who passed it to the next person.
After about a half-dozen trips, I saw that some people had already turned on their light necklaces, and blue-and-white lights began to dot the stands as the half came to an end.
The damn plan was working.
Around this same moment, I also noticed a shift in the weather. Big and fast. What had been a steady drizzle was blossoming into a full-blown downpour with high winds. The storm inadvertently set a surreal stage for Prince’s now-legendary halftime performance, as if the heavens were providing the special effects. He closed the show with “Purple Rain” as the elements mercilessly pounded the band in a performance for the ages.
Up in the press booth, Little Mike was seeing the show through a different lens.
The booth was a chaotic scene as he was setting up, so it wasn’t until the halftime show was underway that he realized how drastically the weather conditions had escalated. He had the vantage point to see something we never could have predicted: The rain was driving fans from their seats, which meant that most of our carefully placed lights were now around the necks of people sheltering in the halls or at the tops of the sections.
Scattered.
Back in section 100, the prank team had changed back into our civilian clothes and were celebrating, believing we had just pulled off a miracle. Little Mike met up with us, keeping his reservations about the success of the prank to himself, and we watched the fourth quarter from our $2,000 end-zone seats. A good portion of the fans had left, despite it being a relatively close game.
We left early too and went back to the motel. Hargrave whipped open his PowerBook and the team huddled around the device like a 50s family eagerly awaiting their favorite TV show. Hargrave plugged in the thumb drive containing Little Mike’s photos, and began clicking through the images. We held our collective breath, staring wordlessly at the screen as he gunned through the pictures, waiting for that nice, clean image of ZUG.COM to appear.
The mood began to shift as it became increasingly clear that something had gone very, very wrong. All we could make out were blurry images with some dense patches of blue, but nothing that spelled out anything approximating ZUG.COM. The tension in the room grew thicker as it became clear that no matter how many angles we checked, it just wasn’t going to happen.
Hargrave took some deep breaths and put his head in his hands.
“What the fuck! What the fuck!” he screamed. He had just dropped $40,000 on the Super Stunt, spent months planning, and—despite ridiculous odds—assembled a team that executed the prank perfectly. The only thing he didn’t plan for was an act of God.
He stood up, slapped his laptop shut and left.
It’s difficult to comprehend just how calamitous the rainstorm was that evening. In an interview with ThebPalm Beach Post later, former Dolphins CEO Mike Dee said that 30 percent of the lower-level seating was empty during the second half of the game. The number of lights left in the grid could not produce the critical mass needed to produce a readable message.
Hargrave desperately looked for a way to rescue the Super Stunt. Sleep-deprived, he hit upon a plan. While the photographs did not actually spell out ZUG.COM as intended, the distinct grouping of lights could clearly be seen across the lower section of Dolphins stadium, so he concocted an implausible story, insisting that the real intent of the stunt was to broadcast a “secret message” for ZUG fans to decipher.
His book publisher, who was fully aware of the promotional stunt, did not buy Hargrave’s explanation and hung up on him. Hargrave next called The New York Times, and while the reporter he reached sounded intrigued, he turned the story down. The reaction was the same from nearly all media outlets: Nice story, but no thanks.
A few days later, Rob posted his experience on his prank site, and Hargrave posted his own account on ZUG, with both pieces concluding with the “secret message” ruse. Hargrave doubled down, expanding the scope of the prank to include serious social commentary about how the prank demonstrated that we could never really be safe from terrorists in a TV interview, while pushing the idea that the lack of publicity for the prank was due to a massive media cover-up.
Despite the failure of the prank, it caught the interest of one interested constituency: the Super Bowl security team. Although the NFL did not respond to requests for comment, I spoke with several former officials from the NFL, Dolphin Stadium and the Miami-Dade Police Department, all on the condition of anonymity.
According to those I spoke with, the principal concern was that we were able to get the lights past Homeland Security and into the stadium. “The stuff going in wasn’t dangerous, but you still shouldn’t have been able to bullshit your way in without being on a list, or at least having somebody call in to verify that you should be bringing that load in,” said an official who reviewed the security videos.
Another issue was the fake credentials for the Pepsi Street Team. “You shouldn’t have been able to manufacture your own badges, because we issued credentials with photo IDs that had bar codes on them,” he said. “But what it comes down to is the human element. I don’t care how well you plan, if the human element breaks down, there’s going to be problems.”
If there was a silver lining to the security breaches, it’s that the prank led to an investigation resulting in tightening protocols and practices. “We were looking to learn from it,” said one of the security team. “And what we were trying to learn from you all was things like how you breached the interior, how the planning went, what your thought process was, and what you saw as vulnerabilities. And what we learned helped us to plug those holes.”
The failure of the Super Stunt may have actually been the best possible outcome. Nobody got hurt, the game wasn’t stopped, the stadium wasn’t evacuated, and yet in the end, our attempt made things safer for fans, players, and stadium personnel in the future.
Sometimes when we want something to go a certain way in our lives, the universe has other plans, and things often work out for the better. Still, four comedians and a cameraman almost pulled off the impossible that day, and man, would that have been something.
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