Candi Perry seemed eager to talk to me about her city’s electric atmosphere during Super Bowl week. But her supervisor wouldn’t allow it.
The overly friendly Indianapolis police officer was ready to gush about everything Super Bowl related, and rightly so. Hoosier hospitality flowed here like cheap beer at a dive bar.
From the cops and bartenders to the hotel workers and parking lot attendants, everyone I talked with was polite, helpful and welcoming. Even the homeless residents seemed hospitable while hitting on football-fan tourists for spare change.
“Welcome to Indy!” exclaimed a middle-aged man with several polished lines, a few teeth and no hair. “Do you need directions to, uh, anywhere? I’m a life-long native son.”
Not exactly who the Indianapolis welcome committee planned to greet me, I’m sure, but I loved his chutzpah.
On Wednesday, I visited downtown Indy to watch this intriguing sociological experiment in the works. Would all the hype and hoopla transform Indy from NapTown to FunTown? Would it boost the city’s bland image under the national spotlight? Would it stamp it with an image, finally, of any kind?
This past week leading up to today, the normally vanilla-flavored state capitol was dripping in vivid colors and conflicts.
Thousands of right-to-work union protesters marched past thousands of cash-handy football fans near the telling intersection of Capitol Avenue and Market Street.
Some out-of-town fans were oblivious to the protesters. Many were visibly annoyed. A few raised their hand in union-brother solidarity. Other fans zoomed overhead on the popular zip-line attraction, adding to the surreal exchange.
Kevin Ryczek didn’t seem to care about Super Bowl Village, the so-called NFL Experience, or a football game of any kind when he bumped into me.
Although the village is labeled “the epicenter of awesome,” Ryczek wasn’t there to root for the Patriots or Giants. He was more interested in the volatile grudge match these days between the Democrats and Republicans.
“Do you know where the protest is?” asked Ryczek, of Malden, a tiny dot-on-the-map town in southern Porter County.
He meant, of course, the protest against the right-to-work bill that would become law later that day.
“Sounds like some bull---- to me,” the 21-year-old union carpenter told me before disappearing toward the growing sea of protesters.
At ground zero of the Super Bowl festivities, I watched an interesting clash of fans for two totally different experiences. The right to work versus the right to party. Union workers wearing their hearts on their sleeves versus NFL fans sporting jerseys of their favorite team. And tourists burning vacation time versus protesters who may have lost a day’s pay to make a point.
All this amid a strong police presence, news helicopters circling overhead, and rumors of celebrity sightings. Strange days indeed, I thought to myself.
‘Have a SUPER day!’
“This city has gone to hell in a handbasket these days,” grumbled Charlie Shook, a senior citizen from Indy who strolled through his city to see what the hubbub was all about.
At Monument Circle, a street performer and Giants fans named James crooned an old Conway Twitty country tune called “Amanda.”
“A measure of people don’t understand, the pleasure of life in a hillbilly band,” he sung in a weathered voice.
Mike Vance, an outreach preacher with Lakeview Church, helped spread the gospel to visiting fans one free cup of coffee at a time — “no strings attached,” he told me.
“I’m just showing God’s love in a practical way,” said Vance, who looked like a God-lovin’ Ghostbuster with a large coffee tank strapped to his back.
Many downtown churches also spread the spirit of Hoosier hospitality by inviting out-of-town fans to worship there on Super Bowl Sunday. But not all the locals felt the Super Bowl spirit.
“I don’t give a lick about all this nonsense,” said Wayne Turner, a part-time security guard with ESG Security.
“But I’m happy to make some money doing this before I’m back to being unemployed again,” he said while munching on Doritos for breakfast.
Turner, however, helped get me through a back gate entrance into Victory Field to eavesdrop on the mega-popular “Dan Patrick Show.” Already in progress, the show bustled with fans crowded around his “mobile man cave” as Indiana’s favorite son Larry Bird was about to chat on-air with Patrick.
“This is better than seeing (expletive) Jimmy Fallon,” one 20-something fan told another.
I was tempted to test the artificial turf on the mock football field for the show’s set, but an executive producer kicked me out of my behind-the-scenes perch.
Around the corner, Brandon Reed, a professional race car driver, held a sign asking football fans for sponsorship money.
“My agent dared me to do this,” he explained sheepishly, decked out in his highly commercialized duds.
It seemed everyone was using Indy as its soapbox for something.
Of all the “super” amenities here, two were definitely fan favorites: the lifted ban on open (alcoholic) containers, and a hidden alley of portable toilets. No kidding.
“Is it just me or is this the finest Port-a-potty you’ve ever seen?” asked Clara Smith of Valparaiso, who stood outside one waiting for her daughter.
“You’re right, these are amazing,” I replied after exiting the men’s spacious one, which sported three urinals, two stalls and a double sink. I half expected to see a smiling attendant handing me a paper towel and candy after doing my business.
The deluxe wood-paneled restrooms prompted many dumbfounded guests to discuss them with perfect strangers, and even take photos afterward (including me).
Before leaving the city, a parking lot attendant made a point to tell me, “Have a SUPER day!”
“Thanks,” I replied. “You sound very convincing.”
“Well, thanks, but we were told to say that to everyone,” he explained with a shrug.