The day started out like most do while living in the desert.
I woke up early, emerged from my bed, and then immediately did my customary 15 jumping jacks to ignite the morning. I followed that off by reciting the pledge of allegiance to an American flag duct-taped to the side of a book shelf, that contained my vast collection of encyclopedias, dictionaries and thesauruses.
My pregnant wife woke up because of the fracas and she was not happy.
Her head slightly emerged from a summit of preggo-hugging pillows but instead of yelling at me, she just gave me a sinister stare. Before she asked any questions, she noticed I was blowing the dust off my canary yellow Abu Dhabi T-shirt with the cool falcons on it, which quickly reminded her that today was going to be a special day.
I only wear that T-shirt for momentous occasions. Like when my wife and I got stuck in a Mumbai airport for 13 hours.
August is considered to be the hottest month of the year and I lived in one of the hottest cities on the planet so it was an ideal time for The Today Show and legendary weatherman Al Roker to visit our fair land.
Why did they come? I really have no idea. When I asked a few of the show's producers why, they just shook their heads while we all sweated our asses off. It was over 100 degrees outside and the Today Show wanted to film on the Corniche beach, which made perfect sense. I'm starting to sweat just thinking about it.
But then it hit me, like a sledgehammer in the middle of the night: the good people at NBC were trying to emulate the same conditions our gridiron heroes back home were battling through in the NFL pre-season.
It made perfect sense.
Just a few days ago, I got on the Internet and saw offensive linemen sitting in plastic garbage cans filled with ice. They did this to cool down their huge muscles. It was just like the motto for Dairy Queen: Hot eats and cool treats. If you can't take the heat, get yourself inside a garbage can full of ice.
* * *
My pregnant wife and I arrived about an hour early as I expected we would have to jostle for position among swarms of spectators and other well-wishers. To my shock and chagrin, not many people were there. To be exact, no one was there. A couple camera crew worker guys with mustaches ignored my inquiries and Roker was no where to be found.
There were actually more camels on the scene than people. Which, if you live in Abu Dhabi, is not uncommon. About a year ago, I had a pet camel but he ran away.
As the mid-day sun took flight and a few hard-core Americans started to trickle in, the temperature of the sand started to hit hellacious levels. I even heard a little boy ask his mother, "Why the hell are we here?" Seeing that I was about to become a father any day now, I took it upon myself to substitute in for the distressed and delirious parent.
"Buck up, mate. We're here to see Al Roker of course," I snapped at the young child in a motivating manner. "Aren't you interested in his take on the upcoming football season? Do you even care about America at all??"
The little boy started to cry. But he was so hot, not one noticed because his tears blended in with the sweat.
It was quite a scene. Blood, sweat and tears. These brave Americans were leaving it all out on the field. Just for the simple pleasure of rubbing elbows with one of our country's most prized possessions.
Just then -- from out of nowhere -- he emerged from his luxurious, air-conditioned tent. And then the crowd went wild.
That's my pregnant wife on the right, who jumped Roker's bones like he was a member of the Wu-Tang Clan. His white air-conditioned luxury suite, which was in the background, had very high security. You can't be too careful these days. The security guards were dressed in black (like the guy on the right) and they claimed to be ex-Commandos, who had flown in from Benghazi by helicopter the day before. Their job: protect Roker.
But they couldn't protect the words that would come out of his mouth.
You see, Roker possesses a master whit. A fine knowledge of all that is weather. In essence, if he can tell us the weather forecast, then he can actually predict the future. American weathermen have been revered for generations. Roker was no different.
Sure, their profession may appear easy to us simple folk. But their job description was solid: God among Men.
They have a cardinal skill that the rest of us wish to possess. What's the weather going to be like in Abu Dhabi? Cue Roker: "It's going to be hot. Very hot." Record that sound bite, play it again 365 times and then your work in the UAE is done for the year. You can pick up your annual tax-free paycheck on the way out and try not to get too much sand in your trousers.
As Roker started to shake hands with his sweaty fans on the beach, his security staff immediately deemed me as a threat. Before I could grab him for some one-on-one time and really press him with questions of significant merit, one of the men dressed in black shoved me aside and I fell into the scalding-hot sand.
"If you want to talk God -- ehh, I mean Roker -- then you have to have a sign, preferably one giving mad props to a US State, a relative living in that state, a sorority from a historical Black College or a political affiliation you have with Donald Trump. No exceptions," the security guard barked at me.
I puffed out my chest in an attempt to show the security guard my canary yellow Abu Dhabi T-shirt with the cool falcons on it. I assumed my attire was as good as any media credential but the security guard wouldn't budge. Unfortunately, the shirt was now drenched in blood, sweat and tears. The color from the T-shirt dye was starting to run so the security guard probably thought it was a fake.
My pregnant wife, still riding the high one only gets after schmoozing with a high-value celebrity, held me back as I threatened a physical confrontation with the Benghazi commando. She was right. This was no time for a showdown. She instructed me to use the pen, which was always mightier than the one-inch pocket knife I concealed in my jean shorts.
Time was of the essence and I knew I had to act fast because Roker was sweating like a melting piece of Easter bunny chocolate. It was just a matter of time before he would retire to the sauna inside his luxury suite. Any sauna would be a relief compared to the heat these brave Americans were suffering through on the beach. We lost a lot of fine soldiers that day but the question remained: With the NFL season about to commence, who are the quarterbacks on the fringe of being considered 'elite'?
I needed Roker to look into his crystal ball and reveal the answers to me and the rest of the world. So with the cameras rolling and an international audience watching, I scribbled the only name I could spell correctly on a sign and held it up for all to see.
SB Nation picked up the story and it even made the front page of the local newspaper in Abu Dhabi. It appeared the international media finally had a voice behind a question that had loomed all summer.
In the hot-as-hell desert, all of our athletic balls become deflated at some point. No one really cares about Brady.
About two minutes after Roker said, "Now let's see what the weather is like in your neck of the woods," he listened briefly to the little alien device stuck in his ear and then made a beeline for his air-conditioned tent.
No autographs, no kissing sweaty babies. Nothing. More importantly, no answers.
Just then, my wife let out a painful shriek and went into labor right there on the beach. I don't have a "PhD" at the end of my name or anything but I could only assume the drastic heat must have jump-started the contractions. Roker heard the commotion and rushed back to the scene. He was sweaty, he was tired but he was more than willing to deliver our baby. Like I said earlier: God among men.
After the birth, but before I instructed Roker to cut the umbilical cord, we shared a moment. We locked eyes and I could see a magical tear running down his face. He was happy. Overjoyed. Never did he think he would help deliver a baby on a beach in Abu Dhabi.
But before I could pop the big question, he gently placed his index finger on my lips in an attempt to silence me. "Shhhh," he said as drips of his sweat/tear mixture started to fall on my new-born child. "Just enjoy this..."
He then asked me what the baby's name would be. Overcome with joy myself, I couldn't quite voice the words but I leaned in close and whispered it into his sweaty ear. The name really isn't for public consumption but I'll give you a hint: It's started with a "J" and ended with a "Flacco".
I woke up early, emerged from my bed, and then immediately did my customary 15 jumping jacks to ignite the morning. I followed that off by reciting the pledge of allegiance to an American flag duct-taped to the side of a book shelf, that contained my vast collection of encyclopedias, dictionaries and thesauruses.
My pregnant wife woke up because of the fracas and she was not happy.
Her head slightly emerged from a summit of preggo-hugging pillows but instead of yelling at me, she just gave me a sinister stare. Before she asked any questions, she noticed I was blowing the dust off my canary yellow Abu Dhabi T-shirt with the cool falcons on it, which quickly reminded her that today was going to be a special day.
I only wear that T-shirt for momentous occasions. Like when my wife and I got stuck in a Mumbai airport for 13 hours.
August is considered to be the hottest month of the year and I lived in one of the hottest cities on the planet so it was an ideal time for The Today Show and legendary weatherman Al Roker to visit our fair land.
Why did they come? I really have no idea. When I asked a few of the show's producers why, they just shook their heads while we all sweated our asses off. It was over 100 degrees outside and the Today Show wanted to film on the Corniche beach, which made perfect sense. I'm starting to sweat just thinking about it.
But then it hit me, like a sledgehammer in the middle of the night: the good people at NBC were trying to emulate the same conditions our gridiron heroes back home were battling through in the NFL pre-season.
It made perfect sense.
Just a few days ago, I got on the Internet and saw offensive linemen sitting in plastic garbage cans filled with ice. They did this to cool down their huge muscles. It was just like the motto for Dairy Queen: Hot eats and cool treats. If you can't take the heat, get yourself inside a garbage can full of ice.
* * *
My pregnant wife and I arrived about an hour early as I expected we would have to jostle for position among swarms of spectators and other well-wishers. To my shock and chagrin, not many people were there. To be exact, no one was there. A couple camera crew worker guys with mustaches ignored my inquiries and Roker was no where to be found.
There were actually more camels on the scene than people. Which, if you live in Abu Dhabi, is not uncommon. About a year ago, I had a pet camel but he ran away.
As the mid-day sun took flight and a few hard-core Americans started to trickle in, the temperature of the sand started to hit hellacious levels. I even heard a little boy ask his mother, "Why the hell are we here?" Seeing that I was about to become a father any day now, I took it upon myself to substitute in for the distressed and delirious parent.
"Buck up, mate. We're here to see Al Roker of course," I snapped at the young child in a motivating manner. "Aren't you interested in his take on the upcoming football season? Do you even care about America at all??"
The little boy started to cry. But he was so hot, not one noticed because his tears blended in with the sweat.
It was quite a scene. Blood, sweat and tears. These brave Americans were leaving it all out on the field. Just for the simple pleasure of rubbing elbows with one of our country's most prized possessions.
Just then -- from out of nowhere -- he emerged from his luxurious, air-conditioned tent. And then the crowd went wild.
That's my pregnant wife on the right, who jumped Roker's bones like he was a member of the Wu-Tang Clan. His white air-conditioned luxury suite, which was in the background, had very high security. You can't be too careful these days. The security guards were dressed in black (like the guy on the right) and they claimed to be ex-Commandos, who had flown in from Benghazi by helicopter the day before. Their job: protect Roker.
But they couldn't protect the words that would come out of his mouth.
You see, Roker possesses a master whit. A fine knowledge of all that is weather. In essence, if he can tell us the weather forecast, then he can actually predict the future. American weathermen have been revered for generations. Roker was no different.
They have a cardinal skill that the rest of us wish to possess. What's the weather going to be like in Abu Dhabi? Cue Roker: "It's going to be hot. Very hot." Record that sound bite, play it again 365 times and then your work in the UAE is done for the year. You can pick up your annual tax-free paycheck on the way out and try not to get too much sand in your trousers.
As Roker started to shake hands with his sweaty fans on the beach, his security staff immediately deemed me as a threat. Before I could grab him for some one-on-one time and really press him with questions of significant merit, one of the men dressed in black shoved me aside and I fell into the scalding-hot sand.
"If you want to talk God -- ehh, I mean Roker -- then you have to have a sign, preferably one giving mad props to a US State, a relative living in that state, a sorority from a historical Black College or a political affiliation you have with Donald Trump. No exceptions," the security guard barked at me.
I puffed out my chest in an attempt to show the security guard my canary yellow Abu Dhabi T-shirt with the cool falcons on it. I assumed my attire was as good as any media credential but the security guard wouldn't budge. Unfortunately, the shirt was now drenched in blood, sweat and tears. The color from the T-shirt dye was starting to run so the security guard probably thought it was a fake.
My pregnant wife, still riding the high one only gets after schmoozing with a high-value celebrity, held me back as I threatened a physical confrontation with the Benghazi commando. She was right. This was no time for a showdown. She instructed me to use the pen, which was always mightier than the one-inch pocket knife I concealed in my jean shorts.
Time was of the essence and I knew I had to act fast because Roker was sweating like a melting piece of Easter bunny chocolate. It was just a matter of time before he would retire to the sauna inside his luxury suite. Any sauna would be a relief compared to the heat these brave Americans were suffering through on the beach. We lost a lot of fine soldiers that day but the question remained: With the NFL season about to commence, who are the quarterbacks on the fringe of being considered 'elite'?
I needed Roker to look into his crystal ball and reveal the answers to me and the rest of the world. So with the cameras rolling and an international audience watching, I scribbled the only name I could spell correctly on a sign and held it up for all to see.
SB Nation picked up the story and it even made the front page of the local newspaper in Abu Dhabi. It appeared the international media finally had a voice behind a question that had loomed all summer.
In the hot-as-hell desert, all of our athletic balls become deflated at some point. No one really cares about Brady.
About two minutes after Roker said, "Now let's see what the weather is like in your neck of the woods," he listened briefly to the little alien device stuck in his ear and then made a beeline for his air-conditioned tent.
No autographs, no kissing sweaty babies. Nothing. More importantly, no answers.
Just then, my wife let out a painful shriek and went into labor right there on the beach. I don't have a "PhD" at the end of my name or anything but I could only assume the drastic heat must have jump-started the contractions. Roker heard the commotion and rushed back to the scene. He was sweaty, he was tired but he was more than willing to deliver our baby. Like I said earlier: God among men.
After the birth, but before I instructed Roker to cut the umbilical cord, we shared a moment. We locked eyes and I could see a magical tear running down his face. He was happy. Overjoyed. Never did he think he would help deliver a baby on a beach in Abu Dhabi.
But before I could pop the big question, he gently placed his index finger on my lips in an attempt to silence me. "Shhhh," he said as drips of his sweat/tear mixture started to fall on my new-born child. "Just enjoy this..."
He then asked me what the baby's name would be. Overcome with joy myself, I couldn't quite voice the words but I leaned in close and whispered it into his sweaty ear. The name really isn't for public consumption but I'll give you a hint: It's started with a "J" and ended with a "Flacco".
