A day in my life during a tournament

I have been curious about Saudi Arabia recently, not as a tourist, but as someone working in sports to see how sports and events are shaping up here. Colleagues, friends, and a fair share of LinkedIn updates had my curiosity piqued. So when I got the opportunity to be part of a football tournament in Jeddah, I knew it would be a memorable experience, at the very least.

This is a glimpse into a typical workday (all days are workdays during a tournament) for me, working behind the scenes in sports: part problem-solving, part bad coffee, and part existential scrolling.

6:27: I wake up to the intense sunlight inside my room—I forgot to close the curtains entirely last night, and now I’m awake 33 minutes before my alarm.

6:42: After a brief attempt at getting a few more minutes of sleep, I get out of my bed and make myself a coffee in my room.

7:00: I am in the gym on the dot! I don’t feel like doing weights, so I get on the treadmill and put it to 8 incline and begin walking and scrolling on my phone. A referee warming up on the treadmill next to me says hello, we make some brief small talk before he begins running full throttle. I am slightly embarrassed at my 4.5 kmph pace, but hey, I have it on 8 incline!

7:40: I get back to my room, put my clothes for laundry and get in the shower. I have 30 minutes to get ready and go down for breakfast.

8:06: I reach the restaurant. A lot of my colleagues are there, as they are every day. I like the company on most days, but we will be running into each other all day long, and for 10 more days after that. There will be plenty of moments for chit-chat. I would like to eat on my own. The Bangladeshi chef and I have become acquaintances. We say hello and he asks me “the usual”? Already I have spent way too much time in this hotel. My two fried eggs, slightly runny, are in front of me. I try to resist the hash brown but it has miraculously found its way on my plate. One wouldn’t hurt, I walked for 30 minutes on 8 incline after all.

8:30: I reach the lobby and wait for two of my colleagues there. I could have left at 9 am, but we’re sharing a car through the competition and need to work around each other’s schedules. 30 minutes is fine.

8:50: I put my bags down in our office, go and check whether the press conference room is ready. Things look okay, the sound guys are done with their test. I come back to our office and read the Indian Express with my takeaway iced latte. I go on Instagram, check stories of friends, and friends of friends and relatives I mistakenly and regrettably added. People generally seem to be quite excited by the prospect of war. Okay?!

10:00: The first match coordination meeting (MCM) between the two teams playing the first quarter-final starts. I remind them about their team media activities, what they’re obligated to do, and meet the team media officers of the two teams.

10:40: The MCM gets over, I make my way to the press conference room. Team A's head coach and player are about to arrive, and there appears to be some commotion around the sound system. Apparently, all the TV cameras plugged their cables in the split box, and it just conked off. Two technicians are trying to fix it vigorously. Three tests were done, one just this morning, and yet, things fail randomly all the time. I now have enough experience to not panic. I apologise to the first team who has now arrived, and ask for five more minutes for the technicians to try and figure it out.

11:05: We can’t make the coach and player wait any longer. My approach would be to ask the team staff to help with translation, since our setup is useless if the interpreter can’t hear anything in their booths. My manager prefers asking the moderator who is conducting the press conference to translate. I disagree but debating it won’t fix the sound. A decision is better than making the team wait any longer. We get them on the stage. The moderator does his best to translate from Arabic to English. I don’t understand Arabic but I can guess how it went from the collective expression of the media. Still, I make sure to go and commend him afterwards for his courage. This isn’t in his scope of work. I thank the coach, player and Team A delegates for their patience and apologise to them and the media for the translation and the sound.

11:30: Team B comes with the coach and player. I do the same rounds of apology once the press conference is over. Apologising isn’t in my scope of work but I would rather not be that person who throws their hands up when the ship is sinking.

12:05: I look at the sound guy who seems to be on the verge of tears. He’s not happy with how this has turned out. None of us are, but all the blame is going his way. I ask him if everything was tested well. He says, “three times!” What’s done is done. He adds, “We will just make sure that it doesn’t happen again”. It cannot, I reiterate. But I agree. What’s done is done. I share that the same thing happened to me in 2022 in India. The sound and simultaneous interpretation both failed despite many rounds of testing. It appears to make him feel a bit better. I then proceed to overshare that I asked the team delegates and team liaison officer to help with the translation. They did a pretty decent job. Interpretation is tough! Anyone working with the team is more prepared because they’ve got used to thinking in two languages over those days. Starting randomly and being put on the spot five minutes before is hard. I say all this as an expert in no languages, just an appreciator of those who are. The sound guy looks confused. He didn’t ask for my thoughts on the challenges of interpretation or my fascination with polyglots, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s about to cry any more.

12:30: I give a little debrief of the sound issues, and the playing teams’ reaction in the venue team meeting to keep everyone in the loop. I also follow up on the pending matters from the previous day’s meeting. It’s matchday minus one (MD-1 as we call it in our world)—the day before a match day—and time is running out! But it feels like everyone’s attention is focused on the other venue, where the competition’s first match will take place.

13:15: Six of us head over to the venue cafeteria for lunch. What do we have today? Rather, what can I, a vegetarian, take from this spread? It’s actually not too bad. Two mini halloumi sandwiches, some salad with hummus, a zaatar bread roll, and a mini tiny pizza. Plus some diet Pepsi with ice. We have a nice, long lunch of 45 minutes. I chat with my colleague from Japan, E who is handling protocol and VIP management. Like me, she's an external who is contracted specifically for this tournament. She grew up across countries and speaks many languages. I joke with her if she can be our back-up translator.

14:15: We’re back at the office. Our venue manager, S, has set up a cozy space for us with snacks. He’s even got his personal speakers here with some music constantly playing. It’s a nice touch!

14:30: I receive a text message from someone in the overlays team saying the photographers’ stools have been placed, and I can go and check. I make my way to the field of play. The sun outside is strong and the air is dry. The Jeddah loo is unforgiving. I count the chairs on the four corners. They are way lesser than mentioned in the documents. I let the person know. He says to wait; he will come to the pitch to discuss. Great! More time in the sun. We resolve it on the spot. One more box ticked.

15:15: After checking all the media areas for pending items, I return to the office. I speak with the venue manager on a topic that I need his input on. He asks me to follow up tomorrow. I message my husband to see what he’s up to. He’s gone to the hills to work while I’m away. He sends me a picture of beautiful snow-capped mountains. I am 90% happy for him, 10% jealous.

15:30: I call my local counterparts to debrief on the day. Only one of the three is at the venue. I decide to speak with him and ask him to update the rest—though I’ll be putting everything in our WhatsApp group anyway. I can rely on myself. We’ve made good progress on most things since I arrived in Jeddah four days ago, but a couple of things are still missing. He promises everything will be completed by day’s end and he’ll send me pictures to confirm. I trust that he will. Because I will follow up again.

16:15: I decide to get a head-start on my end of day report. I write the details of the press conference issues, among other routine updates.

16:50: My security colleague, M from Bahrain (someone I’ve worked with before) says he’s done with work for the day and heads back to the hotel. He is full of stories, and one of the most fun people to be around. Just yesterday, I took a lesson in Middle East politics from him. He explained to me which countries are similar to each other, his perspective on the crisis, and why everyone in Oman being extremely chill is a mystery in the Gulf too. His ability to leave without performative lingering is admirable.

17:15: I open Reddit to see what’s new. More war news? More war news. I open Instagram. Same old. Things are doomed. I open my family group to send a picture of the stadium, my way of saying hello. I see my previous pictures buried in a sea of YouTube links.

17:52: I finally get the update I’ve been waiting for, and finish my report. My colleagues need 15 more minutes. I start growing impatient. I decide to take another round of my areas. On my way to the mixed zone that required some layout rearrangements, I see the barriers finally arriving. One more thing (almost) checked off. The mixed zone is where the media can interview the players post-match, but we can’t do the full set-up until after the teams arrive. I meet the person handling the barriers. After a quick chat, he offers to help me set it up once the match kicks off. Perfect. I take his number and let him know I will call him on matchdays. Oh, now I need to update my report to note we already received these barricades.

18:12: I redo and submit my report, close my laptop and head towards the parking, hoping to catch my colleagues on the way. I spot the department HOD walking with them. I say hello. As a freelancer, organisational structures can be a bit hard to figure out. But this is my ninth competition with them, so I understand the dynamics a bit better now. He asks me a couple of things, which I answer with what I know for now. He’s here with his other HQ colleagues. They go elsewhere.

I ask my colleagues if we can leave. Nope. We have to wait for the boss to leave first. FFS. I tell them I’ll be in the media centre, and they should call me once they’re ready. I go to check on the rest of the areas. Catering is wrapping up here, but there’s still some coffee left. I grab a very cold americano and take a sip. Instagram stories again. War. Sceneries. Reels are way more fun. Cats. Cats. Food. War. Football. Cats.

18:16: “Let’s go”. PHEW.

18:45: We finally arrive back at the hotel. I have some time today so I decide I can go to the gym again. By the time I’m back in my room, I’ve given up. I’m tired. I switch on the VPN and video call with my mom for a bit.

19:50: After a warm shower, I order from Hunger Station, the Zomato/Swiggy of Saudi. Another vegetarian adventure in a land of meat. I order a falafel wrap.

20:40: The rider calls me, he’s waiting in the front lobby. I rush downstairs and spot a few other delegation members waiting for their orders. So many delivery guys showed up at the same time that the guard brought all the orders inside. Now we’re sorting through the packets spread out on the lobby sofas. This is tournament life: full of room service and takeaways.

22:30: The falafel wrap is actually quite nice, even if it’s cold. I eat while watching yet another rerun of Parks and Recreation. Whenever I feel less inspired by work, I turn to Leslie Knope to get inspired by her passion. Tomorrow is matchday. The real test. All the careful coordination will come together, likely with a few challenges, as is typical for the first matchday. That's the thing about tournament work: it's exhausting, occasionally maddening, but never boring, especially when there are thousands of fans in the stadium. Fandom is occasionally maddening too. Why do people (especially grown-ups) care so much about a team, an athlete, amidst global chaos? I don’t know. But in a packed stadium, it never seems trivial.

23:10: I set my alarm, check it twice, and make sure the curtains are properly closed this time. No early sunrise wake-up call tomorrow, please. Tomorrow, it all begins again—the same day, slightly rearranged. I think about the mountains my husband sent me pictures of. Soon. But for now, there is the beautiful-organised chaos of tournament life to navigate. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Well, maybe for those mountains.