This feature originally ran in The Standard-Times on Jan. 30, 2012.

By Nick Tavares

On my third day covering the Patriots the week before Super Bowl XLII, I was late.

I was living in Tempe, Ariz., at the time, but the far reaches of Northern Scottsdale, where the team was staying and preparing, were still something of a mystery. Lost in the urban sprawl of three-lane roads and endless stucco strip malls, I finally wound around to the hotel, parked, ran out with my notebook and tape recorder, and wound through the bowels of this hotel.

The NFL is big on official signs, so, I kept following all the authorized, laminated placards that read "PATRIOTS" followed by arrow signs. Eventually, I walked through the hotel kitchen, past storage lockers, and came upon a door that read "OFFICIAL USE ONLY," overseen by a sleepy security guard.

I flashed my media pass, he nodded, and I walked in to an empty room.

Up on the white boards were Xs, Os, arrows and charts. On the tables were playbooks and laptops. It was one of the Patriots coaches work rooms.

Finally, the guard piped up.

"Hey, who are you with?"

"Um, I'm a writer.

"You're — you're not supposed to be here!"

"No, I don't think I am."

And that was a mentality I fought for the first couple of days. Do I belong here? Am I really supposed to be surrounded by the entire staffs of ESPN, Sports Illustrated, the Boston Globe, etc.? I'll never forget the look that Dan Shaughnessy shot me when I accidentally slammed a door into him walking into a press conference. His immediately enraged face read, "No, little boy, you don't."

But I worked past it, only because the enormity of the event called for it. More than 4,000 media credentials were passed out for that Super Bowl, meaning that I was fighting with as many writers as I was Telemundo reporters in wedding dresses asking Eli Manning and Tom Brady to marry them.

The scale of the event is tremendous. When an athlete reaches that stage and says, "We're just happy to be here," their mindset is understandable. Even for guys used to hitting the field in front of 70,000 fans every Sunday, the Super Bowl is on another level.

That week, the Patriots were in high spirits. Veterans like Matt Light and Russ Hochstein kept a loose vibe around the facilities. Teddy Bruschi, Rodney Harrison and Wes Welker were ready to do business. Randy Moss looked determined, answering questions with a respectful tone that underscored how much this moment meant. Larry Izzo discussed working out to Metallica. Brady was Senator Brady, as usual. But on the whole, the team looked relaxed, like this was just another game.

The Giants, however, treated this like anything but another game.

They arrived in Arizona decked out in all black, noting that this was the funeral for the Patriots' dynasty. Throughout the week, defensive lineman Michael Strahan was funny, but obviously a solid guy who meant business. The same went for some of the other Giants I spoke to — Justin Tuck, Antonio Pierce, Osi Umenyiora, etc.

I thought they were too tense.

As legendary as it's become, the game itself was kind of a bore for the first three quarters. It wasn't a defensive battle as much as one of missed execution.

By the fourth quarter, the Patriots' offense looked to finally click, and with 2:42 left, Brady connected with Moss in the back of the end zone to give New England a 14-10 lead. The undefeated dream looked like a reality.

You know the rest. Eli Manning avoids a sack, throws a pass that fuses to receiver David Tyree's helmet, and then finds Plaxico Burress virtually alone to give the Giants a 17-14 lead.

Those last few minutes were frantic. I reworked my two deadline stories — one on Moss' performance, the other on the New England offensive line — on the fly, then ran down nine flights of stairs with writer Dave Brown to the Patriots' locker room and interview area to get quotes.

It was a morgue. Junior Seau had lost his voice and could barely speak above a whisper. Bruschi, ever the professional, put on a good face but was obviously trying to work past the hurt. Brady was Senator Brady. Moss looked furious.

On the other side of a dividing curtain were the Giants. Peyton Manning barreled through to congratulate his brother. Kate Hudson and Kurt Russell were hanging out for some reason. Strahan, holding the Vince Lombardi trophy high, was shouting into the air and towards reporters:

"WHAT DID I TELL YOU? WHAT DID I SAY ALL WEEK? I TOLD YOU WE COULD DO THIS!"

The two sides of a championship game, divided by a cheap hanging linen.

Running back up to the press section, I finished my two stories, beat deadline by about 10 minutes, and then hung around the stadium until after 11 p.m., about three hours after Tyree pinned Manning's pass to his head. Walking out, there was a lone Patriots fan, decked out in a three corner hat, a white Brady jersey, foam finger and a sign that had "19-0" crossed out. As we passed him, he was in tears and calling out, "why? Why?"

"I don't know, man," I told him as I walked back to the media shuttle. "Hell of a game, though."

And it was. Putting lingering allegiances aside, I filed 11 stories in six days, all features or analysis on the long side for print. I managed to not embarrass myself too badly, fitting in with a hard-working group of professionals and, most importantly, not standing out for lack of NFL experience.

So, on the biggest sports stage I can imagine, I held my own. Through endless security passes, shuttles, events and enough strange souvenir swag to fill an oversized Tupperware bin, I got to leave a small footnote on sports history.

And I was only late once.

Nick Tavares is a web reporter and videographer for SouthCoastToday.com