Excerpt: Waiting for players to walk back through the tunnel, I had the pleasure of visiting with Jereome Bettis. Nice guy, huge hands! After 10 minutes, the media was allowed into the Jets locker room. I lived out a childhood fantasy by filing into the locker room right behind The Bus (have to admit, in my fantasy, we were both wearing football uniforms instead of business attire).  Someone called out Bettis the second we stepped inside. I turned and saw Brett Favre chatting with members of the  coaching staff and scarfing down pizza.

The roads were mind-boggling. The Meadowlands practically had its own highway district. I thought I had been better prepared. Over the previous five days I had driven through downtown Philadelphia, changing all four lanes on Market Street winding around city hall. I had covered virtually all of central New Jersey, realizing not until the 11^th or 12^th township that in order to turn left, a driver must exit right. I had crossed the George Washington Bridge and scaled the outskirts of New York City on my way to Bristol, Connecticut, where several late afternoon meetings left me driving in a dark, ferocious rainstorm on three different freeways to my hotel in Stamford later that night.

Bristol had been on Thursday. It was now Sunday. My morning drive out of Stamford and to East Rutherford had been so smooth, so uneventful that, in my growing self-assurance, I started thinking of myself as an easterner. I ignored speed limits and accelerated out of toll booths. Mentally, I referred to my destination that morning not as New Jersey, but simply as Jersey. Another week and it would have been Joisey.

But driving around the Meadowlands proved my bravado unfounded, for the roads were a mix of public highways, unmarked side streets and parking lots, rendering my GPS basically useless. Without it, I was lost.

At least I knew what I was looking for. Bruce Speight, the New York Jets public relations director, had called me that morning to say I could pick up my credential for the Week 15 Jets-Bills game at Gate A-10. He apologized for not having another media parking pass on such short notice and explained that I needed to park in Green Lot 25 – or something like that – and take a shuttle to the stadium. I pulled in to the wrong lot three different times. Each of my errors was greeted not with a kind, patient female computer voice, but rather with a bemused parking attendant face. The owner of the face was always holding what looked to be miniature orange light savers, and every time, he would give me a whole new set of directions to screw up.

I eventually found Green Lot 25. The shuttle actually turned out to be a haggard bus. The only two passengers on board were a 350-pound parking attendant and myself. The parking attendant was wearing an old James Stewart Detroit Lions jersey. I thought it was something you might see at a flea market…if this were Michigan and the year was 2000. I couldn’t help but inquire. The man explained how the jersey was just one of many retros in his collection. He proudly listed off a few of his others, making each sound not like a $120 expenditure but some prestigious award.

After the conversation halted at his Lawrence Taylor throwback, I spent the rest of the brief shuttle ride in one of those weird states of spontaneous introspection. For the last 16 of my 22 years on earth, Sunday mornings during football season had involved waking up at home, killing an hour around the house and then heading to the television for a day of personal time with the remote. Football Sundays were a blissful, almost ritualistic form of solitary confinement. I never watched with other people and I certainly never left the house. Every NFL game I’d seen had been through a television in Boise.

Friends and family got used to my routine, but everyone else was always perplexed. “You watch alone? Like, you mean, by yourself? Just you? No one else?” People would assume there was some mistake, or that they were being deceived. The conversation I really grew to love was the one that started with someone saying, “You’ve never even been to an NFL game?!” My answer to this question, for the longest time, was Correct – I have never been to an NFL game. This often sparked follow up questions that were really just intensified versions of the original question. Something like, “You’ve never even been to one NFL game!?” Nope. “Not a single game – ever?” It always bothered people when my astonishment didn’t match theirs, and as a remedy they’d explain to me that it didn’t make sense because I wrote books and did interviews about football and stuff.

My reason for never having attended a game was simple: I loved pro football and wanted my first time to be special. If the NFL had made purity bands, I probably would have worn one.

My abstinence was rewarding. My first NFL game came in October 2008, two months before the Week 15 Jets-Bills game. It was up in Foxboro for a Monday Nighter between the Broncos and Patriots. Thanks to Tony Kornheiser and Ron Jaworski, I had the privilege of sitting in the ESPN booth. I was thrilled that my first game was on a Monday night because it meant I didn’t miss any action on Sunday.

Missing the action on Sunday was also a big part of why I had never attended a game. I never understood how someone could analyze the NFL if they had been stuck at a stadium watching only one game all day. I wanted to find out. That’s why I opted for the Jets-Bills contest. It was a division matchup with a 1:00 start time and playoff implications. In other words, it was a prototypical NFL game. And it was official closure on the “small city NFL kid” marketing angle that we had milked for so many years.

The shuttle stopped two parking lots away from Gate A-10. I didn’t mind walking. My first impression of the Sunday NFL scene was one of disbelief. Three hours prior to kickoff, there were easily 30,000 people in the parking lot. About 29,900 of them were drinking beer, barbequing and playing games. The other 100 were walking around, hands stuffed in pockets, muttering “Tickets. Tickets? Tickets. Tickets? Need tickets? Tickets.” The scalpers’ surreptitiousness made me wonder if that’s how drug dealers worked. Crack. Crack? Crack. Need crack? Crack.

The parking lot was one huge party. I pulled out my phone to confirm that it was indeed a little after 10:00 am Sunday morning. I had obviously heard the tailgating stories before, but I’d always assumed that tailgating was one of those activities that everyone talks about it but few people actually do. You know, like hiking. Or volunteering. I was wrong. Across the stadium parking lot, grown men were playing freshmen-type drinking games. There were ladies flipping burgers, laughing at ribald jokes and using language that would have been considered salty even on a fishing vessel. The only people having more fun than them were the gobs of kids launching footballs back and forth between campers and SUV’s. And just about everyone was sporting some form of NFL apparel.

After studying the scene for 45 minutes, I picked up my credential and made my way into Giants Stadium. I crossed paths with at least six different stadium operators and security personnel (the neon jacket folks), all of whom said hello. I remembered from being in Foxboro that stadium attendants down near the field are some of the friendliest people in the world. Even the ones who run the elevators and see nothing of the game ooze joy and enthusiasm. I still have no idea why – I just know it’s worth appreciating.

Heading for the press box, I happened to ride the elevator with Greg Gumble and Dan Dierdorf. They were calling the game for CBS. I generally have nerves of steel when it comes to introducing myself to strangers out of the blue (as long as there’s no possibility of ever dating them). This goes for famous strangers, too. But in this case, I was stifled by the fact that I had no idea when Gumble and Dierdorf would be getting off. What level is the broadcast booth on, I wondered. (The elevator attendant was blocking my view of the illuminated button.) And how fast is this elevator? Imagine coaching basketball and having to draw up a play without knowing how many seconds were on the shot clock. You’d probably do what I did, which was just stand there.

Gumble and Dierdorf prattled for about 15 seconds before getting off. I got off about 20 seconds after them. The press box at Giants Stadium is huge. It consists of three rows of seats that stretch end to end, plus two large rooms and wide hallways. There were over 300 people there, and what’s funny is that with HD TV and the internet these days, most of them didn’t actually need to be there.

I found Bruce Speight and visited with him for several minutes. I asked him what was his favorite part of the PR job was. He spent literally one whole minute searching for the perfect response. (A whole minute! Think about how long of a pause this actually is during the flow of a one-on-one conversation!) His answer was that there’s truly something new everyday, and that it’s all so stimulating. Bruce is a very genuine guy; I wondered if during that one minute he had been sorting out several favorite things in his head before narrowing it down to these two, or if he had spent the time vacillating between only these two things, hoping to find a winner before ultimately settling for the tie. I never found out, but I knew he meant what he said.

When I was up in Foxboro, I had briefly left the Monday Night booth in the third quarter to go check out the press box. Now, waiting for the Jets and Bills to kick off, I remembered how dreadfully quiet the Patriot press box had been that night. The Meadowlands was a little livelier, but all in all, similar. Watching football from a hushed press box, cut off from 70,000 cheering people, is like viewing a summer rock concert through a library window.

Wanting to get a true NFL Sunday experience, I left the press box and made my way down to the middle bowl of seats. Sitting at about the 20-yard-line in the calm, 42-degree haze, I felt the vibrations of energy from the mostly besotted crowd.

The Jets got the ball first and marched 72 yards on a seven-play touchdown drive. The crowd went berserk. Then, after the extra point, everyone sat and waited while the people at home watched commercials. After a while, the teams came back onto the field. Buffalo’s Leodis McKelvin fielded the kickoff at the six and returned it 26 yards. Then we all sat and waited again. Eventually, the Bills offense trotted onto the field and conducted a nine-play, 52-yard drive, culminating in a Rian Lindell field goal. That was followed by more sitting and waiting.

Buffalo’s first drive had been extended by a successful fake punt (a staple of a Bobby April-coached special teams). When their second possession reached fourth-and-16^th, I tried to guess which idiot in my area would be that one fan who loves to show off their football acumen. On this day it was some guy sitting in the section to my left. Just as Bills punter Brian Moorman lined up, the guy, astutely remembering what happened 20 minutes before, screamed “Watch the fake!”

The Bills did not fake. They punted into the end zone. It happened right before we sat around and waited again. With all the sitting and waiting, I spent the rest of the first half trying not to think about how much other NFL action I had missed by not being able to flip channels.

I went back to the press box for the second half. I sat mainly in the lunch area, watching multiple games on multiple television screens. I had traveled cross country to take in a Sunday game and ultimately decided that I felt closer to Brett Favre when I saw his face on television, rather than not at all from 30 miles above the field. It was an amazing ending to the game. In the closing minutes, New York defensive end Shaun Ellis recovered a J.P. Losman fumble and returned it for the game-winning score. But many reporters didn’t witness the final plays because they were scrambling down to the locker room. I soon followed them, but not before seeing Jets linebacker coach Bryan Cox – yes, that Bryan Cox – leave the coach’s box sucking on a pool stick that I later realized was actually a victory cigar.

Waiting for the players to walk back through the tunnel, I had the pleasure of visiting with Jerome Bettis (NBC had sent him to do a story). Bettis is the latest piece of evidence supporting my theory that every professional athlete in the world has bigger hands than you’d guess. After 10 minutes, the media was allowed into the Jets locker room. I lived-out a childhood fantasy by filing into the locker room right behind The Bus (have to admit, in my fantasy, we were both wearing football uniforms instead of business attire). Someone called out Bettis the second we stepped inside. I turned and saw Brett Favre chatting with members of the coaching staff and scarfing down pizza.

The Jets locker room looked like this: round, green carpet, mahogany lockers; players strolling around half-dressed, full-dressed, in towels and some in less than that. If any other work place had allowed reporters into that environment at that particular moment, there would be an avalanche of lawsuits. But the NFL, despite its DRACONIAN reputation, is a media-friendly operation. It is mandatory that locker room doors open after players have a 10-minute “cooling off” period.

Men – and a few women – scurried from locker to locker, shoving cameras, note pads, recorders and bright lights in players’ faces. Some of the players were still stark naked. Most of them were treated like meat. Linemen were rotten meat – untouched by virtually everyone. Defensive players were treated better, but most still considered interchangeable. A defensive player might be patiently answering questions with 20 reporters around him, and when a wide receiver or running back showed up, about 15 of those reporters would bolt, even if the defensive player was in mid-sentence.

Then there was Favre. He shed his uniform uninterrupted at his locker alongside Kellen Clemens. You didn’t have to be a sociologist to recognize that there must have been a rule – either written or, more likely, unwritten – against approaching the living legend. Sure enough, about five minutes into the circus, Bruce Speight yelled “Brett Favre is heading to the podium.” Everyone had a chance to approach him then.

Every press conference room is smaller than it appears on TV. There were probably 75 people crammed into this particular room, roughly 30 or 40 more than the fire marshal would have preferred.

It’s amazing how many reporters have egos. What most of them do – and I’m sure I’ve been guilty of this at times, myself – is preface their questions with a quick oration that’s supposed to show how much they know. Example: Common sense tells you that if you want to get Brett Favre’s take on, say, his team’s play in the third quarter, you should just ask, “Brett, what did you think of the way you guys played in the third quarter?” But what so many reporters, even print reporters, will do is say, “Brett, you guys came out in the third quarter and it seemed like you were trying to establish a rhythm on the ground, then you got some first downs on the second drive and you had the touchdown pass near the end there when the defense bit on the play action…overall, what did you think of the way you guys played in the third quarter?”

A few of reporters did this. Just going by my own assessment of body language and facial expressions, none of it impressed Favre. When the 10-minute press conference ended, Favre, wearing only spandex shorts and an undershirt, hobbled back to the showers, looking well beyond his 39 years of age.

The locker room continued to buzz for another 20 minutes. Bruce, having endured a hyperactive day or errands and problem-solving, stood in the middle of the room and wearily watched things wind down. He had the look of a parent who had spent all day pushing a stroller and chasing three tireless kids at the zoo. Feeling mild stupor myself, I decided to spice things up by approaching guard Alan Faneca. I didn’t really want anything from him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Faneca,” I said. He deliberately perked up. “My name’s Andy Benoit.” I didn’t expect him to know who I was, and indeed, he did not. “I just wanted to say hello, introduce myself and say that I really admire the way you play the game.” He looked at me for a second, waiting for an ulterior motive to be exposed. When one never did, he said “Oh, why thank you.” I said, “yep.” We both looked at each other one more time, both privately debating whether the current awkwardness had ruined the pleasant exchange.

By the time I left the locker room, the sun had disappeared and the second slate of NFL games was nearly over. It was one of those evenings where 7:00 pm felt like midnight. I couldn’t remember where to find the shuttle bus. While deliberating whether to go through the expensive embarrassment of calling a cab to drive me around and look for Green Lot 25, I spotted the parking attendant in the James Stewart jersey. He didn’t recognize me, but he was able to point me in the right direction.

Leaving the Meadowlands wasn’t nearly as big a deal as finding it. I listened to the Ravens-Steelers game in the car on my way to the hotel in Maple Shade, New Jersey, and I endured the surreal experience of my buddy texting me the latest NFL scores. I got back to the hotel just in time for the start of the Cowboys-Giants Sunday Night game. It was a rinky-dink hotel, and my room was far from comforting. It had the milieu of a place someone might go to abandon their dreams. The smell of my delivered pizza made the warm air feel almost gooey.

But it felt great to sit alone in front of the TV and watch football. It almost felt like a true Sunday again.