Glendale, Arizona
BILL BELICHICK IS NOT a good loser. Not long after the end of Super Bowl XLII, Belichick sat next to his son in the front row of a large gray charter coach designated “Bus 1.” For ten minutes they did not speak. They both looked stunned. No one else on the front of the bus spoke either. Most sat silent and stared straight ahead.

Belichick, who is famous for the grubby, homeless-chic look he sports on the sidelines, had changed from the red, hooded sweatshirt he wore for the game. He was now wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, and a maroon tie that he fingered distractedly as he sat waiting. A call on his cell phone momentarily interrupted his stupor. Belichick spoke quickly – maybe a sentence or two – and then hung up. After several additional minutes of quiet, he got up, stepped off the bus, spoke to a young man in a suit, and returned to his seat, where he once again sat silent, this time with his arms folded across his chest. He was ready to leave. Losing makes a man impatient.