Super Sunday started by crossing a dream off of my life-long to-do list.

It ended with having another one of those dreams ripped from my heart.

When the clock struck midnight on Feb. 3, 2008, I was somewhere in a sea of Playboy Bunnies at the magazine’s party in Chandler, Az. It all started with a colleague and I on the red carpet and ended inside the shindig with hundreds of athletes, University of Arizona co-ed’s, L.C. and Audrina from “The Hills,” Alyssa Milano, McLovin, and of course, Heff.

Let’s put it this way - Heff’s parties not only meet the hype, but exceed it. You know the stars are out when Lawyer Milloy and Ty Law, two All-Pro members of the Patriots first title team in 2002, can party hardy at a New England-New York Super Bowl without being bothered. The same thing could be said for Jerry Jones and his new nose.

And that was just the beginning for what could have been the greatest day in the 23 years I’ve spent on this planet. Instead of just winning the Super Bowl, the Patriots could complete an undefeated season and establish themselves as the greatest team to ever play the game. And instead of just going to the Super Bowl, I had an All-Access pass, with free reign to do as I pleased. 

That meant the introductions, the locker room, the celebration. Everything.

Running onto the field after one of my teams won a title has been a dream of mine for as long as I’ve been a fan. And this was my favorite team, with whom I will always tie to my community and the place I grew up, which is a small town between Boston and Providence that borders Foxborough.

My hometown is one of the few places where the Pats are bigger than the Red Sox. We’ve had our array of Patriots neighbors, including Charlie Weis, who built the house two doors down in his first stint as an assistant here under Bill Parcells. He might have lived there for six weeks tops before following the Tuna to New York after Super Bowl XXXI. And we’d pass by Good Ole’ Tuna’s house when we dropped off a member of our carpool each morning on the way to school.

York Road’s only Mormon was former punter Lee Johnson. Rodney Harrison and Don Davis are neighbors, a little too close to a street named Colts Way. Matt Light’s younger brother and I went to school together. We still text each other once in a while, on everything from politics to how Matt Cassel’s arm candy, Lauren Killian, is hotter than Tom Brady’s arm candy, Giselle. I’ve lusted for Lauren long before I knew she was involved with Cassel, while she was a standout volleyball player at USC.

So this was the ultimate chance and probably the only chance I’d ever get to live this dream. Sure, with my All-Access pass, I couldn’t wear my Tom Brady jersey, but I was still able to cheer, get excited and ultimately get nervous, which culminated with one of the security guards asking if I needed medical assistance while suffering a panic attack during the Patriots’ final drive.

And when Randy Moss beat Sam Madison to put the Pats ahead 14-10 with just minutes to go, I understood how close that dream was to becoming reality. Many sleepless nights of running to the 50-yard line, or center court in the case of Boston College winning the Final Four, kissing the ground and probably sobbing while trying to make the moment last a lifetime, were about to come to fruition.

And it wasn’t cockiness or confidence. I certainly knew the game wasn’t over, but I knew how close it was to being over. At that point, I probably wanted it more than anyone else in the stadium, including Eli Manning.

But I could only watch. On such an adrenaline rush, I stood waiting to explode in celebration as Eli and the Giants offense made play after play down the field. And after Manning’s mad dash and the most improbable completion to David Tyree, my heart sank knowing what was about to come. The fatal flaw in the mirage that was a perfect record was hidden in the Patriots’ pass defense. It was fully exposed when Ellis Hobbes was left in single-coverage on Plaxico Burress.

The most frustrating thing wasn’t just losing, but losing by inches. You always hate going to the show and losing, but losing by 36 like the Patriots did in Super Bowl XX isn’t nearly as bad as losing by an inch. What was it? Four third downs and a fourth-down conversion on that final drive? A dropped interception and a sack that never was?

Somewhere I’d like to throw 53 guys into the Scott Norwood, Kevin Dyson, so-close-but-yet-so-far Hall of Fame, but I’m afraid the public doesn’t want to remember everybody that could have done something more, or something right that never happened.

The worst part wasn’t that the Patriots were denied perfection. As I’ve said all along, I’d rather go 0-16 than 16-0 and lose in the playoffs. And as the great Vince Lombardi said, “Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” And the only way a season is defined as successful with all of that talent is with a victory in the final game. Everything else is just failure.

So as Brady’s fourth-down desperation heave missed the receiver and Bill Belichick, in what was his worst coaching job since arriving in New England, left for the sideline, my colleague’s parents grabbed a picture from inside the ropes and proceeded to enjoy the Giants’ celebration. I wanted no part of that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, instead finding a place on the Patriots’ sideline amongst the confetti, and I sat there, watching another team and other fans live my dream, while making the same face Derek Jeter makes when his teams are eliminated from the playoffs.

I’m sure Jeter’s pretty confident his teams will be back the following year. Myself? Not so much. I’ll need another few miracles-plus-one to have that chance again.

That was the worst part.