For the Patriots, the hard work is done. Bill Belichick’s boys punched their ticket to Arizona by topping any and all comers from the powerful American Football Conference. All that remains is a night’s worth of mop up work against the champions of the inferior National Football Conference, a mere formality no matter how many words are wasted these next two weeks trying to convince you the Giants have a chance to win Super Bowl XLII.

No, the toughest challenge ahead is for New England football fans who want to get into the big game. Flying or driving to that great retirement community in the southwest is difficult and expensive enough. Finding a hotel room within the same time zone as University of Phoenix Stadium is tougher than a three day old pork chop. But if you really want to break the bank, try securing a ticket to the Super Bowl if you don’t already have one.

America’s biggest sporting event has become America’s biggest corporate cash cow. A-list celebrities and wealthy businessmen have no trouble landing seats inside the bowl. For the Average Joe, available tickets are scarcer than sanity in the Tom Cruise household.

Oh sure, they tell you season ticket holders of the participating teams can win tickets through a lottery. Tell me, though. Unless you know one of the suits who help fill Fidelity’s Gillette Stadium luxury suites, have you ever met anyone who’s actually won one of these ticket lotteries?

Face it folks. If you want to see the Pats beat up on the Giants in person, there’s really only one viable option; a scalper. And that’s only an option if you’re willing to scalp the top off of your savings account.

Now, I’m not saying there aren’t rare instances of people lucking into a couple of ducats to the dance. While in Tampa for the 2001 title game between the Ravens and Giants, I read the story of a father and son outside of Raymond James Stadium on Super Sunday when a big black limousine pulled up beside them. The window rolled down and a man asked the father if he was looking for tickets to the game. When dad replied yes, the anonymous man pulled out a pair, made the perplexed papa swear he’d take the boy to the game instead of reselling the seats, forked them over and drove off into the sunset.

Having spent days trying in vain to find “reasonably” priced tickets for myself, I immediately made a mental note to rent a 5-year old with a balloon and lollipop next time I wanted to see a major sporting event in person.

I’ve had the “pleasure” of trying to secure Super Bowl seats through unlicensed ticket brokers on two occasions. (Trust me; the licensed brokers are bigger thieves than the street corner variety) The aforementioned Giants-Ravens contest was the hottest Super Sunday scalpers market in history. Pats fans hoping to buy tickets this time around should take out a second mortgage. New Yorkers travel in huge numbers and throw money around like Pacman Jones in a strip club.

Right in front of my very eyes, someone offered $4,000 for two seats. The young guy holding the tickets turned to his girlfriend and asked if she’d be upset if he didn’t take her to the game. The young lady informed her beau that $4,000 would bankroll a luxury vacation in Aruba.

As I watched the money change hands, I immediately made a mental note to dump any girl who’d rather spend a week in the Caribbean instead of 4-hours in a crowded football stadium.

You see, my other venture into the Super Bowl scalpers market proved successful. (Hint; find the hotels housing the teams and league headquarters, drop your telephone number, a $50 dollar bill and the promise of a further “commission” into the hands of the concierge and ask him to give you a call if any tickets become available. Provided you’re willing to pay the price, you’ll have a pair in hand within a couple of days)

When I called home a couple of days before Super Bowl XXV to brag about scoring seats, the general consensus was that paying $525 for a football game was insane. As I sat through the Beach Boys pre-game show, unable to even bring in a camera because of heightened security during the first Gulf War, I began to agree. Then Whitney Houston sent chills down my spine by belting out the mother of all national anthems. The ground beneath me trembled as the perfectly timed fighter jets flew what seemed like inches above the stadium, and Scott Norwood’s kick sailed wide right to end what was, up to then, the best Super Bowl in history.

I immediately made a mental note to myself that $525 was a bargain!

If you've been fortunate enough to attend a Super Bowl, tell us how you came across tickets?