Michael Ventre

When I think of a spy, I think of James Bond, John Le Carre, Guy Burgess, Jason Bourne, Mata Hari, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, Alger Hiss, Robert Hanssen and others. Each individual conjures images of skullduggery, late-night meetings on dark corners, cloak-and-dagger exchange of briefcases and fast-acting poison.

When I think of a spy, I do not think of Bill Belichick. And I would guess that months from now no one else will, either.

Belichick fits none of the spy stereotypes, unless you count his press conferences as fast-acting poison. He wears a hoodie instead of a trench coat. Spies tend to be loners, whereas Belichick surrounds himself with about 50 or so men each day. And spies usually prefer exotic locales; Belichick spends most of his time in Foxborough, Mass., where there isn’t a Russian tea room or baccarat table for miles.

Belichick’s name became synonymous with espionage in NFL circles because of a now infamous incident in September. During the season opener against the New York Jets, a staff member of the Patriots was discovered videotaping signals by Jets’ coaches on the sidelines. Eventually Belichick was fined $500,000, the Patriots $250,000 and the club lost a first-round draft pick.

The event had far-reaching ramifications. If the Patriots won the Super Bowl, many hypothesized, there would have to be an asterisk next to their name in the record books. Spygate, as it has come to be known — since the most profound impact Watergate has had on our nation was causing citizens to become lazy when naming scandals — was supposed to cast a pall over the entire Patriots’ season.

No less an NFL monument than Don Shula called out the Patriots, suggesting their season carry the bug on it. He quickly recanted, however, no doubt after calculating how much fallout his remarks would have on his steak business.

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But the sentiment remained. No matter what they did, the New England Patriots would be record-book lepers, cared for by a compassionate missionary and perhaps a face-painted fan or two.

Yet here we are, close to Super Bowl XLII between the Pats and the New York Giants, with New England closing in on better perfection than Shula’s ’72 Dolphins accomplished, and there aren’t picketers massing on the Washington, D.C. Mall, demanding archival justice. Instead there is almost no Spygate talk at all.

Granted, part of the reason is that the real Super Bowl hype does not begin in earnest until next week. The official kickoff of any Super Bowl coverage always begins when the first sportswriter accepts the first goodie bag. So far the only mention of spying is TMZ catching Tom Brady limping into a hair restoration office.