Back at the start of my career in sports journalism, I had the advantage of having a co-writer who happened to be hilarious and prolific, not to mention a pretty decent basketball player. Working for the Palisades High School Tideline, Steve Kerr and I wrote a column called "The Riptide" in which we skewered classmates, teachers and administrators with teenaged abandon.

I wish I had Kerr, a former Yahoo! Sports columnist, to help me now. But the five-time NBA champion is busy, what with his new gig as the Phoenix Suns' general manager and all.

On the other hand, he provided a pair of sweet seats to me and my friend Mark Cannizaro of the New York Post, along with access to the clubs at U.S. Airways Arena.

At halftime, I was talking to my wife back in California when I nearly dropped the BlackBerry into the free paella.

"Sanjaya is here," I said. "And Chris Richardson. And Melinda. And Jordin Sparks."

"I'll get the kids," she said excitedly.

Up until last season, my house had been an "American Idol"-free zone, but no more. Even my five-year-old son, Robbie, can tell you each of last season's finalists and who was eliminated when -- and, scarily, why.

Now Daddy was hanging out with real celebrities: four finalists from last season. I told my wife I'd call back after doing some investigative reporting.

After introducing myself to Sanjaya, who was nice but quiet, I struck up a conversation with Melinda Doolittle, the third-place finisher who was robbed -- OK, maybe I am a dork -- of her rightful place in the final two.

"You're from Nashville, right?" I asked.

"Yeah! I still live there."

"You like the Titans?"

"LOVE the Titans."

"I'm a big Jeff Fisher fan. Have you ever met him?"

"Yeah," she said. "Well, sort of. I was too scared to talk to him. I was shaking."

I had one other question for Ms. Doolittle.

"Do you hate the Patriots like everyone else?"

"I don't hate," she said cheerfully.

"Good answer," I said.

I said goodbye to the pair and walked over to Cannizaro, who was talking to Sparks, last season's champion (as a 17-year-old) and Super Bowl XLII national anthem singer.

"OH MY GOD!" she exclaimed, smiling.

"Tell Phillippi I said hello," Cannizaro said.

Gulp. Cannizaro once covered Sparks' father, a former Giants cornerback. Talk about feeling old.

Sparks turned out to be as friendly and approachable as Doolittle, which allowed me to call home and inform the kids that their Idols were worthy of their adulation.

And there I was thinking Steve Kerr was the coolest dude in the house.

Related: Super Bowl XLII Adventures