Bill Belichick has only two modes. There's the version everyone knows: the intense, maniacal emperor, prowling the field, whistle whipping around his fingers, eyes peering out from beneath that hoodie, ready to rip his Hall of Fame quarterback as quickly as a practice squad rookie.

And there's the other Belichick: "When Bon Jovi was there," former Patriots linebacker Rosevelt Colvin laughs. "Then he couldn't care less what was going on."

"When Bon Jovi was there ... he couldn't care less what was going on."

Forget, for a moment, trying to figure out how the Patriots' defense is going to slow down Atlanta's epic air attack. Forget how the Falcons' young D plans to disrupt Tom Brady. Nevermind about whether the Patriots are the greatest franchise ever (or the most corrupt).

The real mystery of Super Bowl LI is this: What's up with Bel Jovi, the strangest bromance in sports? Why is the greatest (arguably) football coach of all time so smitten with one of the worst (arguably) rock bands in history?

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