by Ian O'Connor
Ivan Fears, running backs coach since 2003, receivers coach for Belichick’s first two years: “Whatever running backs Bill brought in, he got up to speed . . . He doesn’t have the same fire as others, but that’s his personality . . . People wonder how much longer he can go, but he’s there for a reason.”
Kevin Anderson, football operations staffer since 2006: “Don’t want to say he was a lackey. Consummate gofer.”
Pepper Johnson, defensive assistant since 2000: “He’s more the yeller and motherfucker and motivator than a technician. Bill never had anyone outside of Bill O’Brien [hired in 2007] who was that fiery . . . Pepper was like ‘I’m going to motherfuck you to do it right,’ rather than ‘I want your feet here or your hands here.’ Bill never had a high-level player like Pepper on his staff.”
Johnson had started working with Belichick in 1986, his rookie year with the Giants. But the Patriots’ head coach went back much further with another member of his staff, the former Andover classmate with the intentionally vague title of football research director. Of all the men and women under Belichick’s employ, the most fascinating was Ernie Adams, a polarizing figure of sorts. Some coaches were clearly envious of the influence Ernie had on Belichick. In the early dynasty days, offensive coordinator Charlie Weis had very little use for Adams and believed that, when it came to deciphering signals and predicting plays, he was wrong as often as he was right.
“People in the building, mostly coaches,” said one Patriots official, “got frustrated with some of Ernie’s information . . . When Ernie was right, internally he got a lot of credit. When he was wrong, it never came up.” The official said Mangini was another coach who grew frustrated with Adams’s batting average.
Other staff members were put off by the fact that, in an organization shaped by accountability, Adams would fall asleep in meetings, without repercussions. One staffer recalled seeing Ernie out cold for the first time in a draft meeting, with his mouth wide open “like a Pez dispenser,” and everybody else going about their business as if it were a common occurrence. “Sometimes Ernie would wake up and be right in the conversation,” said a Patriots executive. One New England official said that coaches and personnel executives generally respected Adams’s intellect and his knowledge of football strategy and history. Post-Spygate, information on opponents’ signals—sans the illegal tapes—was still going straight to him.
“But he’s not one of the guys embraced by the true meat-and-potatoes people,” the official said. “He’s got the late-seventies mustache, he still wears corduroys, he’s got the brown bag lunch, and because of the packaging some guys can’t look past that . . . He’s definitely a guy whose value is greatest in the shadows.”
In the team facility at Gillette Stadium, the shadows didn’t provide much cover. Belichick knew what every staffer was doing, thinking, and saying, or at least it seemed that way. “Bill’s got sleeper cells all over the place,” one team official said. “You never know who you’re talking to, and how the hell Bill ends up knowing what was said.” His Big Brother presence aside, Belichick did not rule as an iron-fisted autocrat who spoke condescendingly to subordinates when discussing and debating personnel. Belichick’s advisers and evaluators, from Adams and Caserio on down to the lowest-level scouts, were forever encouraged to think independently and to challenge a consensus opinion in the room about a player if they had done the homework to support their position. Listening was among Belichick’s greatest strengths, and he allowed his scouts to talk him into, or out of, loving a prospect.
Belichick did have a defined philosophy on what the Patriots were looking for when hunting for talent. In meetings called to discuss players, Belichick said he asks himself and his cabinet members, “ ‘What do we want them to do? What role do we envision them in? What spot do we see on the team that that player could perform?’ and then try and find players that fit that criteria that can do the things that we want them to do. I think that gives them a lot better chance to succeed, as opposed to going out there and getting somebody and then saying, ‘OK, now what are we going to do with them? Can he do this, can he do that?’ We try to find somebody that can specifically fill a spot or do a job in our system that is pretty well defined. Whether that be a third receiver, a fourth corner, a swing tackle, sixth linebacker, fifth running back, whatever it happens to be. We try to define those spots on our team and then find players that will fit the criteria both physically and mentally and from an experience standpoint and so forth that we identify for that.”
The Patriots identify the holes in their roster and then use their system of grading prospects to fill them. After Belichick was hired in New England, Pioli and Adams performed a makeover on the Patriots’ scouting manual, which dated back to the franchise’s Bucko Kilroy days. The system had some Kilroy in it, a little Gil Brandt from Dallas, a little Dom Anile from Cleveland. The uppercase letter that preceded the numerical grade represented a player’s “type,” and the lowercase letter that followed the numerical grade represented an “alert.”
Among the uppercase letters assessing a prospect’s type, an A signified greatness, a B signified that a player didn’t have the desired bulk, and an S signified that a player didn’t have the desired speed. Scouts used a Q for a player who didn’t have the desired height, and a P for a player who would likely change positions in the NFL.
Patriots scouts grouped prospects into categories, such as a first-year or day-one starter, a “make it” player (one who’s good enough to make a roster), and a reject. “A 7.0 is a first-year starter, a high-end guy,” said one veteran Patriots scout. “An 8.0 is the Tom Bradys of the world, an elite player in the league. Once you get into the 6’s, these are starters. A 6.8 or 6.9 would be a first-year starter. A three-down back would be a 6.9. A 6.2 for us would be like a center with guard flex . . . The upper 5’s are backups, and the lower 5’s are practice squad guys. Once you get to 5.4 and below, they’re good for camp, but that’s all they’re going to be. And then you have your rejects.”
The Belichick-Pioli standard for rejects was higher than most.
“When you put a grade on a player, it’s always what he’ll be in year two,” said one scout. “The reason is that year one is a learning curve for everybody, but your grade is based on your specific role. He’s a starter. He’s a third guard. He’s a third tackle. He’s a center who has guard flexibility. He’s a wide receiver who can only play in the slot. He’s strictly a box safety. So Bill will be like ‘Listen, we need a designated pass rusher. We need a slot corner only, so who are our slot corners?’ Other places give these global instructions, and it’s like ‘How the hell do you know who’s a second-round player?’ Bill’s thing is role. Everything is role-based. Bill also wants you, as a scout, to describe a player’s body type to someone on the current or past Patriots roster. But the character part—that’s where the heavy lifting is for us.”
That’s where the lowercase letters—after a player’s numerical grade—come into play. These “alerts” can mean the difference between drafting a prospect and passing on him, so draft-eligible collegians wanted to have as few of these as possible printed after their numerical grades. A lowercase c identified a prospect as having a character issue, such as a history of marijuana use or a DUI arrest.
“And when there’s a double c, that kid is a real shitbag,” a Patriots scout said. “An m is there for mental issues, and if there’s an injury history, you put down an x, like for a torn ACL as a sophomore. You put down double x’s with two major surgeries . . . But it’s the guy with a double c that you stay away from.”
In the 2010 NFL draft, the Patriots considered a player who certainly qualified for a double c designation. Aaron Hernandez, tight end at the University of Florida, was among the most talented and troubled college athletes in America.
“There was so much dirt on Aaron Hernandez,” said one scout who had worked for Belichick, “it seemed you could dig up as much as you wanted. You could dig up enough to take h
im off your draft board, or you could stop at a certain point because you wanted to keep him alive on your draft board.”
The Patriots had reasons to keep him alive on their board. They had just completed a near-disastrous 2009 (by their standards) that was highlighted by Brady’s return to health, a record-setting 45–0 halftime lead over Tennessee in Week 6, and not much else. Belichick had traded away two of his longtime defensive leaders, Richard Seymour and Mike Vrabel, and watched two others, Rodney Harrison and Tedy Bruschi, retire before the start of what would be a 10-6 season defined by the coach’s running conflict with Adalius Thomas and a blown 17-point fourth-quarter lead in Indianapolis, where Belichick gambled late and lost on fourth-and-2 at his own 28 with a six-point lead.
Seymour’s departure was particularly painful, and yet, like Ty Law’s (off to the Jets in 2005) and Willie McGinest’s (off to Cleveland in 2006), it stood as another example of Belichick moving on from significant contributors if he believes they are about to become too expensive or too old. Brady was nothing like his monstrous 2007 self, after a year spent recovering from his knee injury, but he still managed to play at a Pro Bowl level while throwing to Randy Moss and Wes Welker, who combined for more than 2,600 receiving yards. (Welker wrecked his knee in the final regular-season game.)
Moss finished with 13 touchdowns, but he was held to five catches and 48 yards in New England’s humiliating home playoff loss to the Baltimore Ravens, who intercepted Brady three times, strip-sacked him once, and took a 24–0 lead in the first quarter on the way to a 33–14 victory. Ravens running back Ray Rice took the first play from scrimmage 83 yards for a touchdown, and New England ended up with its first home playoff loss in nine games under Belichick. The fans were booing midway through the first quarter, and afterward Brady and others were being asked if this shocking blowout at home signaled the end of an era.
In the Herald, columnist Gerry Callahan shredded Belichick for dealing away Seymour for Oakland’s No. 1 pick in 2011 and wasting a year of Brady’s prime. In the locker room, nose tackle Vince Wilfork compared New England unfavorably to a high school junior varsity team. The Patriots’ leadership void was obvious even outside the defensive unit; Belichick admitted that some of his younger assistants weren’t as comfortable challenging him as his former coordinators Romeo Crennel and Charlie Weis had been. A few days later, Dean Pees, defensive coordinator, said he was leaving to pursue other opportunities, and Belichick declared that he’d keep the official job title open and assume a bigger role with the defense. (Bill O’Brien, quarterbacks coach, would continue to act as the unofficial offensive coordinator.)
Something else needed to give. Moss had caught 47 touchdown passes in 48 regular-season games with the Patriots, and yet he had only one touchdown catch and 142 receiving yards in four postseason games. As the Patriots were about winning championships, not division titles and playoff berths, they needed to try a different approach. They needed to start playing offense from the inside out rather than from the outside in.
Belichick decided to return to his early NFL roots, to a seminal moment in his career with the 1976 Detroit Lions, whom the young aide persuaded to use a two-tight-end set against a good New England team in what would be a stunning 30–10 victory for the sad-sack Lions. More than three decades later, Belichick was in the market for more than one tight end. And the best at that position in college football, Aaron Hernandez, happened to be coached by Urban Meyer, one of Belichick’s close friends. Meyer was known for winning big and for seemingly having more of his players get in trouble with the law than any major-college coach around.
Hernandez was a habitual marijuana user who had reportedly failed multiple drug tests at Florida and yet had been suspended for only one game. Meyer hadn’t suspended him for punching a Gainesville bar employee and rupturing the man’s eardrum, despite teammate Tim Tebow’s attempts to stop the assault. (The police recommended charging Hernandez with a felony before the case was somehow settled out of court.) The Florida coach apparently hadn’t taken any action against Hernandez—a freshman still only 17 years old—for refusing to cooperate with police investigating a shooting that had left two men in a car wounded and one shot in the back of the head; an unharmed passenger initially told police that the shooter was a Hawaiian or Hispanic male who stood about 6´3˝ or 6´4˝ and had a muscular build and a lot of tattoos.
Meyer did lead Hernandez through Bible sessions and invite him into his family home, and he assigned Tebow as his de facto guardian. But he did not take away the thing Hernandez cherished most: football.
The record-setting high school star from the rough side of Bristol, Connecticut, caught 68 passes for five touchdowns his junior season at Florida and won the John Mackey Award as the nation’s top tight end before declaring for the NFL draft. Hernandez’s supporters painted him as the product of a devastating event in his life—the sudden death of his 49-year-old father, Dennis, a legendary high school athlete, when Aaron was 16—and a dysfunctional home life that steered him into friendships with local criminals and drug pushers. Hernandez ran with a bad crowd, they said, neglecting this cold, hard truth: Hernandez was the bad crowd.
Originally intending to play at UConn with his older brother, D.J., widely viewed as the rare positive influence in his life, Hernandez was seen in Gainesville and on return trips from Connecticut hanging with Bristol friends who were not interested in Meyer’s Bible study. Hernandez was already a wreck before his 20th birthday, which he celebrated a few months before taking a pre-draft psychological test administered by Human Resource Tactics, a scouting service that provided a number of NFL teams with assessments of a prospect’s maturity, coachability, and dedication, and that advertised its tests as “proven predictors of subsequent performance in the league and delinquency off the field.”
The Wall Street Journal reported that on a scale of 1 to 10, Hernandez scored the lowest possible number, 1, in the category of “social maturity,” and that his responses suggested that he “enjoys living on the edge of acceptable behavior and that he may be prone to partying too much and doing questionable things that could be seen as a problem for him and his team.” Hernandez actually received high marks for focus and mental quickness (a perfect 10 in both), self-efficacy, and receptivity to coaching. The report stated that the tight end saw himself “as a football player above all else” and predicted that he would “place a high priority on football and what it takes to be successful.”
The Patriots wanted to bank on the possibility that Hernandez’s desire to excel at football would overcome his self-destructive instincts. They had a private workout with the tight end and Tebow, attended by Belichick, Patriots linebackers coach Matt Patricia, and director of pro personnel Jason Licht. At 6´2˝ and a chiseled 250, Hernandez showed off the dynamic athleticism that made him a first-round talent and a potential matchup nightmare for defensive coordinators in the NFL. “Bill thought he was the player missing on our team,” said someone with knowledge of the workout.
A Drew Bledsoe fan growing up in Connecticut, Hernandez also showed what one Patriots source described as “great football intelligence” when Belichick quizzed him on situations in a classroom setting. Meyer did warn Belichick about Hernandez’s behavior problems, though the depth of that warning was unclear. The Florida coach would say years later that he told his friend, “You just need to keep an eye on him.” Only that was not what Meyer told some other NFL teams that inquired about his tight end.
One official with another team who asked about Hernandez said that Meyer told him, “Look, this guy’s a hell of a football player, but he fucking lies to beat the system and teaches all our other guys to beat the system. With the marijuana stuff, we’ve never caught this guy, but we know he’s doing it . . . Don’t fucking touch that guy.”
This team official was taken aback when Belichick, Meyer’s friend, ended up drafting Hernandez in the fourth round with the 113th overall pick. “I never understood that,” the official said. A number of NF
L teams had taken Hernandez off their draft boards. They recognized that his skills made him a difference maker, but they just couldn’t invest in a personality so volatile. The Patriots, meanwhile, practiced and played their games two hours from Bristol, where Hernandez could find trouble on every other block. Bringing him home magnified the risk.
“It seemed to us that [Hernandez] loved football,” said one Patriots source. “Bill’s had a lot of success with guys who have had problems elsewhere, so we thought Aaron could be successful with us. Usually if a guy has problems and he loves football, you can still work with him, because he doesn’t want football to be taken away from him and be left with nothing.”
A couple of weeks before the April draft, Hernandez sent out a letter to New England—through his agent, David Dunn, of Athletes First—in an attempt to allay the team’s fears about selecting him. His letter was addressed to Nick Caserio, and in it Hernandez offered to take biweekly drug tests throughout his rookie season and to return some of his guaranteed salary to the team if he failed any of them. In the event that the collective bargaining agreement disallowed such a contractual agreement—which it would—Hernandez offered to donate some of his wages to the charities of New England’s choosing.
“My coaches have told you that nobody on our Florida team worked harder than me in terms of workouts, practices or games,” Hernandez wrote. “You have your own evaluation as to the type of impact I can have on your offense . . . In closing, I ask you to trust me when I say you have absolutely nothing to worry about when it comes to me and the use of recreational drugs. I have set very high goals for myself in the NFL, and am focused 100% on achieving those goals.”
