The Bills weren’t going to come back from a 20–0 deficit, although they did cut the lead in half in the third quarter. Once again, there were too many Buffalo mistakes. Price fumbled, and that led to an Antowain Smith touchdown run. And when Bledsoe touched the ball after that, he threw another interception, this one to Ty Law. He ended the day with four interceptions. The members of the Cabinet ended the day with hugs for each other and a few relaxing moments spent at home with their “other” families.
The Patriots were 8–5. They weren’t winning games impressively, but everyone had a similar thought: they hadn’t always been impressive the year before, and they won their last six regular-season games and captured the Super Bowl. As much as they had struggled in 2002, they didn’t see any good reason why they couldn’t go on a run of their own again. The reasons may not have been seen, but the reasons were there. In three weeks everyone would be forced to acknowledge that the season’s best wasn’t good enough. Why wasn’t it good enough? That was something they’d have to argue about in their meetings.
CHAPTER 7
WAIT TILL LAST YEAR
The driver was early. He was told to be at the main entrance of the Sheraton Music City Hotel at 8:15 on Sunday night, and he was there at 8:00 idling in his black sedan. He was just following instructions. He didn’t know that the hundred-mile trip he was about to take would hold so much significance for the head coach of the New England Patriots. He didn’t know that this trip from Nashville to Monterey would jog a lifetime of Bill Belichick’s memories and, eventually, sadden his heart.
It was December 15, 2002, about twenty-four hours before the Patriots would play the Tennessee Titans on Monday Night Football. Belichick’s day, which began in Foxboro, had already been full. He had overseen a Gillette Stadium practice at 10:45 that morning. There was a flight out of Providence at 1:30, an arrival at the hotel three hours later, a production meeting with ABC’s John Madden, Al Michaels, and Melissa Stark, and finally a meeting with the coaching staff.
Now he was sitting in the backseat of a car, being driven eastbound on I-40 toward a small town near the foothills of the Cumberland Mountains. He was on his way to see his cousin, Jean Freeman. He had a feeling that it would be the last time he saw her alive. Jean had terminal cancer that had attacked her pancreas. Jean and Bill had spent a lot of time together, especially during holidays with his mother’s family in Florida. They had always gotten along, talking about everything from school to music. She followed his career when he got into coaching, encouraged him, and bragged about him.
“Since I was an only child, she was as close to a sibling as anyone,” he says.
He was going to make the trip as normal as possible. Christmas was ten days away, so he had a bag full of gifts for her in the trunk. After ninety minutes of driving, he was at her house, just off the highway. It was one of her good days, so she ran out of the house and met him at the car. She was a small woman, about a size 2, with a quick smile. She told him to come inside the modest house, and as he petted a brown dog named Bear she insisted on getting him a cup of coffee. Her aunt was in the living room, knitting and watching the Cardinals and Rams play the late NFL game on ESPN. She pulled Belichick close to her and whispered, “I’m so glad you came. This is good for Jean. You don’t know how good this is for her.” She smiled as her eyes filled with tears.
“So what’s going on?” Jean shouted from the kitchen. “How are you?”
She told her famous cousin that she had been rooting for his Patriots to recapture what they had the previous season. She mentioned an interview she had seen with him on one of the networks. After she returned and handed him his coffee, she sat on the floor with her legs folded. She opened one of his gifts. Inside the box was a stylish shirt, a matching belt, and a bracelet. She was excited about the gifts and teased him: “Tell Debby I said thanks for picking these out.” Belichick smiled.
They had a lot of fun that night. They caught up on family news. They played with Bear. They halfway watched the game, although Belichick did pay close attention when a promo for SportsCenter used a cheap tease and mentioned that the Red Sox had acquired Giambi. “What?” the coach said. “That can’t be right.” It was. The Red Sox had acquired the marginal Jeremy Giambi, not Jason, his All-Star brother. At one point the cousins got into a discussion that could have continued for hours. They were talking about some of their favorite music and favorite concerts. They went on and on about the Rolling Stones, Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen, Santana, and a group that Jean remembered seeing open for the Stones on their “Steel Wheels Tour.” “Living Colour,” she said. “Those guys were a lot of fun.”
As they reminisced and laughed, she had a sudden thought. The driver—what had he been doing all this time? “You should have told him to come in,” Jean said. “I feel bad that he’s out there all by himself.”
She knew that Belichick didn’t want to leave, but she could also tell that he was tired. It was sneaking toward midnight, and he had a game the next night. She told him that he should probably head back to Nashville. Her aunt, who had sat in the living room the entire time they were there, knitting and smiling, told Belichick again how happy she was to see him. Jean walked her cousin to the car, gave him a hug, and told him she would talk with him later.
He really was tired. She had known him long enough to notice his fatigue before he did. She lived near a gas station, a Burger King, and a convenience store. Belichick asked the driver to stop at the store so he could pick up a Coke. He was trying to hold off sleep for twenty-five to thirty more minutes. Soon he would leave the little town with the beautiful scenery and affordable real estate.
He had been born in Tennessee fifty years earlier, way back when his father was coaching at Vanderbilt. This return to the region, with towns called Sparta and Algood and Pleasant Hill, was primarily a business trip. He had told Michaels, Madden, and Stark earlier that night that he was looking forward to seeing the Patriots play a good team on the road. “It will let us see where we’re at,” he said.
But it was a family trip as well. His visit to Monterey was uplifting in a way because he had seen Jean smiling and enjoying herself. But her condition would worsen six weeks later. She wasn’t going to make it and he knew it. She died in January 2003.
He was going to remember this visit to Tennessee. Professionally, it was going to be humbling. There were going to be things in the Titans game that were going to make him question entire segments of his team. Personally, the trip was going to cause him to reflect. He was going to remember how friendly and extroverted his cousin had been the last time he saw her, even though she was in pain and not expected to survive until the spring. He was going to remember how quickly life changes. As a coach and as a cousin, he sometimes found himself looking back to the joy of last year.
The 2002 season was so good, early, that Tom Brady had to tell one of his teammates about it. Before the fourth game, at San Diego, Brady was standing next to receiver David Patten. The quarterback called Patten by his nickname.
“Chief,” Brady said, “I was just thinking: we might go undefeated this year.”
It felt that way in the beginning. In the first game against the Steelers, the Patriots were helped by new additions Deion Branch, Donald Hayes, Christian Fauria, and Victor Green. It was their first regular-season game in dazzling Gillette, their new stadium, completed in May 2002, and they won, 30–14. Branch’s third-quarter block on Pittsburgh safety Lee Flowers was so impressive that it was a high- priority headset topic in the coaches’ box. “Make sure you go over and congratulate his ass,” assistant coach Jeff Davidson said to Charlie Weis. “He made a great block on that play.”
The play was a touchdown pass from Brady to receiver Hayes, whom the Patriots had signed as a free agent from Carolina. At six feet four inches, Hayes was the Patriots’ tallest receiver. The idea was that he would be able to use his height on routes that couldn’t be thrown to the team’s other wide-outs, all six feet and under. But the
re weren’t many games that Hayes was comfortable with the offense, and there was a good reason for it. He hinted at it in October in an interview with Nick Cafardo of the Boston Globe.
Going into the 2000 draft, the Patriots had narrowed their choice of quarterbacks to two: Tom Brady of the University of Michigan and Tim Rattay of the University of Louisiana–Lafayette. They apparently picked the right one.
For half of the 2001 season, the weekly quarterbacks meetings were a drama of their own: the surprising Brady had taken the starting job, Bledsoe was the reluctant backup, and Belichick was their position coach. “There was discomfort in the room,’’ Belichick said.
One of the biggest upsets in professional sports began to unfold with this Ty Law interception against the Rams.
Bob Kraft became a Patriots season-ticket holder in his late twenties— Myra didn’t approve at the time—and spent most of his forties and early fifties trying to buy the team.
Adam Vinatieri’s amazing work on the field and in the weight room earned him the distinction of being a football player—who just happened to be a kicker.
A quick-witted Vrabel, father or son, can usually get a laugh out of Belichick.
Rodney Harrison gave the 2003 secondary the production and toughness it lacked in 2002. He helped establish a fine system and made sure his teammates were conscious of rest and nutrition by frequently asking, “Are you hydrating?’’
Having the thoughtful Brady, says Oakland Raiders defensive coordinator Rob Ryan, is like having Belichick on the field “with a better arm.’’
It wasn’t so long ago that Brady couldn’t get the attention of a young woman he liked at the University of Michigan. Now the bachelor, here with actress Bridget Moynahan, is rarely unnoticed, locally or nationally.
In November 2003, the Patriots used intellect and determination to prevent Peyton Manning and the Colts from gaining 1 yard in four tries. In January 2004, the Patriots were even tougher. Manning threw five interceptions in the AFC Championship game.
Scott Pioli and his friend Cleveland Indians general manager Mark Shapiro often spoke of building dignified championship teams. Shapiro reminded him of that after Super Bowl XXXVI—and also gave him a quick fashion tip.
No one has to balance the complexities of Belichick- Parcells more than Pioli. Belichick is his boss and one of his best friends. Parcells is his father-in-law.
Belichick says that Parcells’s focus before Super Bowl XXXI was “totally inappropriate.’’ Parcells left the Patriots for the Jets and took Belichick with him. Three seasons later, the longtime colleagues had a public split.
The passionate Lawyer Milloy was popular in New England because of his style of play. But when he was released in September 2003, the move triggered some commentary that Belichick would never forget.
At Andover, Belichick was a center and Ernie Adams (number 81) was a guard. They haven’t been far from each other since. Belichickrelies on Adams in the same way a president relies on a top adviser.
“My role right now is to get this offense down. I’m still not really there. Some days and some weeks I get it, and then on Sunday it’s something totally different. …I don’twant to be out there hurting the team. I’d rather sit on the sideline until I feel comfortable and I know the offense and the coaches know I know the offense.”
What Hayes didn’t say was what the Patriots already knew. He had a learning disability, and the multiple options in the New England passing game sometimes overwhelmed him. The team knew it was not a matter of intelligence: Hayes was smart. They talked with him for hours before they signed him, and they went over the situations in which he was comfortable learning. He actually did grasp the offense when he was in the classroom. He put a lot of pressure on himself in games but often broke on routes too early, too late, or didn’t go to the proper place at all. It was telling that he felt most at ease during a November 17 game at Oakland. He had no production that night. But he did have something that the rest of the offense had as well: a list of plays on his wristband.
After his admission in the Globe interview, Hayes caught one pass for the rest of the season. While the Patriots had been fortunate with free agents in 2001—Mike Vrabel, Antowain Smith, Larry Izzo, Roman Phifer—they were spotty in the same category in 2002. Fauria was excellent for them, both on the field and in makeup. A mason’s son, Fauria learned about the sand-to-cement-to-water ratio when he was eight years old. He learned to make bricks and dig ditches. When he wasn’t doing that, his father, Ashley, was telling him to either wash cars or do something that would put some grit under his fingernails.
The Patriots were casting about for that type of player, and they had found such players in abundance the previous year. Their 2002 free market talent search, however, was frustrating and disappointing. Belichick respected Green’s ability to make big plays, but he didn’t like what he saw on film. He didn’t like how long it was taking the safety to get to the ball. He was even more annoyed with a free agent defensive tackle named Steve Martin. Martin came advertised as a 320-pound run-stuffer. He didn’t do that very well, although he was as glib as his comic namesake. He was one of the few Patriots who would approach reporters before reporters approached him. He had opinions on everything from the wealth of P. Diddy to the conundrum of Michael Jackson to the challenges facing an entrepreneur. He had attended the University of Missouri and was trying to run a restaurant in Columbia.
“This guy should be the fucking governor of Missouri,” Belichick said of Martin during a coaches’ meeting. The room had been dark earlier, and Belichick had control of the clicker. He was watching tapes of Martin in practice. “This is bad,” the coach said. “This is just bad.” He was already unhappy with the performance. The constant chattering and campaigning also sickened him, especially since the performance was so substandard. What made it worse was that the Patriots didn’t have a lot of alternatives behind Martin. Belichick wasn’t happy with what he was getting, but Martin did play in fourteen games. No one knew it on December 16, not even Belichick, but that would be the defensive lineman’s last game as a Patriot.
“Last year” had been a familiar chorus among the Patriots and their fans—until the 24–7 loss to the Titans. “Last year” was seemingly the answer, question, and reference at the center of everything. A comment about the team’s 5–5 start would often come with a companion piece: “They started 5–5 last year too.” An observation about Smith’s rushing yardage was usually paired with what he had done “last year.” The Patriots’ defense of 2001 had not been as soft against the run as the 2002 Patriots’, but the “last year” choir was quick to recall that The Super Bowl XXXVI champions were not highly ranked on defense either. Everyone did it, and they did it daily. Belichick tried to shut himself and the team off from nostalgia, but it was difficult.
“It was so tough, because we had played a certain way the season before,” Brady says. “We were still practicing hard, and competing hard. But we weren’t winning. It was like, ‘What the hell is the problem?’ Coach Belichick was frustrated with the team a lot, and I was more stressed out than I had ever been. I thought it was very evident on my face. My body language was terrible for most of the year.”
The nostalgia stopped in Nashville. Titans quarterback Steve McNair hadn’t practiced all week because of sore ribs. But he was able to run for 49 yards and two touch- downs. Those 49 yards were the third-best number on the team after the 101 from Eddie George and 85 from Robert Holcombe. It was tough for any coach to watch and any team to experience. The Patriots were being bullied; the Titans refused to let them have the ball, holding it for a remarkable forty-one minutes and forcing the Patriots to squeeze any brilliance they had into a small space. But nothing was there.
It didn’t matter that the Patriots knew the Titans were basically running Buddy Ryan’s defense and that Ryan’s son, Rob, was a New England coach. The staff knew what was coming: over front, man coverage, “46” package, blitz zone. Rob Ryan liked to joke that he
and his twin brother, Rex, drew up the defense, “showed it to Dad, and he called it the ‘46.’ But he’s not saying that.” There was something the Patriots lacked, and what they lacked the Titans had. It was obvious to the nation’s viewers, because one team— missing tackles, intercepting the ball and then fumbling it away, unable to avoid thoughtless turnovers—looked out of place standing next to the other. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Brady had gotten hurt. The Patriots didn’t say it, but it was a first-degree separation of his right shoulder— his throwing shoulder.
As he sat on the team’s one A.M. charter flight back to Providence, Belichick thought about all the work they needed to do. When he told John Madden during the production meeting that the game would tell him a lot about his team, he had been hopeful, optimistic. Now there was just an inescapable sense of gloom and a true test of his leadership. They got back to Providence around four A.M. and were at the stadium shortly after five. Just in time to begin another day, another week, and another game with the New York Jets.
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