Belichick and Brady

by Michael Holley

  The play led to a flag and penalty description from referee Tony Corrente that may have been a first as well: “Illegal formation. The whole right side of the line was not on the line of scrimmage…”

  Tom Brady’s Revenge Tour was what some people called it. At home, New York, Miami, and Washington were taken care of. On the road, as time expired, Stephen Gostkowski made a field goal to beat the Giants by a point. The Bills, now coached by Rex Ryan, were beaten for the second time in the season, this time 20–13. The Revenge Tour had played ten dates and been perfect on them all. But this had begun as an odd year and now was carrying over to a disturbing season.

  The Patriots were in Denver, which was without Peyton Manning. The annual Brady-Manning game was replaced by Brady–Brock Osweiler. Manning was on the sideline, unable to play due to both injuries and ineffectiveness. He still saw more of the field than most, and brought high-definition vision to things that defensive coordinators tried to camouflage. You weren’t going to fool Peyton. The problem for him was that his brain was his only remaining superior football asset. His arm strength was gone. Some throws couldn’t be made. There was real talk that he would be forced to retire at the end of the year.

  Brady had other issues. His players were falling all around him, on offense and defense. The Patriots entered the Broncos game without Julian Edelman, Danny Amendola, and linebacker Jamie Collins. During the game another linebacker, Dont’a Hightower, left with an injury and, after a high Brady pass to the right side, it appeared that there was yet another serious injury. To Gronk. Brady clasped his own helmet when he saw Gronk writhing on the field. This was the Rx Revenge Tour: injuries popping up to cut the season short.

  The game in Denver was lost, and so was the one the following week against the Eagles.

  It’s humbling to observe how the world works, how a career can be celebrated, for the most part, with no critics or enemies around for miles and miles. And then, overnight, you’re a cheater. You’re a liar. The critics are at the front door, actually there, standing beside news trucks and behind cameras. They wield microphones, wanting to know what you know and when you knew it. They realize that they don’t have the legal power to arrest you, but their portrayals can imprison you for a long time, possibly forever.

  As the Patriots were wrapping up their thirteenth division title with Belichick and Brady, Manning was being questioned about an Al Jazeera America report that suggested he was using an NFL-banned substance, human growth hormone, to extend his career. He called the story “garbage” and never backed down from that position. Most people in the media believed him, and said so. Most people in the media didn’t believe Brady, and continued to say that also.

  Brady had heard his coach talk about distractions and uninformed opinions hundreds of times over the years. He’d heard the message presented to different audiences: a veteran and hungry Patriots team, looking to win its first title; an experienced, championship group trying to maintain its edge; a team in transition trying not to be overwhelmed by the dominance of past teams (Belichick had taken down some of the Super Bowl pictures in the building because he wanted his players to focus on the present).

  What exactly they were now was hard to say. They had a recent championship and they had youth. They had health as well because the injury to Gronk wasn’t nearly as serious as it had appeared. They had the deferred scandal, the one that Brady would likely have to fight again in the spring. That would be in Manhattan as well, in the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. They also had a current scandal, a mini one by comparison.

  Defensive end Chandler Jones, six days before a divisional play-off game with Kansas City, walked to a Foxboro police station and asked for help. It was a cold January morning in New England, yet the six-foot-five Jones was shirtless as he wandered toward the police station at 7:45 a.m. He wasn’t arrested but instead was taken to a local hospital for treatment. It was later reported that he had experimented with synthetic marijuana, much more dangerous than cannabis, and composed of psychoactive chemicals. Jones briefly chatted with the media leading up to the Chiefs game, vaguely apologizing for a stupid mistake.

  What was this team? No one knew. The record said 12-4, the number two seed in the play-offs. The offensive line and the focus said something else. No one paid attention to either one after the Kansas City game because Brady had helped mask it all. He made quick decisions in the pocket, wasn’t sacked all day, and finished with over three hundred yards and a pair of touchdown passes. He and the Patriots were now ready for a couple of firsts and lasts. They were moving on to the conference championship game for the fifth consecutive season. That hadn’t been done since the Raiders pulled it off, a few months after Brady was born. The Patriots’ opponent for the conference title was the Broncos, led this time by Peyton Manning.

  He was back, he was healthy, and he was realistic. This was going to be the last Brady-Manning game and he knew it. This wasn’t going to be like the others. He was going to be charged with staying out of the way so his defense could carry him to the Super Bowl. That had never been the story of a Brady-Manning game, ever. It played out that way precisely on this day, though.

  It wasn’t a day for offense, as both quarterbacks struggled to get conversions on third downs. It was worse for the Patriots because they were on the road, and the home crowd made it difficult for Brady to alter his communication with the offensive line. As a result, the Broncos had a good idea when the ball was going to be snapped, and they sped past flat-footed linemen and were on Brady in an instant. The seventeenth and final Brady-Manning game lacked the artistic flourishes that many of the sixteen before it had. In the end, the Patriots made it competitive, despite their untrustworthy line, but they lost 20–18.

  At midfield, Belichick and Manning embraced. The quarterback leaned down and said in Belichick’s left ear, “Hey, listen. This might be my last rodeo. So it sure has been a pleasure.” The coach in the gray hooded sweatshirt hugged Manning and said, “You’re a great competitor.”

  A full year had passed since the previous championship game, against the Colts, and the Patriots’ offseason seemed to mirror the previous one, too. Last year, they waited to hear from Ted Wells. This year, they waited to hear from a three-judge panel that would determine if Brady’s record in Manhattan would be pushed to an overwhelming 2-0 or a suspension-worthy 1-1.

  In between the wait, there were changes. Chandler Jones, aside from his Sunday morning issue at the Foxboro police station, was entering a contract year. The Patriots decided to trade him to Arizona, in exchange for a second-round pick and guard Jonathan Cooper. They moved on from receiver Brandon LaFell and brought in Chris Hogan, from divisional rival Buffalo, and veteran Nate Washington. There was a complementary tight end swap, too: Scott Chandler, who was disappointing, left and Martellus Bennett arrived via trade. Defensive end Chris Long, son of Hall of Fame lineman Howie Long, was signed as well.

  The point in 2016 was the same as it was in 2015, and 2014, and 2013… all the way back to Belichick’s first draft class when he told the skinny quarterback, Brady, to make sure the rookies knew what the hell they were supposed to be doing. This game is fast, baby. Sit around too long and the next trend, the next great talent, the next rule change, will make you suddenly irrelevant. Adapt or be consumed. That is true in all aspects of the game, whether it is the young men who play it, the older ones who coach it, or the lawyers and marketers and accountants who run it. Or, in some cases, such as Tom Brady versus the NFL, the jurists who officiate it.

  On a solemn April morning in New England, seven months after Judge Berman’s words had sparked a regional party, the news came from New York. Brady had lost this one. Two judges, Barrington Daniels Parker Jr. and Denny Chin, said that Roger Goodell had properly used his “broad discretion” as commissioner and had exercised fundamental fairness as stipulated by the Collective Bargaining Agreement. Another judge, Robert Katzmann, the chief, disagreed. The four-game suspension was back on. Those wh
o weren’t paying attention wondered what Brady would do next.

  He is a New Englander now, no “honorary” required as a preface. The area claimed him after the first title, swore him in for life after the second or third, became sisters and brothers prepared to fight for his reputation after the fourth. They would never back down if he didn’t, and if he chose to keep going, since he previously had no experience backing down, the games would continue.

  One game had him in tailored suits and expensive watches that he endorsed, competing against men who went to school for this, guys who never lofted MVP trophies but instead have “JD” and “Esq.” after their names. If there’d been a path that allowed him to go all the way to victory in the Supreme Court, unlikely as that might have been, he’d have taken it. But even Tom Brady knows that you can’t win ’em all.

  The other game is the one that he and Belichick have been engrossed by, together, for sixteen years. They are the two anomalies in this system, all things around them spinning and changing as they remain the same. Two adaptable personalities, built for any era. They came into New England and stood behind other franchises and their personalities. They’ve seen dozens of them come and go, would-be coaching stars like Rick Pitino and actual ones like Doc Rivers and Claude Julien and Terry Francona. They’ve seen superstars drop in and exit, often amicably and sometimes angrily. They were here before Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen and after them. They were entertained by Manny Ramirez, Pedro Martinez, Curt Schilling, Nomar Garciaparra. All of them gone now, talking about the game or coaching it.

  For Belichick, sometimes the offseason coaching moves are reminders of wisdom and youth. All in one hire. Way back when he took the job, in 2000, it wasn’t unusual to see his sons in his office. The older one, Steve, was twelve then. He’d ask questions and Belichick would give him answers. Sometimes he’d just watch. Steve eventually went to Rutgers to play football and lacrosse. Then he became a Patriots coaching assistant, a low man in the apprentice program. Now, at twenty-nine, he’ll be the safeties coach on his father’s staff. Naturally, there will be a story about the son taking over the family business for his father, who is sixty-four. It’s not likely, for many reasons, the best one being obsession. Still. Belichick loves the job, and everything that goes with it, far too much to just walk away.

  Belichick has had the same job description and mostly the same office for sixteen years. In that time, he’s seen eighteen different Boston head coaches and managers. That’s the side of “do your job” that is assumed and rarely spoken: Do that job superbly and quickly, because eventually there will be an owner, a player, a media posse, even a scandal or two, that will get you fired.

  Belichick and Brady have won, at historic levels, and the system says that’s not supposed to be. It is rich and big and tyrannical, this system. But it can be beaten with talent and smarts. And a willingness to fight.

  AP Photo/Phil Long

  A young Bill Belichick tried to change the way the Cleveland Browns viewed and described players, but there were certain messages that ownership and the fans didn’t want to hear.

  AP Photo/Carlos Osorio

  Going into his final season at Michigan, team captain Tom Brady (right) wasn’t guaranteed to start. Three days before the season opener, he was in the same uncertain category as Drew Henson (left) and Jason Kapsner.

  AP Photo/Al Messerschmidt

  Brady, a few months into his professional career, told one of his roommates, “I’m going to beat out Bledsoe. You watch.”

  AP Photo/Robert E. Klein

  In 2000, Belichick and others rewrote the Patriots’ scouting manual. In Richard Seymour, they found a defensive lineman who actually exceeded every category in their written ideal.

  AP Photo/Tony Gutierrez

  Ty Law (24) and Lawyer Milloy represented the new Patriots: There were many reasons to dance in big games, like this Law touchdown in Super Bowl XXXVI. But the business side of things was nothing to celebrate.

  AP Photo/Charles Krupa

  The most familiar quarterback meeting of the century was the annual one between Tom Brady and Peyton Manning. They never had to debate who was better; that ongoing conversation happened—and continues to happen—constantly.

  AP Photo/Tom DiPace

  There was instant chemistry between Brady and Deion Branch, and it was on display in two Super Bowls. In this one, Super Bowl XXXIX, Brady completed twenty-three passes. Nearly half of them went to Branch, the game’s MVP.

  AP Photo/G. Newman Lowrance

  Initially, Roman Phifer told his agent that he didn’t want to play in New England. A few years later, he had a different statement for teammate Tedy Bruschi: “Man, if we win this thing… we’ll be a dynasty.’’

  AP Photo/David Drapkin

  Robert Kraft and eldest son Jonathan were early and frequent advocates of Roger Goodell, who became NFL commissioner in 2006. They supported Goodell’s iron-fisted rule… until it crushed them in 2015.

  AP Photo/G. Newman Lowrance

  When the Patriots refreshed their offense in 2007 by adding the supernatural Randy Moss, it got the league’s attention. “Everyone else was pros,” a teammate said, “but he was like a Greek god.”

  AP Photo/Patrick Semansky

  The 2009 season frustrated Belichick, and it culminated with his stunning admission to Brady on the sideline in New Orleans: “I just can’t get this team to play the way it needs to.”

  AP Photo/Elise Amendola

  Belichick coveted game-breaking tight ends for fifteen years. At first glance in 2010, it appeared that he finally found what he was looking for in the Rob Gronkowski–Aaron Hernandez rookie duo.

  AP Photo/Dennis Van Tine

  Brady’s life away from football often includes galas, such as this one at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. He and wife Gisele Bündchen are an international power couple, yet teammates insist “Tom just wants to be one of the guys.”

  AP Photo/Elise Amendola

  One might think that it’s just an ordinary football that Colts linebacker D’Qwell Jackson is holding on to in the 2014 conference championship against the Patriots. But that ball, and ten others, became the focus of the most disputed and expensive conflict in NFL history.

  AP Photo/Mary Altaffer

  Since being accused by the league, Brady has needed a team built for white-collar combat, guys with “JD” and “Esq.” after their names.

  AP Photo/Winslow Townson

  Belichick’s surprise forty-eighth birthday present—drafting Tom Brady in the sixth round—has led to the most successful head coach–quarterback combination in NFL history.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’ve never been nor aspired to be a comedy writer, yet I managed to write the most hilarious column of my career sixteen years ago. Of course, it was totally unintentional.

  It was January 4, 2000, and I had all the answers for the New England Patriots. They had fired their head coach, Pete Carroll, the day before, and they wanted to replace him with New York Jets assistant coach Bill Belichick. They were initially blocked by Bill Parcells, who had resigned at the end of the 1999 season, thus making Belichick contractually obligated to lead the Jets. I was raised in Akron, Ohio, about thirty miles south of Cleveland, and had worked there in the early 1990s when Belichick was the head coach of the Browns. I couldn’t wait to tell my Boston Globe readers about Belichick, New York’s disaster-in-waiting.

  “Belichick is the number one football man for the New York Jets, an organization he will destroy if Parcells doesn’t hold his hand—especially when it’s time to draft players.”

  Unfortunately, that was merely the throat-clearing portion of the column. It got worse.

  “[Robert Kraft] had intentions of giving Belichick coaching and personnel power; it would have left his organization looking like the ruins of Rome.”

  Full of confidence and insight, I raised the stakes. I went for the two-for-one, in which I swiftly dismissed not one but two future Super Bo
wl–winning head coaches in one neat paragraph.

  “For now, I’ll say that Pete Carroll is Bill Belichick, minus the association to Parcells. Both men are brilliant defensive coordinators. Both men probably should not be NFL head coaches, and that’s not necessarily a demeaning thing.”

  I should have known better.

  The theme of Belichick’s story at the time, seeking redemption, is one that I’ve often found myself drawn to in sports and in life. As I reflect now, I’m humbled by God’s grace and mercy and the situations in which I’ve been placed. Turnarounds can happen quickly; I’m certainly a witness to that. Here I am giving thanks for my fifth book, which is five more than I ever dreamed of writing. It’s my third book with a connection to Belichick and team-building. I would have thought that you were the comedy writer if you’d told me that in 2000.

  After I wrote that column on Belichick, I got a call from a guy who’d become a fast friend two years earlier. He worked in the Jets public relations department and, when we met in 1998, it was as if we’d known each other for a decade. His name was Berj Najarian. Unbeknownst to me, Najarian had become one of Belichick’s go-to guys in New York. He was about to be a go-to guy in New England, too. “You were unfair in that column,” Najarian said that day. “I think you and Bill should talk.”

  Belichick and I met for dinner near old Foxboro Stadium and went on for hours about a number of topics. I was struck most by his robust curiosity. He asked good and specific questions, for example, about preparing for a newscast and the dynamics of reporters doing live shots. I learned that he was as much of a student as he was a teacher. What he wasn’t, at the time, was a Hall of Fame coach.