by Ian O'Connor
Meanwhile, Belichick rose from his stance, dispassionately slid his headset down to his neck, and signaled with his right hand for his kickoff team to bring it in. The Panthers did nothing of consequence with that kickoff, and Belichick and his Patriots were Super Bowl champions one more time. The players and coaches wrapped one another in liberating hugs, and soon enough the Patriots were on the podium, lifting the Vince Lombardi Trophy.
Kinchen screamed at Belichick four or five times until the coach finally turned to him. “I told you I’d get it done,” the long snapper shouted. Belichick nodded his head. In the locker room afterward, Kinchen embraced Belichick’s wife, Debby. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you after what you put Bill through,” she joked.
Belichick agreed to an ESPN interview with his friend Chris Berman, but he declined to shake Tom Jackson’s hand when he arrived on the set. Even after winning it all, Belichick was always on to the next opponent.
Brady was the MVP, again, even though he’d spent much of the season using painkillers and limiting his practice reps for a right shoulder that would require surgery in the off-season. But this second title and 15th consecutive victory were about Belichick and his program. He used his Pro Bowl pass rusher, Seymour, as the lead blocker on New England’s first fourth-quarter touchdown. He used his linebacker Vrabel as the receiver on New England’s second fourth-quarter touchdown. He had to finish the game with two backup safeties, Shawn Mayer and Chris Akins, in place of the injured Harrison and Wilson, and with a long snapper who had forgotten how to snap the ball.
More than anything in 2003, Belichick had to win back his players after cutting one of their most respected teammates, Lawyer Milloy.
“This will be an unforgettable season for me,” Belichick said.
He had another one coming right behind it.
13
Dynasty
Scott Pioli had been named Executive of the Year by the Pro Football Writers of America in 2003, meaning he’d come a long way from his days as a college kid shadowing Bill Belichick at Giants camp and crashing overnight in his room. Robert Kraft had been apprehensive about hiring Bill Parcells’s son-in-law, or any relative or friend of Parcells’s, for that matter, but Pioli had turned out to be a major acquisition.
He had started studying the game as an undersize but barrel-chested defensive lineman at Central Connecticut State, where he watched 16-millimeter film of opponents on the white bedsheet he taped to his apartment wall. Pioli had been a high school class clown in Washingtonville, New York, a small village 60 miles north of Manhattan that was home to big-city firefighters and cops, and then a party boy at Central. His position coach, Frank Leonard, loved his football intelligence and toughness and was the one most responsible for straightening him out in college. “They were about ready to run his ass out of there,” Leonard said. “He could have fun, you know what I mean, like a lot of young people. Sometimes maybe he didn’t know where to draw the line. I helped him a little on where to draw the line.”
If nothing else, Pioli was always deadly serious about football. He became a graduate assistant at Syracuse, working with offensive coordinator and line coach George DeLeone, and later an ace recruiter at Murray State. Over time, Pioli prodded the San Francisco 49ers into granting him an interview for a personnel opening, before Belichick called to say he had a job for him in Cleveland. The 49ers offered Pioli a $25,000 wage, and Belichick offered $16,000 and undefined job responsibilities. To the average applicant, this would’ve been a no-brainer. To Pioli—hey, nobody in the 49er organization had ever offered him a pullout sofa to sleep on.
Pioli started out as a gofer in Cleveland and gradually developed into a negotiator and personnel expert. They formed a hell of a team over the years, Belichick the Bon Jovi fan and Pioli the Springsteen fan. Pioli had no regrets about choosing a job with his mentor in New England rather than with his father-in-law, Parcells, in New York. “Scotty is a very loyal guy,” Leonard said. “I think it was a tough decision for him. I know it was tough for him.”
It was the right call, and the Patriots already had two Super Bowl trophies to prove it. Belichick and Pioli had assembled a cast of athletes who eagerly embraced a program defined by self-sacrifice. When Pioli became Belichick’s chief personnel officer, they built their system of evaluation around the pursuit of intelligent, high-character players who prioritized football above everything other than their families and their God.
Belichick and Pioli knew that everyone in the NFL had talent, so they needed to use other measuring sticks to separate the Patriots from the non-Patriots. “The big thing I’d say we look for, which would try to differentiate the players for us, are players with passion—guys that really love football,” Belichick would say years later. “As we all know from our jobs, if you love what you’re doing, you don’t feel like you’re working. If you don’t like what you’re doing, then every step of the way is just painful torture. We don’t want people who are in football because of the lifestyle it brings or the opportunities [or rewards] from it. We want people who are in our business because they love doing it.”
Belichick and Pioli wanted people who loved practice, too, not just the games. Unlike professional baseball, basketball, and hockey, professional football is played only once a week. NFL players practice five days (usually with Tuesdays off) for every game on the schedule. The players who want to improve over those five days will naturally approach things differently than those who merely endure practice. “As it relates to people,” Belichick would say, “it’s trying to bring people into the organization that share a similar philosophical outlook to the game, and have a passion for the game, that we in the organization have. That’s really where it starts.”
The Patriots wanted players who didn’t point the finger of blame at teammates and coaches. In this context, among many others, New England struck gold with Tom Brady, a franchise quarterback who loved practice, loved his job, and hated lazy-minded excuse making. Brady burned to be great, and he understood how important it was for him to act as the most accountable Patriot. He also understood the value of empowering every man on the roster.
Scott Farley, an undrafted free agent from Division III Williams, assumed that the superstar quarterback had no idea who he was, and had no good reason to care. One day, Farley was walking near the cafeteria when Brady passed him, said hello, and addressed him by name. Farley was startled and suddenly inspired. “A moment like that can go a long way for a guy like me,” Farley said. “I’m like a nobody, and I felt wanted, respected, and that I meant as much as anyone else there.”
When a team’s most important player is invested in the entire roster and is also its most dedicated player in the film room, good things happen. Brady had thrown a critical block for a receiver, Bethel Johnson, on a third-and-13 catch in the playoff victory over Tennessee as Johnson cut across the field for a 14-yard gain on what would be a touchdown drive—a risk-your-body choice that meant more to Johnson than the 41-yard touchdown pass Brady had thrown him on the first possession.
Jerod Cherry, a special teamer, used to carpool with Brady, and he often bore witness to the young quarterback’s prodigious work ethic. In the wee hours of the morning, after a one-point Monday night loss at Miami near the end of the 2004 season, Cherry was getting treatment at the team facility when he saw only one other player still in the building. It was Brady, carrying a stack of films and trying to get better despite a résumé that included two Super Bowl rings and a combined 38-12 record as a starter in the regular season and postseason.
Brady used to ask one of his backups, Jim Miller, to watch his feet on his dropbacks during practice and to challenge him if his technique was flawed in any way. Rohan Davey, another backup quarterback, studied Brady closely and thought his primary source of motivation was written all over him. “You hear about guys that have that chip,” Davey said. “Tom had won two Super Bowls and he still had a chip . . . He really felt disrespected, like ‘I can’t believe you guys
passed me over in the draft for all these other guys.’” All real and imagined slights were fuel for Brady’s fire. One late night in 2002, around 2:30 a.m., Brady called the rookie backup he sometimes referred to as “Shaq” because of his size (245 pounds) and college affiliation (LSU).
“Shaq, what are you doing?” Brady asked.
“Shit, I’m sleeping,” Davey answered.
“Nah, nah, get on the film and turn on play 26 and tell me what that defense is. I’ve been looking at it for 30 minutes and I can’t figure it out.”
Brady was always a force of encouragement for the lesser lights around him, a valuable tool for a coach such as Belichick who treated special teamers as if they were starters. Davey felt he was held accountable for the game plan, as a rookie, “the same as if I were Tom, probably even more.” Belichick was big on percentages when it came to opponents’ tendencies, Davey said, asking players questions like “On third down and two, what percentage of the time do they blitz?” Or “If we come out in a three-receiver set, what percentage of the time do we expect them to line up in this defense?”
Davey had played for Nick Saban at LSU, and he thought Saban and Belichick were similar in that they both “had a disdain for stupidity.” As he had in Cleveland, Saban showed his displeasure immediately on the practice field, while Belichick was more likely to wait and make his harsh corrections in the film room. “He never made you feel comfortable,” Davey said. At the same time, Belichick never let any team member feel like he was an irrelevant part of the big-picture goal.
“Bill made everyone, whether you played five plays or a hundred plays, feel like their contribution mattered,” Cherry said. “He gets everyone to understand that if you’re a practice squad guy or the starting quarterback, your input contributes to the winning. And when you feel empowered like that, you want to give your all.”
Belichick, from Wesleyan, would make Farley, from Williams, feel even more at home with some good-natured NESCAC sparring during practice. The Patriots were working on a Cover 2 scheme one day when Farley jumped a dig route while another receiver ran free behind him on a post pattern. Standing behind the defense to get a deep safety’s view of the play, Belichick barked, “Farley, you’re not playing the Tufts Jumbos anymore.” Accountability, for New England, was a one-size-fits-all proposition.
Over the years, Belichick had proven he would go anywhere and talk to anyone who could lead him to the team-centric players he craved. While he was still in Cleveland, Belichick visited with Jerry West, the great Los Angeles Lakers executive and former player. West said Belichick asked him about managing a salary cap, and about the Lakers’ draft philosophy and how that might apply to what a football coach was searching for in the college game. “He is really, really sharp,” West said. “The questions he would ask, some I had no answer for.”
Belichick visited Saban at LSU. He developed a friendship with Jimmy Johnson, who coached the Miami Hurricanes, the Cowboys, and the Dolphins, after the two met at the Kentucky Derby while Bill was in Cleveland and Jimmy in Dallas. Over the years, Belichick would visit Johnson at his home in the Florida Keys to fish, drink beer, and, of course, talk shop. Johnson had won two Super Bowls with the Cowboys and a national title with the Hurricanes, and he had valuable insight to offer on draft picks and personnel moves. Belichick wasn’t only the best coach in the NFL; he was the best listener and brain-picker, too.
“He knew more about my draft than I did,” Johnson said.
Belichick would later visit with New York Yankees GM Brian Cashman and manager Joe Torre to find out everything he could about how they prepared their players during the dynasty years. Cashman wanted to pick Belichick’s brain, too, but the football coach asked so many questions about their baseball approach that it remained a one-way conversation—just the way Belichick always preferred it.
The Patriots’ coach funneled all of his acquired information into a singular vision for how to shape his team. Jason Licht, the New England scout and personnel man who left for the Philadelphia Eagles in 2003, said Belichick made it clear to his evaluators that they weren’t to define themselves as mere talent collectors. He wanted his scouts to determine how coachable prospects were, and whether their intelligence matched their passion. “Our goal was not to get the most talented 53,” Licht said. “It was to get the right 53. I learned from him that 90 percent of the reason a high draft pick or prized free agent doesn’t work out is because of what’s above the neck.”
Hired by the previous regime, Licht recalled his first staff meeting with Belichick as something of an intimidating experience. He decided that if he was going to go down in front of the new boss, he would go down swinging. Licht decided to be fearless in expressing strong opinions on prospects, even if those opinions ran counter to the reports of older scouts in the room. When that happened, Licht said, “you could see that Bill’s ears perked up, and he was looking you up and down like he was taking note that this guy put time into it and is giving me a pure evaluation.”
Belichick treated his scouts the same way he treated his players and assistants. Every man mattered. Every member contributed to the team’s winning and losing.
“When you scouted for Bill Belichick,” Licht said, “you had to be at your best when you were giving your opinions on players. We’re talking draft meetings now, and here’s the head coach knee-deep in the season, and usually it’s ‘I’m not going to have to really give a lot of evidence on why I like a certain player. He’s going to have to take my word.’ But it’s not the case with him. There were times in October when I’d come off the road and he’d run into you in the hall and ask about a defensive tackle at Alabama or North Carolina. He’d say, ‘Man, I really like this guy. He’s a high pick and can start right away.’ And then he’d say something like ‘Did you happen to see him against Appalachian State? What the hell happened to him there?’ And you’re like ‘What? When did he have time to watch that?’
“But he did,” Licht continued, “so you had to know everything about that player . . . On a Tuesday night when you’re typing out a report at midnight after going to Auburn, you can’t throw just anything down. He will read every single word that you write.”
Licht said Belichick wanted size at the obvious line positions, but that he also wanted skill-position players who were willing blockers and who had a physical stature about them. “He wanted guys that played big,” Licht said, “and size comes across in different ways. It doesn’t necessarily mean height . . . but a guy who could take a lot of shots and had a thickness to him.”
Kevin Faulk, running back and return man, was a perfect example of this kind of player. Even though he was drafted out of Louisiana State by Bobby Grier and Pete Carroll, the 5´8˝, 202-pound Faulk became a Belichick favorite, in part by shedding arm tackles attempted by bigger defenders. Faulk was the kind of resourceful situational player who helped separate the Patriots’ program from all others. When Belichick arrived, Faulk asked him what he needed to do to work on his ball-security and blitz-pickup issues. He worked his ass off on his weaknesses, turned them into strengths, and became a reliable third-down option.
“When the game was on the line,” Belichick said, “he was always in the game and he was always in the eye of the storm, and that really speaks more to me to the value of the player than whose name is in there on the starting lineup on the first play of the game.”
Faulk was a productive receiver out of the backfield, but he scored only two points for the 2003 Patriots. Those two were scored in the final minutes of the Super Bowl.
Belichick coveted more and more players like Faulk, who accepted a far different role in the NFL than he had in college. “Instead of embracing the role that your team wants you to have and needs you to have,” Belichick said, “some players want a role that they want to have and then sometimes that’s a little bit of a conflict.” The Patriots didn’t want conflict makers, but conflict avoiders. They wanted leaders, too, intangible players such as Faulk who set exa
mples in preparation and dependability even for teammates who received more playing time at his position.
“Toughness, intelligence, work ethic . . . you don’t get that out of a vertical jump,” Belichick said.
Fundamentals were everything to Belichick, and he was a big believer in practicing situational football. He’d charge his players and assistants to respond to a certain score and time left on the game clock. He’d teach his players to tap the ball into the field of play when the other team fumbled, and to tap it out of bounds when a Patriot coughed it up—simple things that some players said they weren’t taught elsewhere.
Patriots needed to be versatile, too. Belichick watched what Bill Parcells did with Jeff Hostetler in the 1980s, when the quarterback was stuck behind Giants starter Phil Simms. Hostetler caught a pass, ran the ball, and blocked a punt before he ever threw a pass in a game, a story Belichick would later share with his team. So he never hesitated to ask offensive players to play defense, and vice versa. Troy Brown was moved to the secondary. Mike Vrabel was moved to tight end. Richard Seymour was moved to fullback. One day in camp, Belichick approached 5´11˝, 275-pound defensive lineman Dan Klecko, son of former New York Jets great Joe Klecko, and told him to get ready to be a fullback, an outside linebacker, and a change-of-pace noseguard. Klecko got some work at middle linebacker, too, and his college coach at Temple, Bobby Wallace, told him he was catching good-natured heat from people wondering why Belichick was getting so much more out of his guy.
Belichick could even make an offensive lineman out of an NCAA heavyweight wrestling champ with no college football experience. Out of Cal State–Bakersfield, Stephen Neal said he’d been “sitting on my couch with my dog” before he persuaded the Patriots to give him a tryout. He asked New England’s equipment guys for the kind of hip pads he was required to wear in high school—the equipment guys had to tell him that the Patriots didn’t wear hip pads—and he needed to ask other linemen where to line up in the huddle and what to do on every play. Belichick waived him, re-signed him, and ultimately started him at right guard. People were only surprised that Belichick didn’t turn Neal into a slot receiver.