Belichick

by Ian O'Connor

  Dressed in a ghastly hooded sweatshirt that was becoming his signature article of clothing, much like Vince Lombardi’s camel-hair coat, Belichick was reminded that he was also 9-1 as a head coach in the postseason (including his 1-1 record in Cleveland), matching the postseason record of the Green Bay Packers’ legend, widely regarded as the profession’s greatest ever.

  “It’s very flattering to be mentioned in the same breath with Vince Lombardi,” Belichick said. “That’s why the trophy has his name on it. I don’t think I deserve it.”

  Football fans everywhere would feel differently if he won his third Super Bowl title in four years.

  As they began their slow-death march up the field, the Philadelphia Eagles were a slumping, fading advertisement for the greatness of the New England Patriots. They were down ten points with 5:40 left in Super Bowl XXXIX, in Jacksonville, and they did not have the willpower to even act interested in getting the two scores needed to send the game into overtime. They did not bother to deploy the standard no-huddle offense used in these situations. Upon completing their short, uninspired passes, they walked back to the huddle they shouldn’t have been forming in the first place with all the urgency of middle-aged brokers playing in a Sunday beer league.

  The Eagles would give all sorts of strange non-excuses for why they had descended into a prevent offense at the worst possible time. The most popular one? A gassed Donovan McNabb puked in the huddle and couldn’t get his bearings; McNabb said that never happened. On the opposite sideline, backup Patriots quarterback Rohan Davey said he was busy checking the ticking clock. “We were all perplexed,” Davey said. “They all looked like they were going slow. All of them looked sluggish and lethargic. It just wasn’t Donovan.”

  Either way, no matter how beneficial this was to the Patriots, Bill Belichick and his staff and players couldn’t believe what they were seeing. The Fox broadcast team of Joe Buck, Troy Aikman, and Cris Collinsworth took turns expressing amazement over Philly’s slow fade to black. “How many Philadelphia fans are screaming at the TV, saying, ‘Hurry up’?” Buck commented with 3:46 left, after the Eagles had advanced the ball 15 yards in two minutes of game time. The one Eagle who seemed to care as much as the Patriots—Terrell Owens, of all divas—was playing at a high level on one leg after a late-December surgery on his fractured fibula and injured ankle. Other than that, Philadelphia coach Andy Reid had on the field a team of men who seemed to be hopelessly lost.

  And this is where the Eagles advertised New England’s greatness. The Patriots were so much better equipped for the interminable journey that is a Super Bowl Sunday than the novices in their path. They wore out the Eagles by having a far better understanding of just how much longer a Super Bowl is, from start to finish, than a regular-season or playoff game. The pomp and circumstance. The never-ending halftime show. The Patriots had a full grasp of the spectacle, and of the need for players to pace themselves and to eat more during the day and during halftime to maintain their energy. The Eagles had reached the NFC Championship Game the previous three years and lost all three times, and in the Super Bowl they didn’t know what they were getting into. “We came out smoking,” said one team official, “and then we ran out of gas. I really think it was a nutrition deal. I think our team ran out of steam and it hurt us.”

  Belichick had experienced five Super Bowls as a head coach and assistant before this one in Jacksonville, and he’d told friends in the business that a team would be foolish to burn a lot of energy early in the game. “It’s a total marathon,” he said. “You’re going to win the game in the fourth quarter. Just get your guys to the fourth quarter.”

  The Eagles did finally score on that absurdly long drive to pull within a field goal, but with only 1:48 left they were forced to try an onside kick that was recovered by New England’s Christian Fauria. The Patriots went three and out, but their third consecutive left-footed punter under Belichick, Josh Miller, pinned Philadelphia at its own four-yard line with 46 seconds to play. Slow again after a one-yard completion to Brian Westbrook wasted precious seconds, McNabb misfired on a pass before throwing his second interception of the fourth quarter—this one into the hands of Harrison.

  Nine seconds remained on the clock. Belichick and Romeo Crennel had come up with a defensive plan that intercepted McNabb three times, sacked him four times, and, of greater consequence, left him with zero rushing yards. Belichick could live with McNabb’s 357 yards passing and three touchdowns—he wanted the Eagles’ quarterback to try to beat New England with his arm—but was terrified of McNabb’s mobility. “We wanted our fastest people out there to chase him down,” Belichick said.

  The chase was now over. Brady had his third ring, Branch (11 catches, 133 yards) had his MVP award, and Belichick had his place above the iconic Lombardi, with a 10-1 postseason record. Before Brady took a knee after the final snap, Belichick wrapped his arms around his two coordinators, Crennel and Charlie Weis, and pulled them in tight. Weis had accepted a six-year, $12 million deal to coach Notre Dame, and Crennel had accepted a five-year, $11 million deal to try to do what his boss couldn’t with the Cleveland Browns.

  Crennel was a dignified loyalist who Belichick thought outcoached people with fundamentals and basics rather than by trying “to outscheme everybody.” Belichick credited him for taking control of the defense in 2001, after Dick Rehbein’s death forced Belichick and Weis to handle Brady and Drew Bledsoe, and for developing rising young assistants the likes of Brian Daboll and Josh McDaniels. Weis, a card-carrying Jersey Guy, had spent much of Super Bowl week telling anyone who would listen how he was about to outscheme and out-recruit the competition at Notre Dame. One lineman perfectly summed up Weis this way: There were some days you wanted to hug him and other days you wanted to strangle him.

  “They are two of the best coaches I’ve ever been around,” Belichick said of Weis and Crennel. “It’s been an honor to work with them.”

  Belichick and his coordinators locked themselves into this tight sideline circle, heads down, arms draped over shoulders, as they thanked one another for the memories and spoke of a secured lifetime bond. Before they broke up, Belichick placed his palms on top of the coordinators’ heads. “And the New England Patriots will be the first dynasty of the 21st century,” Buck said on Fox. The Patriots’ coach then found his father, Steve, wearing a blue-and-white team cap and jacket, and wrapped his left arm around him. Tedy Bruschi ran up behind father and son holding a Gatorade bucket full of ice water above his head, and dumped it on the unsuspecting Belichicks.

  Red, white, and blue confetti started falling from the Alltel Stadium sky. “If you knew Bill Belichick when he was coaching with the Cleveland Browns,” Collinsworth said on the broadcast, “they had one winning season there. And to now say that his record in the playoffs would be better than the great Vince Lombardi, I don’t know if there’s a person in Cleveland that’s not scratching their head a little bit and saying, ‘Are you believing what we’re seeing?’”

  The Patriots had won three championships by a total of nine points, and Belichick had become the fourth coach to win three Super Bowls—and the first to do so within only four years. On the field, with fireworks exploding above, Fauria grabbed the coach and lifted him off the ground while shouting, “We did it.” A seven-year veteran in Seattle, with a long history of significant injuries, Fauria had been beyond apprehensive about signing with the Patriots in 2002. “I heard so many bad stories about Bill,” he said, “and how tough his camp was.” Belichick had promised the tight end in advance that he’d give him the desperately needed time off from practice, and the coach honored that pledge. With a few exceptions, the new and improved Belichick had built tremendous two-way trust with his athletes and established a collegial work environment that was the envy of the league. “I was always searching for that college atmosphere,” Fauria said, “where everyone is really connected and united and knows their roles . . . That was as close to a college brotherhood as I’ve ever seen.”

>   Belichick worked his way from one delirious hug to another before telling reporters that he’d leave to them the comparisons to the all-time greats. Soon enough he’d receive an email from the man who’d hired him in Cleveland, Ernie Accorsi, who told him: “I don’t say these things cheaply. If you ask me for one idol in this business, I’d say Vince Lombardi. I named my third child after him. And I now have you in the same breath.” Belichick emailed back. “I’m not in his class yet,” Accorsi recalled him writing.

  It had been a remarkable week for Belichick in Jacksonville, with testimonials to his genius coming from players and coaches alike. But there was one moment and scene from this night that would stay with him for the rest of his coaching life, a moment and scene that would make him emotional at a Super Bowl to be played ten years down the road.

  That dousing by Bruschi. Belichick hadn’t gotten to experience it after his first two Super Bowl victories, because they were decided by Adam Vinatieri field goals in the final seconds. Belichick said he hadn’t felt water dumped on him in a long time, and that it felt good. On contact, he threw his head back, his mouth agape, and reached for his soaked hair with both hands. As Belichick staggered away, Bruschi grabbed the back of his hoodie and yanked him in for a hug. After he broke free, Belichick stopped and stared at his half-soaked father, who was trying to gather himself while being bumped by a photographer. Bill looked at Steve for only a second or two before turning toward the field to watch Brady take the snap and a knee.

  But in that second or two, what did Bill see? Did he see an 86-year-old father in thick glasses stumbling about as he tried to shake his jacket sleeves dry? Or did he see an overwhelmingly decent man who had taught him to love the game of football, and who had lived long enough to watch his own flesh and blood become the Lombardi of his time?

  On the night of November 19, 2005, Stephen Nickolas Belichick was watching the No. 1 college team in America, USC, play a Fresno State team coached by one of his son’s former assistants, Pat Hill, when his heart suddenly stopped beating. The elder Belichick had attended Navy’s victory over Temple that day and had enjoyed the company of some of his former academy players. He ate dinner, talked to Bill by phone, and then settled in for his usual round of Saturday night college football on TV. He died the way he had lived.

  “So I’m sure that’s the way he would have wanted it to end,” his only child said the next day.

  Steve Belichick was a Paul Brown disciple who thought his son might’ve fit in better back in Brown’s day. “You didn’t have to be a personality in the old days,” Steve said. “[Television] changed the whole picture. Now you have to be a storyteller or have a TV presence in order to get hired.” As great as Brown was, Steve said, “I don’t think he ever walked into a room and took it over.” He knew the same could be said of his boy, Bill, whom he’d never heard tell a joke.

  The colorless Belichick had spent his career wiping out sideline personalities big and small, and it was a blessing that Steve was there to witness it. Bill didn’t tell his players about his dad’s death before they went out and defeated the New Orleans Saints in Gillette Stadium the next day. He didn’t want to burden or distract them. He informed the team afterward in the locker room, where Robert Kraft awarded him the game ball before Belichick left his emotional players to address the news media.

  “I coached this game with a heavy heart,” he said. “My dad passed away. I found out about it in the middle of the night. Obviously, he had a tremendous influence on my life personally, and particularly in the football aspect. It was great to be able to share the tremendous memories with him and some of our recent successes, as I did when I was a kid when he was successful as a coach of the Naval Academy and that program.” Through a thin smile, Belichick said of his gruff old man, “He went peacefully, which is unusual for him.”

  The wake was held that Tuesday afternoon and evening at the John Taylor Funeral Home, in Annapolis, and the funeral service was held the following morning at the Naval Academy Chapel. The program distributed at the service featured a cover photo of a younger Steve in a Navy cap, and described him as a devoted husband to his Jeannette for 55 years, as a campus institution for half a century, and as a golfer, squash player, and fisherman who also “loved to garden, paint, and care for his birds.” Rick Forzano, the former Navy and Detroit Lions coach, spoke during the service of Steve’s enduring loyalty to the academy. Tom Lynch, the retired rear admiral and former teammate of Roger Staubach’s, relayed how the Heisman-winning quarterback described Steve as “the integrity of the team.”

  Bill Belichick delivered a moving eulogy to an audience of some 200 mourners that included Kraft and rows of familiar football figures. He said that even as a successful squash player at Wesleyan, he couldn’t beat his old man, whose winning streak inspired Bill to smash his racquet. Belichick also spoke of his father’s no-frills approach to running his football camp. “It was meet, practice, film, meal, then do it again,” he said. “And when he said, ‘Lights out,’ he meant it.” Sprints and push-ups on the lawn—even if the sprinklers were on—were the penalties for broken curfews.

  “I know my dad felt, as important as football was, he fully understood what a midshipman’s role was when he came here to serve, defend, and, if he has to, die for his country,” Bill said. “He trained players to play football, to win, to beat Army, and to train to fight for their country.”

  At one point during his eulogy, Bill turned to his mother, Jeannette, and said, “You were the real strength behind two coaches in this family, and I love you.” In his final address to his father, who rested in a casket covered by an American flag, Bill said, “Dad, may you rest in peace.”

  A Navy coach for 33 years, Steve Belichick, self-made son of the Depression, was buried in the academy cemetery. The first men who showed Bill how to coach football were all gone now. Al Laramore, Annapolis High, died of a heart attack in 1989, at age 53, while moving firewood with his son; he never got to see Bill as an NFL head coach. Steve Sorota, Phillips Academy, died in his Carrollton, Texas, home in April 2001, at age 87; he never got to see Bill as a Super Bowl–winning head coach.

  Steve Belichick saw it all. He was right there, on the sideline, when the boy he taught how to scout and break down film conquered professional football. The head coach of the New England Patriots was already an all-time great in his early fifties, and there appeared to be only one grail left to claim.

  Perfection. Bill Belichick would chase it, and some of his imperfections would surface along the way.

  At Annapolis High, “Bill knew what he was doing better than anybody else.”

  Annapolis Senior High School. The Wake, 1970. Annapolis: Graduating Class of 1970. Print. Archives, Annapolis High School Library.

  One Phillips coach said he couldn’t remember Belichick, No. 50, ever missing an assignment.

  Trustees of Phillips Academy, Andover, Massachusetts

  At Wesleyan, Belichick wore a Prince Valiant haircut and made his greatest impact on the lacrosse field.

  Wesleyan University Library

  A dangerous drill and a serious leg injury ruined Belichick’s college football experience.

  Wesleyan University Library

  Big Bill Parcells was always looking over Little Bill Belichick’s shoulder while winning two Super Bowls with the Giants.

  Arthur Anderson / Getty Images

  The odd couple in Cleveland, Art Modell and Bill Belichick. It was doomed to fail.

  Bettmann / Getty Images

  Belichick paid the price for isolating himself in Cleveland and having no allies in the end.

  Mitchell Layton / Getty Images

  Little Bill no longer wanted to work for Big Bill, so he put on quite a show when he quit on the Jets.

  Al Pereira / Getty Images

  Robert Kraft was a natural-born risk taker. His big gamble on Belichick paid off.

  Darren McCollester / Getty Images

  Bill and Steve Belichick get Gatoraded afte
r the third Super Bowl victory, nine months before Steve’s death.

  AP Photo / David J. Phillip

  Walking the red carpet, the lord of the rings.

  KMazur / WireImage / Getty Images

  Belichick and Brady always had a purely transactional relationship . . . the best one in the league.

  Elsa / Getty Images

  Roger Goodell was angry that Belichick didn’t express enough public contrition for Spygate.

  Jim Davis / the Boston Globe via Getty Images

  Walking out on Super Bowl XLII, his most devastating defeat, while there was still time on the clock.

  Harry How / Getty Images

  After Spygate, Eric Mangini remained dead to his former boss forevermore.

  Matt Sullivan / Getty Images

  Belichick congratulates Tom Coughlin after his former staffmate beat him in yet another Super Bowl.

  Ezra Shaw / Getty Images

  “How in the world does Bon Jovi hang out with a guy like Bill?”

  Patrick Smith / Getty Images

  The chief of staff, Berj Najarian, never leaves Belichick’s side.

  Maddie Meyer / Getty Images

  No. 44, Barack Obama, honors No. 4 for Belichick and the Patriots.

  Mark Wilson / Getty Images

  The Andover assassins, Belichick and Adams, always hunting for an edge.