by Jeffrey Marx
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“Well, of course,” Brian said. “I mean, same as always. But there is also the added pressure because I went so long without doing this, so much time away from football, and then there is also the whole thought that there is so much riding on the game.”
“You’ll do great,” Lori said. She was not really worried about his ability to snap under pressure. She was more concerned about the possibility of the Patriots having an off day and his football dreams dying once again—one final time—without a trip to the Super Bowl. But she also knew Brian well enough to know that he was worrying way too much about his own performance. “You’ve snapped perfectly for thirteen years,” Lori said. “Just do it the way you always have.”
“I had a good week,” Brian said. “I feel good about it.” After a slight pause, still gazing at the only woman with whom he had ever truly been in love, he ended the conversation with this: “I have confidence in my ability. And I have confidence that God will provide me with whatever I need to get my job done.”
Eleven
The Patriots already knew everything they needed to know about the high-powered Colts. All anyone in New England had to do was think back to the titanic regular-season clash between the longtime rivals—with Indianapolis quarterback Peyton Manning throwing three straight second-half touchdown passes and looking like he was about to pull off one of the most remarkable comeback victories of the season, only to be defeated when the Patriots dug in and made that gutty goal-line stand in the final seconds. The Colts had lost only one more game after that, finishing the regular season with a record of 12–4, and that was nothing compared with what they had just done in their first two playoff games. In defeating the Denver Broncos at home and the Kansas City Chiefs on the road, Manning & Company, also featuring fellow Pro Bowlers Edgerrin James at running back and Marvin Harrison at wide receiver, had exploded for a combined total of seventy-nine points. Manning had passed for 681 yards and eight touchdowns without any interceptions. Perhaps the most impressive statistic reflected something that the Colts had not done. In two games, they had not once been forced to punt the ball away. Clearly, they had the most potent offense of anybody left in the playoffs.
On the other hand, although Manning had recently been named co-MVP of the NFL (along with Steve McNair of the Titans), he was now six years into his professional career without a victory over New England in Foxborough. He had lost four times there, with a dismal overall record of 2–7 against the Patriots. In addition, the Patriots were now playing the best defense they had ever played—the most stifling defense in the entire NFL. No team had allowed as few points, 14.9 per game, during the regular season. And the Patriots had been especially tough at home, giving up only 8.5 points per game, without ever losing in Gillette Stadium. It was with good reason that some of the Patriots had started to wear blue caps with white letters proclaiming: “Homeland Defense.”
With the AFC championship game set for three o’clock the afternoon of Sunday, January 18—and with a spot in Super Bowl XXXVIII weighing in the balance—one did not need a whole lot of football knowledge to understand that something would have to give on one side of the ball. As Boston Globe columnist Bob Ryan put it: “Has there ever been an easier game to frame? Colts offense vs. Patriots defense.”
This time it was snow instead of arctic chill that greeted the Patriots on game day. But it was nothing they had not seen before, and after facing such extreme conditions a week earlier against the Titans, just about anything would be an upgrade. The Colts, who played their home games indoors, were not overjoyed by the winter weather in New England, but the temperature of thirty-one degrees felt downright balmy for the Patriots. Pre-game warm-up went very well for Brian. He snapped without any problem and felt entirely comfortable. What a day this was going to be! He had tremendous faith in his teammates. He had never before felt so good about a team he was on. And the Patriots were only one victory away from the proverbial promised land—sixty minutes of playing time away from the Super Bowl.
The Patriots got the ball first and went right through the Colts on a thirteen-play drive that culminated in a seven-yard touchdown pass from Tom Brady to David Givens. The snap and the kick were good, and the Patriots had an early 7–0 lead. Now came the hard part: stopping the Colts. On their first offensive play of the game, Peyton Manning connected with tight end Marcus Pollard for a thirty-two-yard completion to the New England forty-six-yard line. “Game on!” the Colts seemed to be saying. Eight plays later, they were threatening at the five. But Manning, again targeting Pollard, was intercepted by safety Rodney Harrison in the end zone.
The Patriots went on another impressive drive, but they eventually stalled at the Indianapolis thirteen-yard line and had to settle for a field-goal attempt. Perfect snap. Perfect kick. All systems were go for both Brian (two routine snaps to start his day) and the Patriots (10–0 lead early in the second quarter).
Manning and the Colts were determined to return to the type of productivity that had come so easily for them in the early rounds of the playoffs. On the very next play from scrimmage, however, cornerback Ty Law made an acrobatic, leaping catch of a pass intended for Marvin Harrison, and the Patriots had the ball right back. After two entire playoff games without throwing a single interception, Manning had now been picked off on two consecutive passes. The turnover led to another field goal by the Patriots and a margin of 13–0.
The Patriots defense continued to play very physically—constantly looking to rough up the much-heralded Indianapolis receivers, who had for weeks been running their patterns so freely—and the Colts appeared to be totally out of sync. With 4:13 left in the first half, they were forced to do something they had not done since the regular season. Facing fourth-and-ten at their own thirty-five-yard line, the Colts finally called on their punt team. Hunter Smith (“Hunter the Punter,” as he was often called) stood with his feet slightly staggered, right heel on the twenty-yard line, and readied himself for action. With fourth-year long snapper Justin Snow leaning over the ball, there was no need for Smith to think about the way it would be delivered to him. That very week he had told a New York Times writer, “Justin’s the best punt-snapper in the league. I’ve never had a bad punt snap from him.” Much to the dismay of Hunter the Punter, however, the snap from Snow now sailed high above his head. Smith jumped for the ball, but he could only barely get his extended fingers on it. Then he was off to the races, turning and chasing after the bouncing ball in the hopes of reaching it before the Patriots could (either picking it up and running it in for a touchdown or—at the least—pouncing on it and giving their offense the ball with an immediate first-and-goal opportunity to score another seven points). Smith caught up with the ball at the eight-yard line, where it was still rolling a bit, and he kicked it straight through the end zone for a safety. It was yet another ugly blow for the Colts, giving up two more points and now trailing 15–0. It was a wide-awake nightmare for Snow, instantly creating a career lowlight while playing in the biggest game of his life.
Speaking over slow-motion replay of the bad snap and the safety, CBS analyst Phil Simms said, “Well, the wet football, we’ve seen a couple instances where it’s gotten away from the quarterbacks, and this time it gets away from the Colts’ long snapper. Good job by Hunter Smith. Just give up the two points and get the football out of play.” Simms had temporarily allowed Snow to remain unidentified to the national television audience, but his broadcast partner, Greg Gumbel, soon took care of that. “Justin Snow was the long snapper,” Gumbel said. “And he did just that.”
Standing on the sideline, Brian felt no burst of joy from the two points the Patriots had just been gifted. What he experienced was more of a sinking feeling for someone he had never even met, an empathetic emptiness. By job description alone, Brian and Snow were brethren, each one every bit a competitor seeking only what was best for his team, of course, but they also shared an alliance of unspoken familiarity—a blind bo
nd that automatically made them colleagues. Can’t even imagine how horrible he must feel, Brian thought. As much as he had himself struggled in the Tennessee game, at least he had not done anything that ended up hurting his team. And the stakes were so much higher now. One step away from the Super Bowl! If the Colts were to fight their way back into the game—and if those two points from the safety were to end up directly affecting the outcome—Snow would not exactly be the toast of the town in Indianapolis.
The Colts began the second half by finally putting points on the scoreboard with a twelve-play touchdown drive, capping it off with a two-yard run by Edgerrin James. But the Patriots’ offense came up with two more field goals in the third quarter, and their defense kept hounding Manning and his receivers into costly mistakes. After that opening score in the second half, the Colts’ next three possessions ended in nothing but futility: Three plays that went nowhere and then a punt on the first. Two more interceptions by Ty Law on the second and third. Not only was Law taking away the football; he appeared to be stealing the whole show.
Still, though the Patriots had both the ball and a 21–7 lead more than midway through the fourth quarter, nobody was about to count out the high-octane offense of the Colts. With 6:16 left in the game, the Patriots finally had to punt for the first time. Brian’s snap was not perfect—a little off to the right—but Ken Walter handled it with no problem and booted the ball away. After a fair catch at their own thirty-three-yard line, the Colts were clearly in a do-or-die situation. Running a no-huddle offense, Manning marched his team down the field and into the end zone—on a seven-yard touchdown pass to Marcus Pollard—to make it 21–14. With 2:27 remaining, the Colts still had enough time for late-game heroics, and they tried to get the ball right back with an onside kick. It did not work. But the Patriots went nowhere on three straight plays and had to punt. Starting at their own twenty-yard line, the Colts had 2:01 to score a touchdown and push the game into overtime. Twenty times in his six-year career, nine of them in the previous two seasons alone, Manning had led his team on game-winning drives in the fourth quarter or overtime. But now he faced one of the best defenses in NFL history, and the Patriots went into full lockdown mode. After four straight incomplete passes, the ball once again belonged to New England. With fifty-five seconds to play, the Patriots kicked yet another field goal, increasing their margin to 24–14, and then the game belonged to them as well.
Fourteen wins in a row! One more game to go!
For the second time in three years, the New England Patriots were on their way to the Super Bowl. Tom Brady unleashed a big smile and triumphantly raised his arms high into the air. Bill Belichick turned toward the jubilant crowd and lifted his left fist for the adoring fans. Fireworks lit up the otherwise dark sky high above the stadium.
Brian could hardly believe the whole thing. He was excited about celebrating with his teammates; he genuinely felt like part of the team by this point. But first there was something else he wanted to do. He wanted to console the only other guy on the field who did the same job that he did. Brian had been thinking about Justin Snow ever since Snow had thrown that high snap that cost the Colts so dearly in the second quarter. Brian felt awful for him, felt awful with him. Could very well be me. And so he sought out Snow as the Colts were heading to the visitors’ locker room. After shaking hands, the two long snappers walked together, slowly, for about ten yards. Brian had no idea if Snow had ever even known of him, no idea if the twenty-seven-year-old “youngster” had any clue that he was a veteran of fourteen NFL seasons and was speaking from what felt like a lifetime’s worth of experience. And none of that really mattered now; all Brian cared about was reaching out with some sort of affirmation.
“You’ve been doing a great job,” he told Snow. “Don’t beat yourself up over one play.”
“Thanks,” Snow said. “I really appreciate it.”
By the time Brian turned back to his teammates, some of them were already wearing AFC championship hats. A portable stage was being set up on the field for the presentation of the Lamar Hunt Trophy that went to the conference champion. Brian was ready to whoop it up a bit. And why not? To call this a dream come true would have been underselling the magnitude of the moment. What man in his right mind ever would have dreamed of something like this—such an improbable path to the Super Bowl? Brian had already considered himself amazingly fortunate just to get an unexpected second chance at professional football, simply to be able to play again and then retire on his own terms. Now this. Other than winning the lottery, he could not imagine a quicker or more euphoric ascent. Surreal—that was the only way Brian would ever be able to describe what he was seeing and thinking and feeling as the celebration continued.
Standing only a few yards from the stage, Brian had his own personal moment of reflection when he looked up and realized who had been chosen to make the trophy presentation to Patriots owner Robert Kraft. It was Larry Csonka, the old Miami Dolphins running back from the 1970s, the player Brian had admired most on his favorite childhood team. With the upcoming Super Bowl to be played in Houston, the NFL had selected Csonka to participate as a way to commemorate the thirty-year anniversary of the last time the game had been played there, when Csonka had been named MVP of Super Bowl VIII. No matter which way Brian turned on his unimaginable, magical journey with the Patriots, the serendipitous gifts just kept on coming.
After the trophy presentation, Jim Nantz of CBS conducted brief interviews with some of the central figures for the Patriots: Bill Belichick, Tom Brady, Ty Law, Antowain Smith, Rodney Harrison. When Nantz was done, though, it was one of the final shots before going to commercial that would have really lit up the diligent and knowing eyes of any seventh grader who attended Parkview back in Baton Rouge. Because right there on national television was a celebratory shot of a player almost nobody else ever would have recognized or known. To the average football fan, he was just some generic ballplayer wrapped in jersey number forty-six. To the Parkview kids, he was so much more than that. He was Mr. Kinchen or Mr. Brian. He was Coach or Professor. He was their guy in the NFL, their personal link to the entirely foreign and grand world of celebrity. The closing glimpse of Brian came as he was hugging and speaking with teammate Jarvis Green, a fellow LSU alum, who had just completed the game of his life. A second-year player primarily used throughout the season in a backup role at defensive end, Green had been inserted into the middle of a special defensive alignment the Patriots had designed to use against the Colts, and he had responded by sacking Peyton Manning three times—the first time anyone in the NFL had ever done that to Manning in a single game. Both Brian and Green were wearing big smiles now. They had no idea they were on television screens all over the country. But they would soon be playing on the biggest stage in all of American sports.
Twelve
Logan Kinchen began his eighth birthday with a sweet and doughy breakfast of beignets, a deep-fried Louisiana specialty that would make just about any kid happy. With his mom and dad out of town—this was Monday, January 19, the morning after the Patriots–Colts game—his paternal grandparents, Toni and Gus Kinchen, were watching after him. And with “Meme” and “Poppe” running the show, Logan was living large at one of the most popular coffee shops in the area, Coffee Call, where he got all the powdered sugar he could possibly want on those beignets. Not a bad way to celebrate his birthday. Logan was also allowed to miss school and goof around all day. But none of that would get him what he really wanted, which was to see his dad, and Logan had no idea that Brian would soon be doing everything he could to make that happen.
Lori was on her way back from Boston with Austin and Hunter. Brian was at Gillette Stadium, where he had already gone through an early-morning workout in the weight room and was now in a team meeting. Bill Belichick was discussing logistics for the next two weeks, leading up to the Super Bowl. He offered information about travel and hotel rooms and game tickets. For Brian, the best thing that came out of the meeting was learning that once Be
lichick was done speaking, the players would be off until Thursday morning. Then they would practice for three days before flying to Houston on Sunday, January 25, one week before playing the Carolina Panthers in Super Bowl XXXVIII.
Brian immediately began plotting a trip to Louisiana. He was eager to sleep in his own bed. He looked forward to seeing everyone at school. What he wanted most of all was to share at least a piece of Logan’s birthday with him. Brian was able to get a flight out in the late afternoon. Much to his disappointment, however, he did not make it home until well after Logan’s bedtime.
After exchanging a quick hello with Lori—they had just been together that morning in Massachusetts—Brian hurried upstairs to the safari-themed bedroom that Logan shared with four-year-old McKane. It contained enough stuffed animals and jungle-related knickknacks to stock the gift shop of a zoo. With a colorful variety of lions, tigers, and elephants staring at him from framed prints on the walls, Brian quietly approached the right side of the queen-size bed that swallowed up his two youngest boys. Logan was out cold. So was McKane. But just seeing those little guys, so peaceful and content in the dark of night, cherubic chests expanding and contracting ever so slightly with each obliviously drawn breath of air—that alone was enough to hold Brian still for a minute and make him feel whole.
Brian did not want to disturb Logan’s sleep just because a bit of his birthday still remained on the clock. He could certainly wait until the morning to visit with his son. But he was not yet ready to leave the room. Brian leaned over the bed and gently kissed his birthday boy on the cheek. “Love you, buddy,” he whispered. Then he placed one hand on Logan’s chest and the other on McKane’s, and he softly prayed out loud: “Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to be here with Logan on his birthday. Thank you for all my boys. Please watch over them as they sleep. Please give them sweet dreams, and no bad dreams. I pray that they rest well, have a wonderful day tomorrow, and honor you with all that they do.”