by Jeffrey Marx
Brian tucked in the bed coverings. He navigated his way past all those wild animals that never made a move without the help of a Kinchen. And he went downstairs to be with Lori.
If Brian ever wanted to illustrate for someone who knew nothing about his sport the vast differences between the regular-guy life of a low-man-on-the-totem-pole long snapper and the high-profile existence of a big-time NFL quarterback, he would only have to describe the events of his first complete day back in Baton Rouge, Tuesday, January 20. After visiting with his boys first thing in the morning, virtually shadowing them until they left for school, Brian went by himself to a nearby gym and lifted weights. Then he showered and headed over to Parkview, where he spent a few hours casually visiting with students and staff. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to see him. Both the kids and the adults also expressed great joy for him, pretty much every man, woman, and child in the school community now fully aware that one of their own would soon be playing in the Super Bowl. But there was no brass band or organized ceremony to announce his presence—and there certainly was no public recognition from the leader of the free world.
That evening, Brian relaxed at home and watched George W. Bush deliver the annual State of the Union address to the U.S. Congress and a national television audience. The president spoke about the war on terror and specifically about the U.S. commitment in Iraq. He offered his thoughts on major domestic issues such as the economy, education, and health care. And then he touched on a much narrower topic: the use of performance-enhancing steroids in baseball, football, and other sports. Brian was surprised to hear the president use such a major forum to “call on team owners, union representatives, coaches, and players to take the lead, to send the right signal, to get tough, and to get rid of steroids now.” What came as an even bigger surprise was seeing a live shot of teammate Tom Brady, wrapped in a dark suit and tie, enjoying a bird’s-eye view from the balcony box of First Lady Laura Bush while her husband was speaking about steroids and the need for “good examples” in athletics. “You get invited, you go,” Brady would later tell reporters. “It was a great honor. It was way cool.”
And so there it was—an extremely telling juxtaposition of activities on the same day off for two members of the same football team: the long snapper visiting with kids at a middle school in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, then settling down on a couch and watching television; the star quarterback mingling with the power elite at the White House, then heading over to the U.S. Capitol and serving as a prop for the president during one of the biggest political events of the year. Who would ever need any further explanation to understand the tremendously different lives of one man who throws footballs between his legs without anyone knowing his name and another who throws them while upright and with all sorts of cameras focused on his every move?
The next morning, Brian and Lori went with their students to the regular weekly chapel session attended by the entire middle school, sixth through eighth grades, which included more than three hundred kids and their teachers. Eighth-grade teacher Sonya Pruitt, who directed the middle school Bible program, stood in the front of the sanctuary and did the best she could to touch young hearts with her messages of hope and faith. She was the same woman who had been such a hit in the school video Lori had made for Brian, the one who had held up that newspaper story and teased Brian about his use of the word chilling. Pruitt did not have anything special planned for the Kinchens this time. As chapel was winding down, though, something hit her and she decided to close by inviting them to the front of the room. She also asked Austin (who was there with his fellow eighth graders) and Hunter (then a sixth grader) to join them, and she soon had a quartet of Kinchens at her side.
Standing with them in front of the pulpit, a few steps down from it and now on the same level as everyone else, Pruitt spoke to the room: “What a special time for the Kinchen family. This will be the last chance we get to see Mr. Kinchen before he goes back to his team and then goes to play in the Super Bowl. What a great opportunity to show our love and support, to pray for the whole family. If you would like to come gather around and show your support, then let’s do that. You can come on down, and we’ll pray together.”
The Kinchens were soon engulfed by a throng of students and teachers. Pruitt placed one of her hands on Brian’s shoulder and the other on Lori’s hands, which she held together. Anyone who was close enough laid hands on a Kinchen or two. Everyone else just placed a hand or hands on anyone within reach. And all bowed their heads. “Heavenly Father, thank you so much for sharing the Kinchen family with us,” Pruitt began. She thanked God for giving Brian such a wonderful platform—all the attention of the Super Bowl—to share with the world his deep faith and his heart for God. She asked that Brian be able to use such a great opportunity for whatever purposes God might have in mind. And she prayed for God’s protection over the entire Kinchen family as they continued together on their fabulous football journey. “We know that this is not about winning or losing a game,” Pruitt said. “It is about being the person who you want us to be. It is about glorifying you. Your word tells us that you will never leave us or forsake us. So we know that as Brian heads off to this game, you will be right there with him, and we thank you for that.”
Brian and Lori had tears in their eyes.
Later in the day, a television crew from WAFB, the CBS affiliate in Baton Rouge, visited Parkview to prepare what it called a “Hometown Hero” segment on Brian for the evening news. The reporter wanted to talk about football. Brian was more interested in talking about how much it meant to him to see his students, to hug them, to hear how much they missed him and cared about him. With camera rolling, he said, “There’s nothing that can ever hold a candle to that.”
The phone calls from friends and acquaintances kept coming. That meant a lot to Brian, and he especially enjoyed hearing from certain people with whom he’d been out of contact for years: old childhood friends, college buddies, guys with whom he had played on other NFL teams. One of the calls that affected him the most came from former NFL kicker Al Del Greco, with whom Brian had developed a friendship while both were playing golf tournaments as members of the Celebrity Players Tour. It was nothing unusual to hear from Del Greco. They spoke fairly often. But now that Brian was headed to the Super Bowl, his golfing buddy had some advice for him.
“Whatever you do, whatever happens during the whole week and during the game itself, just make sure you soak it all in and enjoy every second of it,” Del Greco said. “After all those years, you’re finally there. What an unbelievable opportunity, what an experience for you and Lori, and for the kids. I don’t care how hectic or crazy it gets. The biggest thing you have to promise yourself, win, lose, whatever happens, is that you’re going to take it all in and enjoy every single aspect of it—every feeling, every moment, everything you see and do.”
Del Greco was speaking with the benefit of experience. On January 30, 2000, after a remarkably long run of sixteen seasons in the NFL, he finally got to play in his first Super Bowl, with the Tennessee Titans. Before going to Atlanta for the week leading up to the game, Del Greco made a pact with himself that he was going to do exactly what he was now suggesting to Brian. “No matter what happens, I’m not going to get all freaked out,” he told himself. “I just want to enjoy the ride and see where it goes.” Del Greco did not want his Super Bowl experience to be defined only by the outcome of the game against the St. Louis Rams. He also wanted to be sure that he and his family—his wife, Lisa, and their three children, then ages twelve, ten, and six—would be able to bottle up and store away the memories of everything they would be doing that week. Del Greco even decided to carry around a video camera and capture all the images he could. When the game was finally played, he felt both terrible frustration (one missed field goal and another blocked in the first half) and absolute joy (a forty-three-yard field goal that capped a dramatic sixteen-point comeback and temporarily tied the score, 16–16, with only 2:12 left in the game). The Titans ult
imately lost on a stunning, seventy-three-yard touchdown pass from Kurt Warner to Isaac Bruce. Although horribly disappointed, Del Greco was at least able to go home with a bundle of wonderful memories that would always be with him.
Four years later, retired from football and living with his family in Birmingham, Alabama, Del Greco knew he would never have any regrets about the way he had approached Super Bowl XXXIV. Sure, he would have loved to walk away with a victory and a ring. But he was thankful that he had intentionally and strategically savored every moment of the experience.
“That’s the whole idea,” Del Greco told Brian. “You’re right where you’ve always wanted to be. So enjoy it. Just soak it all up and enjoy it.”
Brian appreciated the advice. He knew that he still had work to do and would need to stay focused on the job at hand. But now he also had an overall plan for how to approach the biggest week of his football career.
Thirteen
Brian could not have been in a better frame of mind as he headed back to New England for the final days of practice leading up to Super Bowl week. Telling himself that any glitches with his snapping were behind him—and truly believing it—he was intent on following the Del Greco plan. You’re finally here…right where you always wanted to be. Enjoy!
His enjoyment did not last long. On his first morning back at Gillette Stadium, Thursday, January 22, ten days before the Super Bowl, Brian was caught off guard by the way special-teams coach Brad Seely greeted him. “I’m on a rampage today,” Seely said. “We can’t have snaps to this side, that side, high, low. We have to get them right.”
Brian reminded himself of something he had long before concluded about football coaches: the bigger the game, the tighter they get, and they’re usually not real good about keeping that to themselves. Brian knew that there was only one way to answer Seely’s challenge—going out to practice and throwing perfect snaps.
He failed to do so. On the third field-goal attempt of the day, Brian threw the ball over the head of holder Ken Walter. Out came the attack dogs. Belichick, spitting out his words, was the first one Brian heard: “It all starts with you, Brian!” Then came Seely: “Exactly what we talked about! Time to get it right!” Brian felt awful. The best he could remember, it was only the second time he had ever thrown one completely over the head of a holder. It had happened during the tryout on December 16, and now this one—a grand total of twice in fourteen years. Why now? Was it just a fluke? Nerves? Or was it the unthinkable—that he was somehow losing a gift that had always been his?
Brian got through the rest of practice without anything bad happening. But he was nonetheless rattled. After practice, while everyone else showered and dressed, Brian got a ball from the equipment room and went off by himself to a secluded area in a corridor beneath the stands of the stadium. He was so ashamed of himself, so disgusted with himself. He did not want anyone to see or even know what he was doing. He stepped off eight yards, the distance he and Walter used for a field-goal snap, and spent about fifteen minutes throwing into a wall. “Just to kind of pay penance…and make sure I got it right,” Brian would later say into his tape recorder.
After throwing thirty snaps, Brian went into the weight room, where he ran into Seely. Brian apologized for the snap over Walter’s head and assured his position coach that he was certainly trying his best.
“I know that,” Seely said. “I know you’re not trying to screw it up. But it really hurts us if you do that in the game. We just can’t have it.”
“Yeah, well, neither one of us wants it to happen,” Brian said. “The only difference is that I’m the one who has to live with it.”
“So do I,” Seely said. “Believe me, so do I.”
The next day in practice, Brian sailed another field-goal snap over Walter’s head. This time, whatever his coaches said in response, whatever they yelled, did not even register with him. He was too far gone in his own little world, shocked, absolutely stunned. He could analyze the situation as much as he wanted, talking to himself about the position of his shoulders, his back, his butt, and trying to solve the problem by focusing on angles and mechanics. But Brian also had to wonder about an entirely different part of the body—his head. How much of this was physical and how much of it was mental? Was he simply stressing too much, hurting himself by thinking and worrying too much about something that had always come so naturally to him? Brian kept trying to convince himself that he was okay, that everything would be fine in time for the Super Bowl. But he also feared the worst: that his confidence was shattered and his whole psyche was falling apart. Unless he could somehow make things right again in the next week, he could very well be heading into a dramatically different Super Bowl experience than the one he had always envisioned for himself. Instead of ending his career on the highest of highs, he could just as easily be approaching a valley of irrevocable nightmares and anguish.
Brian felt like he was about to burst with anxiety. He needed to talk to someone with whom he could be entirely open, someone he could trust to listen and understand without judging. Once he was done at the stadium, he went to a late lunch with Mark Bavaro, his old friend from the Cleveland Browns. Bavaro, the former All-Pro tight end, had been out of the NFL for nine years. But he lived in the Boston area, had always stayed in touch with Belichick, and had been hanging around with the Patriots quite a bit, usually coming by the stadium once or twice a week to watch practice and visit with friends. When Brian joined the Patriots, he and Bavaro were surprised and pleased to see each other again, and whenever Bavaro stopped by practice, they spent some time together. At the age of thirty-eight, Brian had a whole lot more in common with the forty-year-old Bavaro than he did with most of the guys on the team. And they could both laugh about the way things had changed since the 1992 season they had shared in Cleveland. Back then, Bavaro was getting most of the playing time at tight end and Brian, in the role of seldom-used backup, often felt twinges of envy. Now Brian was living what Bavaro considered to be a fairy-tale story with the Patriots, back in the NFL after being out for so long, and going to the Super Bowl, of all things—and Bavaro was the one who felt a touch of jealousy. He was working for an equity trading firm and had long since given up any idea of playing football again. But he had never stopped missing it. That was why he appreciated that Belichick had been so welcoming, letting him come by whenever he wanted and allowing him to feel like he was still connected to the sport he loved.
At lunch, sitting across from Bavaro in a booth at a casual seafood restaurant not far from the stadium, Brian did more talking than eating. Whatever envy Bavaro had felt quickly disappeared. He had already known that Brian had been struggling a bit—more than one of the coaches had mentioned to him that Brian’s snaps had been getting weak and erratic—but he had no idea the extent to which his friend’s confidence had been undermined. The way Brian spoke about the pressure of having to snap in the Super Bowl, with so much at stake and absolutely dreading the possibility of screwing up everything for his team, had Bavaro actually wondering if his friend might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“I don’t even want to go,” Brian said. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Brian, it’s too late, man, you got to do it,” Bavaro said. “Just relax. You’ve been doing this forever. You just have to relax and get yourself together.”
“Yeah, I know you’re right,” Brian said. “But I’m still trying to figure out how to do that.”
Bavaro could hardly believe the irony of it all. Brian had always wanted so badly to be one of the guys at the pinnacle of the football world. Now he was about to play in the Super Bowl, and he wanted nothing to do with it.
Leaving the restaurant, all Bavaro could do was tell Brian that he would be thinking of him and praying for him. He certainly could not say what else was running through his mind—the unsettling thought that what had started as a fairy tale might instead be turning into a complete disaster that would end up haunting Brian for the rest of his life. As
much as Bavaro wanted to believe that Brian would somehow pull himself together and be able to do his job without ever being noticed, he could not help but think that something bad was going to happen to his friend in the Super Bowl.
The morning of Saturday, January 24, the Patriots had one more practice in Foxborough before they would depart the next day for Houston: one final chance for Brian to get things right and feel good about himself on the way out of town. Instead, he threw two more bad snaps (out of five) during the field-goal period. They were low this time, instead of high. Ken Walter was able to handle them, and Adam Vinatieri still made good on the kicks, but any chance of a boost in Brian’s confidence was gone.
It was looking more and more like Brian was suffering from what some athletes, primarily golfers and baseball players, had come to call a case of the yips—an inexplicable loss of ability to do something that had always been so simple for him. One of the greatest golfers of all time, Ben Hogan, had famously gone through multiple stretches when he battled the yips while putting. A baseball pitcher named Steve Blass, winner of two games for the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 1971 World Series and a Major League All-Star in 1972, suffered such a sudden and severe loss of control on his pitches in 1973—with no physical explanation whatsoever—that his ten-year career came crashing to a halt and the baseball version of the yips became commonly known as Steve Blass Disease. Was Brian on his way to having his name forever linked to a football variety of the mysterious mental affliction?