The Long Snapper

by Jeffrey Marx

  Brian fully understood the potential magnitude of what he was getting into. He went to his hotel room, feeling very alone and extremely anxious, and made a decision. All he had to do now was inform Scott Pioli of it. Brian checked his team-issued list of room assignments and dialed the telephone. He did not really expect to find Pioli in his room—calling his cell phone would be next—but Pioli answered.

  “Hey, Brian, what’s going on?” he casually asked. There was nothing unusual about his old friend just checking in with him. Of course, Pioli had no idea what he was about to hear.

  “Scott, I don’t know how to say this, but I want to go home. You need to find somebody else to snap.”

  With the Super Bowl only four days away, Pioli would have been hard-pressed to imagine a player—any player—offering him a more bizarre or more jarring collection of syllables. He knew that Brian had been having problems. But he could not believe that he actually wanted out altogether.

  “What are you talking about?” Pioli said.

  “I can’t throw the football straight,” Brian said. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I don’t understand it. Don’t have any idea how to explain it. But this is a nightmare. I’m totally lost.”

  Pioli did the best he could to play down the situation. He tried to reassure Brian that he would be fine. He had been snapping forever. Everything would work itself out.

  “Scott, are you kidding me?” Brian said. “Where have you been? I’m throwing balls over Kenny’s head. I’m throwing balls on the ground.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Pioli said. “The whole reason we brought you in is because we know what you can do. The biggest thing is you just need to trust yourself—not only now, not only with snapping or anything else related to football. It’s everything. It’s always. It’s life.”

  That was one thing about the relationship between Pioli and Brian. They had been friends for so long that Pioli knew exactly what existed behind the mask of certainty that Brian generally wore for everyone other than the people closest to him. Pioli knew that a great deal of insecurity had always lurked behind the mask, and it was this understanding that now allowed him to go much deeper with Brian than a typical front-office guy could have done with a player who was not also a friend. Pioli and Brian went back and forth for a few minutes on that subject of trusting and believing in yourself.

  Then Brian asked about something that seemed quite strange to Pioli. He wanted to know why Belichick had not been yelling at him when he messed up.

  “Why doesn’t Bill curse me out?” Brian said. “Why isn’t he ‘mother-effing’ me like he does to everyone else? He certainly used to in Cleveland. And I deserve it.”

  “Who knows?” Pioli said. “Maybe he knows your confidence is already down, and he doesn’t want to make it worse.”

  Pioli was by no means a psychologist. But this was starting to feel an awful lot like trying to talk down someone who was about to jump from a ledge.

  “Brian, you just need to start thinking clearly about this,” Pioli said. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re not going home. You’re in. You committed to this thing. You’ve got to think about the commitment you made to Bill and to me, and to all the people here.”

  “Yeah, I’ve made a commitment. But what is that worth if all I’m gonna do is screw up this whole thing for so many people?”

  Brian paused. Then he said, “I really feel like I need to talk to Bill.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pioli said. “What is that going to accomplish?”

  Ultimately, Brian decided not to bother Belichick. Pioli had done a pretty good job of calming down his friend. And Brian finally agreed that he was not going anywhere. He would just keep plugging away and would do the best he could to get everything back to normal.

  After hanging up the phone, Pioli took in a deep breath and just sat there for a minute. Although he had already known Brian was not throwing great snaps, this was the first time he was genuinely concerned about it. With Brian revealing such a lack of confidence, how could he not be? Pioli knew he would have to tell Belichick what had just taken place.

  Brian was temporarily comforted by his conversation with Pioli. If nothing else, it felt good to know that he was still wanted. But Brian soon got antsy again, his brain stuck in overthink, and he decided to go see Don Davis, his teammate and friend who led the Patriots’ weekly Bible study. Although Davis was only in his first season with New England, he already knew something about the whole Super Bowl experience. Two years earlier, when he was with the St. Louis Rams, he had played in Super Bowl XXXVI against the Patriots. Brian now went to see Davis in his room because he still needed a friend—in this case, a like-minded co-worker—to hear him out and offer some kind of encouragement.

  “I’m really struggling,” Brian told Davis.

  He explained that he was filled with anxiety, that he could not stop thinking about messing up in the Super Bowl and blowing the game for everyone on the team, that he could hardly even sleep. Brian told him about the conversation with Pioli but said he still could not shake the big-picture questions that had been hanging over him: “Is this really where I’m supposed to be? Is this really what I’m supposed to be doing?”

  Davis strongly believed that it was.

  “With this incredible opportunity you have been given, with the whole timing of it all, it has to be a God thing,” he said. “You were not brought in for training camp. You were not brought in for the whole season. You were brought here for a specific time and purpose. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. I mean, there are always going to be some problems along the way, but that’s just part of the whole process.”

  Davis had focused on that very concept in a Bible study—“Five Ways God Uses Problems”—he had recently prepared for his weekly session with teammates. Using passages from five different books of the Bible, Davis had illustrated that God uses problems to direct us, to inspect us, to correct us, to protect us, and to perfect us. As Davis had put it in his opening comments: “The problems we face will either defeat us or develop us. Unfortunately, most folks fail to see how God wants to use problems for good in their lives. Most of the time, we react foolishly and resent our problems rather than pausing to consider what benefit they might bring.”

  The keys for Brian now, Davis told him in that hotel room, would be the same as they always had been: faith and perseverance. “We’re going to win the Super Bowl,” Davis said. “We’re not going to allow the devil to take your confidence, cost us the Super Bowl, and take away this tremendous platform for God.” Brian listened intently, and he greatly appreciated the heartfelt support of his new friend.

  “Let me pray for you,” Davis said.

  He and Brian held hands and bowed their heads.

  “Thank you, God, for your provision, for your power,” Davis said. “We come to you together because where two or more are gathered, you are with us in our midst. Whatever we ask, if we ask in faith, according to your will, we know we will have what we ask for. Our request is that you would fill Brian with your spirit, give him the confidence to do his job, for your glory. We come against the devil right now, in the name of Jesus. The devil is a liar, a thief who wants to steal this glory from you.”

  Then Davis directly targeted the devil on behalf of Brian: “Devil, you have no authority over this man.”

  “Amen,” Brian said. He did not really believe that any evil force would ever affect his performance on a football field. But he appreciated the kindness and support that Davis offered—and Brian was open to just about anything that might help.

  When he returned to his room, Brian took his daily snaps into the pillows. Soon after that, he got a call from Anthony Pleasant, one of his old friends from the Cleveland Browns who was now a veteran defensive lineman for the Patriots. Up to this point, almost every time Pleasant had seen or called Brian in Houston, he had gone right at him with a big smile and a standard line of teasing: “It’s all gonna come down to you, Brian
. Whole game’s gonna be on you, baby.” It was the kind of jocular jab that only a good friend would even consider delivering. Pleasant was just trying to lighten the heavy load he knew his friend was carrying. Brian really had no choice but to laugh along with his buddy. But he also transitioned pretty quickly into firm protest: “Man, I hope not. You really need to stop saying that.”

  This time, Pleasant was not calling to be funny. The man his teammates sometimes called Moses—Pleasant often talked of becoming a minister—wanted to offer his support in more genuine fashion. Knowing what a rough day Brian had been through, he wanted to fill his head with something positive before he went to sleep. Pleasant told Brian, “God did not bring you this far to have you mess up now.”

  With that thought firmly in mind, Brian repeating it to himself several times after hanging up the phone, he came to a conclusion of his own: Four more days. I just have to get the job done.

  When he called Lori to talk through the events of the day—and to say good night—she could hardly believe what he had told Pioli about wanting to leave the team. “Have you lost your mind?” Lori said. “You’re going to give these people a heart attack. You just need to calm down. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Lori and the boys would be driving to Houston the next day. Brian already knew that. But just hearing it again from his wife was the best thing he had heard all day. Shortly after eleven o’clock, he told Lori that he loved her, hung up the phone, and turned out the lights on the longest day of his career.

  Brian did not know whether Pioli told Belichick about their telephone conversation. But one minor gesture made him wonder. It came during practice the afternoon of Thursday, January 29, less than twenty-four hours after Brian had frantically talked about leaving the team and going home.

  After throwing his first punt snap of the day and running downfield on coverage, Brian was headed back to do it again when Belichick looked over at him, put together the tips of his right thumb and index finger, and flashed him the okay sign. Clearly, Belichick wanted Brian to know that he had noticed the good snap. Was he just randomly taking a moment to show approval to his snapper—not exactly a common occurrence—or was he intentionally trying to salvage the spirits of someone he knew to be in desperate need of encouragement? Either way, Brian was indeed lifted, and soon thereafter he was equally pleased when both Ken Walter and Adam Vinatieri complimented him on how well he had snapped throughout the practice.

  It was a sweet reprieve. And the timing could not have been better. Brian’s family was scheduled to arrive in Houston while he was at practice—and now he could enjoy their time together without being totally preoccupied by all the stress he had been feeling.

  Brian was so happy to see them all when he got back to the hotel: Lori; Austin; Hunter; Logan; McKane; and his mother, Toni, unmistakably radiating the happy smile of an extremely excited and proud mom. His father, Gus, and brother Todd would later be arriving from Dallas, where they were attending an event put on by the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. The Kinchens had a big night ahead of them. They were going to NASA’s Johnson Space Center for a huge party—more than a thousand people including a bunch of astronauts—in honor of the Patriots and their families.

  For Brian, it was one of the best experiences of the whole week. He walked with his boys through the front end of a space shuttle. He watched his sons put on headsets and enjoy an exhibit area known as Mission Kidtrol. And he went with them into a simulator that made them feel like they were traveling in a spaceship. Forget football. This was family. All the Kinchens had a great time.

  So much for the reprieve. Brian threw a few more shaky snaps at practice Friday, and Belichick responded to a low one by yelling, “Get it up!”

  After practice, Brian took his helmet and shoulder pads back to the team hotel with him—his family was staying elsewhere—and went right to work throwing his ball into the pillows. It was the first time he had done so while wearing his helmet and pads. The idea was to mimic as best he could the way his body would feel during the game, complete with the weight and restrictions of his gear. He took forty snaps.

  When he was done, Brian cleaned up both himself and the room. Then he pulled out the same book he had been reading every now and then, The Man in the Mirror, and skipped ahead to a chapter that could not have been more relevant. Chapter 17 carried a one-word title: “Fear.” On the third page, Brian found a passage that summarized the only thing he needed to know: “To be afraid is to not fully trust God. He instructs us not to be afraid, promising that if we cast our anxiety upon Him, He will take care of us.” At the end of the chapter, Brian read through a set of focus questions, and one of them might as well have been written directly for him at this very moment: “When you have done everything you can do, and things still don’t seem to be working out, how are you to respond?” Brian knew that the answer came in one simple but profoundly powerful word: faith. And now—no matter what might happen in the next two days—he needed to keep reminding himself of that.

  Back at school in Baton Rouge, the mood was considerably lighter. The students at Parkview had no idea how bad things had gotten for their favorite football player, and their excitement was only building in anticipation of the Super Bowl that weekend. They had even been allowed to put away their school uniforms for the day and wear anything red, white, and blue, in honor of Brian and the Patriots.

  Brian would have loved to see all those kids running around in his team colors. Thinking about his students, he decided to make one last videotape for them: a collection of advice from Patriots players and staff. The next day, Saturday, January 31, he found the perfect time to collect material for it. It was the day before the Super Bowl, and the Patriots were in Reliant Stadium for a final walk-through. With the players dressed in their game uniforms, they also posed for official team photos. While everyone was out on the field, Brian walked around with his camera and solicited “words of wisdom” and “life lessons” for his seventh graders.

  Some of the players spoke with absolute sincerity and offered exactly the type of messages any teacher or parent would want a big-time professional athlete to share with twelve-and thirteen-year-olds. Tom Brady looked straight into the camera, those piercing blue eyes locked in for the students of Parkview, and said, “Always believe in yourself. No matter what anyone else ever says, the only thing you control is what you can do about yourselves. The harder you work and the more you believe in yourself, the more successful you’re going to be.” Don Davis said, “Life is all about balance…and humility. You can’t be too up when the highs come. And you can’t be too low when the lows come. It’s all about balance.”

  Of course, football players being football players, Brian also captured a generous sampling of irreverence. Oh, sure, wisdom or a life lesson? Yeah, I’ll give you something to live by. Defensive lineman Rick Lyle said, “Play golf. Don’t play football.” One of his colleagues on the defensive line, rookie Dan Klecko, breathlessly instructed, “If you make it here, remember your camera. Don’t forget your camera. That’s what I did. That’s your words of wisdom.” But two guys who played on the other side of the ball, offensive linemen Matt Light and Dan Koppen, easily claimed the top prizes for messages the seventh graders least needed to hear. With arms crossed over his number seventy-two jersey and an up-to-no-good look filling every inch between his red mop of hair and an equally unruly goatee, the six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound Light offered only a single line of advice: “Don’t listen to your teacher.” After hearing that and then allowing himself a good ten seconds for deep thinking, Koppen took the bar even lower when he blurted out this priceless gem: “Don’t break through the toilet paper!” Koppen’s fellow offensive linemen—standing side by side with him for a group photo—reacted as if it were just about the funniest thing they had ever heard. Brian laughed, too.

  All yuks aside, there was one brief comment that would stand above all others as the most memorable—and the most important—for Brian. It c
ame from Scott Pioli, who fully understood that Brian wanted something for his students but instead chose to aim his message directly at the man behind the camera. He wanted Brian to always keep in mind something they had talked about during their intense telephone call three days earlier—the part about Brian having to trust himself. The way Pioli saw it, what he wanted to say now was not just for the video. It was not only for the game the next day. It was for life. All he said into the camera was “Remember the conversation.” Brian’s response was equally short and to the point: “Good one. I like it. Excellent.”