Patriot Reign

by Michael Holley

  So this was going to be the last meeting for several Patriots. They weren’t going to be here on Saturday mornings before a road trip, watching all the wives and girlfriends in the parking lot wave to their men on the bus. No more State Police escorts from two states—Massachusetts and Rhode Island—on the way to T. F. Green Airport in Providence. Once there, the bus drives toward a security gate at airport operations. It is waved through and pulls up to the plane. No one is asking if you’ve packed all your bags yourself or if you talked to any strangers on the way to the airport. Just board the chartered plane—it’s not a luxury plane, it’s just chartered—and wait for the flight attendants to offer more food than necessary.

  For some, this was going to be the end of hearing Belichick’s raw analyses of the Patriots and the teams they play. There would be no more surprises from the coach, like the one he had after the Thanksgiving win in Detroit. After leading the players in the Lord’s Prayer, he told them he had several announcements to make. It was all good news. He was giving them the weekend off; that news drew their applause. He told them to leave their red throwback jerseys next to their lockers and to not even think about keeping them. “By the way some of you guys look in these red uniforms, don’t gain too much weight,” he cracked. He told them that, with the weekend off, they should avoid trouble. He glanced at Willie McGinest when he said “trouble,” and McGinest started laughing. “Come on, Coach. Why are you looking at me when you say that?” He asked the players to give thanks and reminded them that there was someone they could call—a coach or family member—who had helped them along the way.

  Next season, some of them were going to miss the camaraderie, adult and juvenile alike. They weren’t going to be able to hear a few guys whistle on the plane as The Godfather’s Michael Corleone watched his Sicilian bride remove her shirt. In 2003, how many times would there be locker- room celebrations like the one in Champaign, Illinois? The Patriots had trailed the Bears by three touchdowns, 27–6, in the third quarter. They came back to win, 33–30, on a late touchdown catch by David Patten. “Where’s the beer?” offensive lineman Grey Ruegamer shouted. “I’ve never met anyone luckier than Tom Brady,” Mike Vrabel said so Brady, who had thrown 55 passes, could hear him. “If we had lost this game,” Pepper Johnson announced, “it would have felt like losing to the University of Illinois! Because how can you lose to the Chicago Bears when you’re not at Soldier Field? We’re not even in Chicago.”

  It was fun. Now it was history. All kinds of practice conversations, weight-room competitions, observations about what was on the television in the cafeteria—all gone into the vault known as the 2002 season.

  How long does it take to switch one’s focus from one season to the next? How about one shift? The squad meeting was at nine o’clock. At four o’clock there was a “needs meeting” in Belichick’s office. The coach, Ernie Adams, and Scott Pioli were all there with independent lists. They were charged with taking the first steps toward reconstructing the Patriots. It was going to take them from December 30, 2002, until August 19, 2003, to acquire and shape all the pieces they needed to be great again.

  They weren’t going to be able to do it alone. They were going to need help from ownership, the scouts, the assistant coaches, and in some cases the players themselves. They would do some work in Foxboro, but there would be trips to Mobile, Alabama, and Indianapolis as well. There was the East-West Game, the Cactus Bowl, the Senior Bowl, the Paradise Bowl, and the Hula Bowl. There was going to be pro free agency, a strange period: some players who didn’t satisfy the Patriots would make another team happy, and some players who were fired by other teams would be embraced by the Patriots. All of those all-star bowls—not to mention the Super Bowl—were in January. The fifty-nine days of Pioli’s January and February schedule were jammed with football activities. There was just one exception, at 5:20 in the evening on January 9: Pioli had a dental appointment, during which he was scheduled to have his teeth cleaned. He had to lead a department, watch film, consult with Belichick, and handle things at home with Dallas. She was four months pregnant with their first child.

  It wasn’t just the players. Everyone in the organization knew how unhappy Belichick was with the previous season. He became surly when anyone mentioned his secondary in a complimentary way. He was clearly going to overhaul it. He also wasn’t going to tolerate any misevaluations by his coaches or by college or pro scouts. If you weren’t going to be able to get it right, you were put on notice. He was coming after you. If you saw something positive and he didn’t see it, it was okay. You just had better be prepared to defend it.

  He gave Pioli, Adams, and all the coaches postseason assignments: they had ten games to watch, and they were asked to make their evaluations off those ten games. They knew he would be watching too, and there was no such thing as a throwaway line when describing a player’s strengths and weaknesses. If you said a player still had sudden burst, for example, and the coach didn’t see it, he would ask you to cite your sources, like a professor demanding more from the bibliography. At the end of the year and well into January and wild-card weekend, it didn’t feel like the Patriots had actually won nine games. This was the feeling that a six- or seven-game winner would have. From all perspectives, there was no confusion about what was starting to happen. In corporate-speak, there were going to be transfers, layoffs, firings, and vigorous interviewing of fresh-faced kids from college.

  Anthony Pleasant had seen the ritual play out since1992. Pleasant was a month away from his thirty-fifth birthday at the end of 2002. He was a deep man whom the players sometimes called “Moses” for his wisdom and religious convictions. He knew what was happening. He understood that he was at the age where it could happen to him, without anyone asking questions. “Sometimes the business takes the fun out of the game because of everything that goes on around you,” he says. “You know, the different politics and that kind of stuff. So that takes the fun out of it and makes it hard to trust people. It’s a cold-hearted business. It’s not the real world either. It’s not the everyday nine-to-five job. It’s a coldhearted, cutthroat business.”

  Larry Cook was one of the people assigned to find the best rookies and replacements for the Patriots. The scout didn’t disagree with Pleasant’s analysis. The nature of the job is diabolical. “You’ve got to be cruel at times,” he says. “It’s a bit of a mercenary position.” Cook has been involved with football evaluation for over forty years. He has seen the game from all regions of the country. He grew up on Chicago’s South Side, went to college in Michigan, worked and taught in California, scouted nationally, and arrived in New England in 1985. He knew what Belichick wanted, and he knew how to think about what the coach wanted.

  “A lot of times when a team gets to the Super Bowl, that’s really the apex of their performance. And what you really have to guard against is becoming complacent with the personnel you have. When you do that, essentially, you step off the cliff. Our job is to have people in place, ready to be future Patriots. It may take them a year or two or three to develop—but hopefully not ten. We can’t let the team fall off the cliff. That’s the whole purpose of our job. That’s what we have to prevent.”

  All of football operations went to work. Flights, hotels, and rental cars were booked. Sources were called. Office lights were left on a little longer than usual. They were all working for one of the most competitive coaches in the country, and they had to realize that he was angry. They had to realize that one thought was uppermost in his mind: the Patriots didn’t even qualify for the right to guard their championship. At minimum, his next team had to be able to do that.

  It was 7:15 on a Tuesday morning, and the temperature in Foxboro was in the single digits. On this windy day in January—the 22nd—Bill Belichick was taking a drive. He got behind the wheel of his Toyota SUV, slipped Santana’s Supernatural into the CD player, and started driving south toward Annapolis. He would see his parents and do some scouting at the University of Maryland. He would have his
cell phone with him, and that was a good thing, because he had a lot of work to do.

  As he drove through Rhode Island two things were apparent: he was tired—he had been rubbing his face and shifting in his seat—and he was agitated about his defensive backs. “We’ve got major problems in the secondary,” he said. He wasn’t happy with any of his safeties in 2002. He thought Victor Green had lost a lot of speed. He thought Lawyer Milloy had lost speed too, and he was shocked by the zeros Milloy posted in the playmaking categories—no forced fumbles, no fumble recoveries, no interceptions. Tebucky Jones missed too many tackles and was going to want a lot of money; Belichick had a problem with both of these things. He was surprised that on a defense ranked as low as the Patriots’, the team had three starters make the Pro Bowl.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t say anything good about our defense right now.”

  He said he was not sure what would be done about cornerback Ty Law’s high cap number for 2003 or about Milloy’s contract, which was backloaded. He needed to do something about his fatigue, though. He decided to take the next exit. He wanted to find a place where he could get a bottle of water. He gave no thought to his status as one of the most recognizable faces in New England. As soon as he stepped out of the car, a young man spotted him and yelled, “Bill, nice to see you.” Belichick waved and walked into a convenience store, where four people stared at him as he brought the bottle to the counter.

  Back on the road, his cell phone rang. It was Berj Najarian, the coach’s executive administrator. Najarian had earned Belichick’s complete trust. (“No matter what I give him, he can handle it. He’s so competent. I wish I could be as organized as he is.”) Belichick was receiving an update on strength coach Mike Woicik. The Jacksonville Jaguars had faxed a request to speak with Woicik about becoming their strength coach. Jack Del Rio, a close friend of Woicik’s, was the new head coach of the Jaguars. Najarian told Belichick that the Patriots’ chief operating officer, Andy Wasynczuk, would be calling him soon.

  Wasynczuk called a few minutes later, and Belichick already knew what to tell him about Woicik: “I’d like to give him permission to speak with those guys, but I don’t want to give him permission yet to take the job. I’m not sure if that’s possible.” And since they were on the subject of Jacksonville, Belichick mentioned that he wanted to hire former Jaguars assistant John Hufnagel as quarterbacks coach.

  He was working the phone and talking football. The music changed from Santana to the Beatles to U2. Rhode Island became Connecticut, and Connecticut became New York. Belichick left a message for Robert Kraft so the owner could be updated. He talked with Wasynczuk a second time. Somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike he even received a surprise phone call from a cousin who wanted to set up a family reunion.

  Soon enough he would have his own reunion, with Mom and Dad. He wanted to take the scenic route into Annapolis, pointing out some of the local landmarks. He smiled when he passed the restaurant on Dock Street where he used to work. He was just 15 minutes away from his parents’ house; they have lived in the same place for the past 44 years. Belichick has someone take care of their landscaping and was always making other efforts to modernize the home that they adored. Steve and Jeanette Beli-chick had been married so long, Jeanette says with a smile, “because I don’t nag him.” One of the few times that she did, she was right. She had been editing one of his football books, and she said she didn’t understand the excessive jargon. “You’re not supposed to understand it,” he replied. “It’s not for you. It’s for football coaches.” She shook her head. “That’s the problem with you coaches. You’re not thinking about the average reader.” She was right. He accepted her changes.

  Now she was at the door, wishing that her only child could stay longer than a day. She hugged and kissed him, told him to have a seat, and made sure she had all his updated numbers. And since it was Maryland, after all, she was making crabcakes. She is a calm woman who has a wonderful voice. She and Steve complement each other. He has a good sense of humor and doesn’t mind telling you a few stories. He likes to sit in the family room, lined with books and game balls, and read the sports sections of the Washington Post and the local paper, the Capital. Sometimes when he can’t believe something he’s seen, he’ll read it aloud to Jeanette to see what she thinks. When Belichick arrived at home, his father had been watching ESPN’s Pardon the Interruption. “You ever watch this show?” he said to his son. “It’s pretty good.”

  They are such good grandparents that their son ribs them sometimes. “Believe me,” he said, “you want to be a grandchild in this house.” Jeanette smiled. “Well, they’re all good kids.” She has pictures of them throughout the house, including a couple on the refrigerator. When Bill said that his son Stephen was going through a stage of being cool, Jeanette pointed out, “And you didn’t think you were cool at the same age?”

  It was a typical trip home, and they all wanted it to last longer. But it couldn’t, and they all knew why. Belichick’s parents saw that look on his face after the loss to the Jets— that game really stung him. As the wife of a coach and the mother of a coach, Jeanette understands the demands of building a team and then guiding it. Not much had changed. When he was sixteen, his mother could look at him and know what was on his mind. He is fifty now, and she does the same thing.

  He would have breakfast in the morning and then get ready to head toward College Park. To think about self- scouting. To think about the tough but necessary decisions that needed to be made.

  Before they can know what they need, they need to know who they are. This is one of Belichick’s core philosophies, and it is why he was sitting in this Gillette Stadium room with a binder, notebook, pens, and pages of football statistics. All the coaches were there. Adams and Pioli were there. For a couple of days Kraft was there too.

  This was a team evaluation meeting where no opinions were spared. It was just a bunch of smart guys talking football. But instead of a bar top there was a conference table. And rather than pure emotion—although there was emotion here—their conclusions were backed up with numbers, trends, and anecdotes. Every Patriots player was up for discussion. There were strengths and weaknesses for each one. There were comments and sometimes statistics on his mental errors, his performance in the weight room, his ability to be coached, his attitude, his ranking compared with others at his position leaguewide and his ability to help the team next year.

  Emotionally, this was easier for Belichick to do than it was for the position coaches. The head coach was not dealing with a group of six to ten players to whom he may have grown close over the course of a season or two. Belichick didn’t bring that type of closeness into it. He took the panoramic view. If he saw a weak spot from overhead, he was more likely to fix it aggressively. Business first. What he wanted to be able to gauge from these meetings, simply, was whether a player still was a good fit for the Patriots. If not, it was time to move on.

  And it sounded as if everyone wanted to do that with young tackle Kenyatta Jones. He had made 23 mental errors—the highest number on the team—in 661 plays. His blocks graded out at 72 percent, the lowest on the team. His position coach was Dante Scarnecchia. If the Patriots had been a college, Scarnecchia would have been tenured. He has held a number of positions in his twenty years with the Patriots. Belichick respects him and takes his analyses seriously. Scarnecchia reported that Jones had poor practice habits, was late off the ball, and had questionable mental toughness.

  “There are days when that guy comes out to practice and you just know that he ain’t gonna fuckin’ work,” Scarnecchia said. He said that Jones’s effort at Miami in October “was one of the worst ten-play stretches of any tackle in the league.” Belichick agreed. “He killed us that day. There are stretches when he’s just brutal.” The only thing positive they could say about him was that he was young—twenty-four—and that he enjoyed facing good players. “He is your typical coach-killer,” Charlie Weis said. “Most of his teammates have no
confidence in him. All of the offensive linemen know he can’t be counted on, and the quarterbacks know it as well.”

  They still weren’t done with him.

  Scarnecchia reasoned that Jones may have had a self-image problem. “Not to get too fuckin’ psychological here,” he said. He then questioned his own coaching, wondering whether he should show some restraint and not ride Jones so much. “But,” he concluded, “that would be very hard.”

  Most people in the room—including new quarterbacks coach Hufnagel—realized that Jones was the baseline. They realized that no other player they evaluated was going to fall below that level. If so, nonplay-off seasons were going to be the norm.

  The entire tone of the conversation changed when it was time to evaluate guard Damien Woody. Scarnecchia liked him. Woody had made just 6 mental errors in 957 plays. He graded out at 89 percent on all of his blocks, the highest number on the team. “He’s tough,” Scarnecchia said. “He’s competitive. He’s durable. He’s good in meetings. He accepts challenges.” Belichick added that Woody was tough. He said more players like the team’s third- round pick in 2001 could learn from his pain threshold. “Brock Williams still hasn’t recovered from a high-ankle sprain,” Belichick said with a smirk, referring to the former Patriots cornerback.

  On some players, these men could sort through the information without much of a debate. Some players they just saw the same way. They all agreed that they needed to find a way to get the ball to Kevin Faulk more often. And that the drop in Antowain Smith’s forty times—from 4.44 in 2001 to 4.54 in 2002—was a concern. “I’m worried about it,” Belichick said. Weis concurred: “This was a shitty year. He would let some slapdick corner come up and tackle him after he gained one yard.” They loved Matt Light’s improvement from year one to year two. As a rookie left tackle, he had made 35 mental errors in 769 plays. His second year was much cleaner: 12 errors in 1,030 plays.