Patriot Reign

by Michael Holley

  In between trips to St. Elmo’s Steakhouse—where Belichick devoured the shrimp cocktail—the Patriots were beginning to get a feel for the players they wanted in the draft. None was a workout star.

  They liked a center from Boston College, Dan Koppen, who had short arms and whose forty times averaged out to5.26. They needed help on the defensive line; that wasn’t news. But who would have guessed that they were falling for the shortest lineman there? A kid from Temple named Dan Klecko who wasn’t quite 5 feet 11⁄ inches? “Best hands of any lineman in the draft,” Licht said. They needed a new Star. They were eyeing Asante Samuel, who was one of the lightest corners at 185 pounds. On his strength reps, Samuel bench-pressed 225 pounds nine times, which tied for the fewest reps in his group of defensive backs. Not good.

  It wasn’t always about numbers and stats. The Patriots said it and they lived it. It wasn’t always about business either. They were starting to feel so good about where they were headed that they found time to fight—playfully. It wasn’t that they were excited over certain players. What was more important was that Belichick and Pioli could finally go to work knowing what kind of players they needed and wanted. On Saturday night in Indianapolis, light rain had turned into a heavy rain and snow mixture. Perfect for snowballs. So Pioli and area scout Matt Russell started pelting each other as they ran down Washington Street. Two kids in winter, having fun in the snow.

  A few of them had arrived early, even though all they could do now was wait. There were no more grades, alerts, and types for them to put on players. On this Saturday in April, the first day of the draft, the Patriots’ scouts were as eager as the fans to see what selections would be made.

  It had already been a productive off-season for the Patriots. A productive weekend could, remarkably, have people talking about them as contenders again. Belichick and Pioli had been so good six weeks earlier that they both got handshakes from the boss.

  “Nice job today, guys,” Robert Kraft had said one evening in March as they all stood near the entrance of football operations. The owner smiled. “Thanks a lot. After spending all this money, my wife can’t go shopping now.” They smiled back. That day had been incredible. Colvin had been walking around the building, a new Patriot. Cornerback Tyrone Poole would be coming soon. And Rodney Harrison, released by San Diego, was going to join the secondary. It was okay to mention defense to Belichick again. He was starting to feel better. Colvin was going to make them younger, faster, and more versatile on defense. Harrison would bring some toughness and talent to the secondary. Poole could either start or help in the sub packages.

  Now, on draft day, Belichick and Pioli had currency. They had picks. Lots of picks. They had traded Tebucky Jones to New Orleans for three draft choices, a third and seventh this year and a fourth in 2004. The night before the draft they took that third from the Saints and made a swap with the Dolphins: the Patriots’ number three for the Dolphins’ number two in 2004. They were going into this day with thirteen picks, and the point was not to use them all. Those picks were your passport, allowing you to go wherever you wanted. You could stalk the board, going forward or in reverse, getting who you wanted and where you wanted them.

  The best thing about all this flexibility and power was that Belichick and Pioli were content to share it, not fight over it. They knew each other so well that they could effectively communicate with expressions. Pioli knew the difference between Belichick’s venting and the coach’s serious declarations that a player had to go. There was one assistant coach—Eric Mangini—who could passionately argue with Belichick and then laugh with him later. Pioli was the one other person in football operations who could do the same thing.

  It was time for them to get their draft room ready. Their front and back boards—the back board was for prospects who fell below the required 5.50 grade to be a “Make It” player—were set. They had Jimmy Dee stationed in New York, prepared to read the names of drafted players to them. The televisions were tuned to ESPN. The telephones were working. Ernie Adams was at the front of the room, writing out scenarios from the Patriots’ “value chart.”

  Kraft was in the room, paging through some of the information in the massive scouting books. Jonathan Kraft was there too, glancing at the television and reading the business section of the New York Times. Belichick was at the center of the room, and Pioli was next to him. Berj Najarian sat several feet away from them. Jason Licht was nearby, prepared to answer any questions about players or draft trends.

  As the first round began, there were two mild surprises. The Saints moved up to number 6 to take Johnathan Sullivan, a defensive tackle the Patriots liked. Then, at number 7, the Vikings didn’t submit their card before the clock, so Jacksonville and Carolina went ahead of them. When the Vikings did pick, at number 9, they took Kevin Williams, another defensive tackle. Three spots later, St. Louis took defensive tackle Jimmy Kennedy.

  The Patriots were two picks away and one defensive tackle they wanted, Ty Warren, was there. They couldn’t wait. Some team might be calling the Bears, at number 13, trying to get a defensive tackle as well. Belichick called Angelo. “Hey,” he said. “How about a sixth?”

  They could talk like minimalists and understand each other. They had known each other since the 1980s, when they were both with the Giants. Angelo agreed, so the teams switched places, with the sixth-round pick as the sweetener. Warren was the choice.

  Since the Patriots had another first-rounder, number 19, the phones hadn’t stopped ringing. And they had options. Miami was calling again. This time the Dolphins wanted to get into the first round, and they were willing to relinquish next year’s first for the right to do it.

  “They’re clearly going for it all this year,” Belichick said to Pioli.

  There was a call from Ozzie Newsome in Baltimore. The Ravens wanted number 19—the Patriots guessed they were looking for a quarterback—and apparently weren’t willing to pay the necessary price.

  “Come on, Ozzie,” Belichick said. “Give me a fucking break. Next year’s number 1 has to be a part of the deal, minimum. We’ve already got some action on this pick.”

  He hung up.

  They did have action, but did they really want to make another deal with the Dolphins? They had just taken the Dolphins’ 2004 second-round pick, and now Miami was offering its first. A deal with Baltimore would be better by any chart—value or common sense. Newsome called back. If their guy, Kyle Boller, were still there at 19, they’d trade with the Patriots. Arizona had back-to-back picks before them, so the Patriots were tense when the Cardinals were on the clock. They took Bryant Johnson and Calvin Pace. “Thank God for the Cardinals,” Adams said. “When you need them to fuck it up, they fuck it up.”

  It was a deal.

  The Patriots dropped twenty-two slots to number 41 and picked up a first for 2004.

  Belichick had met with former Dallas coach Jimmy Johnson in the spring, and Jimmy had said a few things that impressed him. Jimmy told him to write down the players he wanted on his team—“Be realistic,” Jimmy had warned—and then put together a draft plan from that list. Wasn’t the idea to get as many desirable players as possible?

  That’s what the Patriots were thinking when they moved down. They already had Warren. They could drop down, save money, and pick up two other players on their top-20 list: Eugene Wilson, an Illinois cornerback, and Bethel Johnson, a Texas A&M receiver.

  But a run on corners at the end of the first round made them nervous. Pioli started making some calls. First it was the Bengals. “Are you looking to move with this pick?” They weren’t. Then it was the Lions. No thanks, again. They finally got a deal with the Texans, one spot behind Angelo and the Bears again. They moved up five spots by packaging their second-rounder with a third they had acquired from Washington. Belichick knew his buddy Angelo needed help at corner. And the Bears did play in Champaign in 2002. He hoped Angelo wouldn’t take the local kid, Wilson, at number 35.

  “Charles Tillman, cornerback, Louis
iana–Lafayette,” Dee said from New York. The Bears took him, so now the Patriots could have Wilson.

  It was another close one. They made one more deal to secure Johnson—they traded a fourth-rounder to Carolina for the right to move up five spots—and the first day of the draft was done. It was a faultless start, although it wasn’t seen that way locally. Fans had wanted to see the Patriots, not the Jets, move up for Kentucky defensive tackle De- wayne Robertson. New England never considered it. They liked what they got on day one. The only day two problem—and a brief problem at that—was an argument between Pioli and Belichick.

  Armed with picks, Belichick believed the Patriots could take some chances. Pioli agreed, but not with the particular player Belichick had in mind. Pioli didn’t want the player on the board. He thought his character problems were too severe and that drafting him would send the wrong message to the players. Here they had been, for three years, preaching that players conform to a professional standard. How could they turn around and risk that message for an unstable kid? Anyway, Pioli reminded him, think of Cleveland. A few bad attitudes there were enough to sink a couple of teams.

  Pioli had convinced him. Instead of risks, they were solid for the rest of the day. They got Klecko, Samuel, and Koppen, their players from the combine. They picked a quarterback, Kliff Kingsbury, in the sixth round and a line- backer, Tully Banta-Cain, in the seventh.

  As the day ended Belichick and some of the scouts sat in the draft room. There were no debates or arguments, for the first time in months. It was mellow, with an undercurrent of satisfaction in the room. It was Belichick, Pioli, and a few scouts, sitting around, having a few beers, especially pleased about the state of the new defense. While to some degree of confidence they could predict how the new additions would work out in their organization, what they could not have predicted was the fallout of one player whom many considered the heart of the very defense they’d wanted to improve.

  CHAPTER 11

  “THEY HATE THEIR

  COACH”

  They got along the first time they met, early in1996. The twenty-two-year-old kid with the unforgettable name—Lawyer—had impressed Bill Belichick. They had sat down that day and begun watching football films. Three or four hours later they were still going.

  Belichick knew then that he liked Lawyer Milloy. It was the way Milloy never lost his focus when they were talking about football. It was the sense that he could watch these films for an additional three or four hours and still want to play afterward.

  “I didn’t think he had any weak points,” Belichick says. “He was one of the most impressive guys I ever talked to. The guy hadn’t watched film since his last college game back in November. And shit, he knew everything. ‘Here’s what this call is, this is why I’m doing this. See that formation? Here are the adjustments. Now he’s going in motion, we’re checking this, I got him, he’s got him. …’ It was like he watched the film yesterday.”

  They put on another film, and it was more of the same. Belichick was an assistant coach with the Patriots then. He knew Milloy, a safety from the University of Washington, could help them. “After what I saw, I thought, This guy is smart. He’s not going to have a problem handling anything. And he liked football. He was into it. It wasn’t work for him. Let’s face it: he does have a little bit of an attitude. But in the end you can certainly work with the guy.”

  The Patriots drafted him in the second round that year. As his position coach, Belichick used to lobby Bill Parcells to start him over Terry Ray. He was ready. They worked together for just one season. After that, Belichick and Parcells were off to New York, and Milloy was left standing in Foxboro, wondering what happened to the Patriots’ kingdom that was predicted to come. It didn’t. The team went from very good to good, then from good to mediocre. It was bad enough to have a coaching vacancy in 2000, a vacancy that Belichick filled. When the Patriots won Super Bowl XXXVI, two people rushed to Belichick: his daughter, Amanda, and Milloy. “I thought that was appropriate,” the coach says.

  Even during the good times—when the Patriots were champs—Belichick could always see Milloy’s flaws, as a player and as a leader. He really was a leader. And he really wasn’t. He brought some of his teammates together. He alienated them. He brought them together again. You just had to understand him. He was full of energy and emotion, a man who spoke it nearly as quickly as he saw it. He wasn’t about internalizing his thoughts. He was a glance away from going off, always ready to deliver a lick—verbal or physical.

  “A negative leader sometimes” reads the Patriots’ 2001 team evaluation report. This was after Milloy had helped the team win the Super Bowl. There was also this: “Good production, durable, tough…. Over-aggressive, doesn’t wrap up, inconsistent leadership, selfish.”

  There was enough for everyone, depending on your personality and what you were willing to accept. If you didn’t mind someone playing his music at his volume near your locker, you liked him. If you did, you had a problem. If you didn’t mind a joke at your expense every now and then, you laughed with him. If you couldn’t handle it, you shied away. If you were an employee who wished one of the rank and file had the guts to take on management, you adored him. He would say anything to anybody. If you were a designer of fashionable clothing and wanted someone to look good in your clothes, you recruited him. His style was balanced between classic and hip. He had a big heart and a great smile. He was comfortable among the fans and clubs of Boston. He was handsome. A lot of young women turned their heads his way and never turned away.

  It gave him and his friend Ty Law immense pride that they weren’t sidelined with “soft” injuries. They’d make fun of teammates who would be at practice riding stationary bikes as the two of them put in the real work. Milloy didn’t miss any games or many assignments.

  He played baseball in high school and college, and he had that quality that a lot of great pitchers have: even when they don’t have their best stuff, they make you believe in what’s there. And that’s what feeds the greatness. Milloy was like that. He made you believe. He was confident and energetic, waving his arms to the crowd. He always had a little more energy than you did, even without his stuff.

  In 2002 he was without it.

  He was twenty-nine, he made the Pro Bowl—without playing like a Pro Bowler—and in the unfair world of NFL economics he was essentially in his contract year with the Patriots. It is an NFL truism known by all: you don’t want to have an average year when you’re just south or north of thirty years old. Milloy had an average year. He also happened to be playing for a coach whom he knew as well as the coach knew him. He knew he and Belichick had a lot in common when it came to football, but they couldn’t have been more opposite when it came to emotions. The coach observed first and spoke later, if at all. He could go off just like Milloy, but he could also be measured. He was always an economist.

  As much as Belichick liked Milloy personally—he was one of the people who sometimes enjoyed the attitude—he didn’t like the way the numbers sat on the salary cap. He wasn’t thrilled with the ’02 production either, but he could have accepted it if it had been next to a cap number different than $4.5 million. Belichick had thought about it the entire off-season. Once, during a draft meeting, scout Tom Dimitroff made a comment about the big plays that he’d seen Milloy make in ’02. “I’d like you to come up with some examples,” the coach said. “I can’t think of any.”

  Belichick thought about it in March when the Patriots signed former Chargers safety Rodney Harrison, and he continued to think about it in April when safety Tebucky Jones was dealt to the Saints. He wanted the team to negotiate with Milloy’s agent, Carl Poston. If they could work out a deal that would give Milloy around $3 million per season, that would be okay.

  It was not going to be all right with Milloy. It was a pay cut, and he wasn’t interested. On August 19, when the Patriots traded a fourth-round pick to the Bears for nose tackle Ted Washington, it was still an issue. There was almost no cha
nce of the disagreement ending well. New England was halfway through its preseason and three days away from exhibition game number three. Most of Milloy’s teammates knew about his contract struggles—he wasn’t known for his restraint. They all figured that this season would be his last in New England. They were right: two weeks later, on Tuesday, September 2, per his and his agent Poston’s request, he was released. The Patriots had been preparing to do it if a deal couldn’t be struck, so they weren’t blindsided. Still, now they’d have to explain the loss to the team.

  So there was Belichick on one of the most awkward days of the year. He always told the team about roster updates in team meetings. But this wasn’t going to be like the day in ’02 when he announced that Dean Wells had retired, one day after signing. Lots of players didn’t even know who Dean Wells was. This was Lawyer. This was their spokesman for difficult things, the man who would say, “Why are we doing this bull- shit?” when other players would think it.

  Belichick arrived at the meeting later than usual. He was uncomfortable. He got around to saying that Milloy had been cut and that it was a tough decision. He mentioned that Milloy had given a lot to the organization and that his physical and emotional contributions had made the Lombardi Trophy on the second floor a reality. He gave them the news of the day, waited a few beats, and then started talking about the game they had to play.

  The players were stunned.