“Guys were outraged,” former Patriots guard Damien Woody says. “The coaches knew it was a volatile situation. Our practices were always loud, with the coaches saying a lot of things. But it wasn’t like that the week Lawyer was released. It was quiet. It was that way for an entire week.”
What a lot of people would miss later in analyzing the release was that for the players it wasn’t all about the departure of Milloy. It wasn’t about any trite perception that they were somehow losing heart and soul. They had too much breadth for one player to represent heart and soul. They’d get over the loss. The thing that was so disturbing about the move was that it swung so close to all of them: if Milloy could be cut, following the trade of Drew Bledsoe the year before, who among them couldn’t be released?
There was nothing novel about the thought, of course. Players often talk about the business aspects of the league, but they are players. They are always taken aback by the shivers of corporate America, shivers that people in other businesses receive from CEOs and COOs. The company is not doing what we expected, and we’re laying off three hundred employees. Effective immediately. Just like that.
It was tough to be conscious of that coldness and play professional football. That’s why every player says it’s a business without thinking about it, especially as they give up their bodies while going across the middle. You can devote yourself only to one or the other: pure businessmen will never go over the middle, and pure players will never reduce things to business.
This was not over. They were hurting. They would get together and prove how tough and professional they were, even if outsiders wouldn’t see the results until much later. After the release, there was a defensive meeting—without Belichick present—and players and coaches talked about their feelings.
A few of the veterans stood up and said this was a good lesson for the rookies. Their message to the young players was consistent: “Save your money and take care of yourselves. As you just saw, this can be taken away very quickly.” When they were able to sort out the next issue— and when they were able to expertly deconstruct it—they knew they could still be champions.
They began by asking the most relevant question of all: how could they dedicate themselves to an ethic of selflessness and sacrifice when something like this had just happened? They were able to answer that question to their own satisfaction before the meeting was over. They were going to be selfless, not for any altruistic reason but for football.
Selflessness, they concluded, was the most logical and practical way to win games. In a sense, they were being selfless for selfish reasons, and eventually that insight would make everyone happy.
That was a lot of searching to overcome during an average game week, an extraordinary amount to overcome when a player such as Milloy had been cut, and a nearly impossible amount to overcome when your first game was against the player who had just left.
The Patriots were traveling to Buffalo, where the Bills had a new safety named Milloy. He didn’t have much time to practice—only a couple of days—but he still started on Sunday. He was introduced last, wearing his familiar number 36 jersey. He was back to being his energetic self, and he was sparked by the Super Bowl expectations of fans in western New York.
To those who didn’t know, it still appeared that the Patriots were torn apart by the Milloy release. They weren’t. They were hurt, though, and healing, and now they went straight from the recovery room to violent contact. They didn’t have the focus they needed, all the way around, and that sent a couple of false messages throughout the NFL: that the Patriots were a troubled and divided team, and that Buffalo was the best team in the division and on the verge of playing for a championship.
They both looked their parts.
The Bills won decisively, 31–0. The screen passes that had been part of the Patriots’ offensive package looked like something out of the 1950s against new Buffalo linebacker Takeo Spikes. He was too fast for the screens and too wise to them as well. Bledsoe had no problem with the “Cover 5” defense that used to include Milloy at the back of it. Tom Brady threw four interceptions. And the leading man, the star of the story, was superb. He made more big plays in game one than he had all of the previous season. He had five tackles, a sack, and an artfully defended pass that he was able to tap to new teammate Nate Clements for an interception.
The severity of the loss accelerated the recovery for the Patriots. There would be a linebackers meeting where Larry Izzo stood up and shouted, “Let’s get our shit together.” Tedy Bruschi, already a passionate player, would elevate his leadership. Brady, Harrison, Troy Brown, Ted Washington… they all took over. Not many people realized that Buffalo may have peaked that day while New England, at least, achieved some clarity from the loss.
“I wouldn’t wish this situation that I went through on anybody that plays any kind of sport ever in my life,” Milloy told reporters after the game. “Because it was really messed up. But because of the Lord, because of the way my mother raised me, and because of who I am as a person, as a man…I was able to not only get through it, but I was able to conquer it. I came out on top.”
As the Patriots headed into the second week of the season, the reaction to Belichick’s decision fell into two categories outside of the locker room. Essentially, there was either a lot of irony or a lack of context.
Irony because the coach was being criticized for his judgment in two areas where he had shown expertise: the secondary and the salary cap. Irony because it was Belichick’s work with the Patriots’ defensive backs in ’96 that made Robert and Jonathan Kraft pay attention to him more. Well, that and his comprehension of the collective bargaining agreement. He knew when to walk away from a player and knew when to run, either for talent or cap reasons. “You need to understand value in today’s NFL,” Robert Kraft says. “And he does.”
Context because Belichick had made bold and controversial decisions before, without being wrong. He chose Vinny Testaverde over Bernie Kosar in Cleveland, a move that one of his friends equated to “beheading the Browns’ mascot.” He chose the Patriots over the Jets, escaped the shadow of Parcells, and became known as a great coach away from “home.” He chose Brady over Bledsoe and watched Brady become a Super Bowl MVP.
Irony again because he was in Philadelphia—that irony will become clear later—and one of his former players was on national television, saying that his current players hated him.
The Patriots played the Eagles in a 4:15 game at Lincoln Financial Field. That meant they were able to leave their hotel rooms later than usual. They were able to watch the various pregame shows on television, including ESPN’s NFL Sunday Countdown. At the time the show included Chris Berman and Rush Limbaugh and former pros Michael Irvin, Steve Young, and Tom Jackson. In 1978 Belichick was an assistant in Denver when Jackson was a Pro Bowl linebacker there. Belichick didn’t have any memorable exchanges with Jackson then, but—more irony— Jackson and Parcells are friends.
After ESPN aired its story about the Milloy release, including clips from former and current Patriots, Jackson eventually looked in the camera and delivered a line for which Belichick would never forgive him:
“Let me be very clear about this. They hate their coach.”
Several Patriots players and staff members saw it, reporters covering the team saw it, and Belichick heard about it. He was furious. It wasn’t just that he found Jackson’s words irresponsible—Jackson admitted that he hadn’t interviewed anyone for his analysis—but he also found fault with the story itself. Eventually he would take his displeasure out on almost everyone at the network. Almost everyone because Berman, a longtime friend, was the host of the show.
And this is where the irony of Philadelphia and the Eagles comes in. Limbaugh was still two weeks away from resigning over comments he would make about Eagles quarterback Donovan McNabb. He was two weeks away from suggesting that McNabb was overrated because the largely white media wanted to see a black quarterback do well. Limbaugh’s mere appearance on the show wa
s enough to draw criticism. But on September 14, before the Patriots beat the Eagles 31–10, Limbaugh was the only panelist who supported what Belichick had done. That day the political commentator had been controversial for a different kind of “minority” opinion. His view was that Belichick was not going to make a decision based on sentiment, especially if that sentiment was outweighed by other factors—finances included—that could hurt the balance of the team.
It was common sense for Belichick. He applied this sense so often, with such success, that it was often misunderstood for genius. Belichick’s “genius”—a term he does not like applied to himself—is no more than an ability to easily sift through distractions and nonsense and identify the central point. He can even do all of that and come to the conclusion that a central point does not exist. He takes large things and makes them small, which is a strength. Sometimes he believes that large issues, called crises on most teams, can be or should be broken down in the same way with no fallout. That logic could have gotten him into trouble if he had had another kind of team in 2003. He didn’t. He had the team with the hidden characteristic, which was simply “professionalism.” Supreme professionalism actually.
“As much as some of Belichick’s ways can get under your skin, you’ve got to give it to him as a coach,” Woody says. “We knew that nobody had coaches that were as good as ours. You’re talking about a guy who would come into the meetings every week and tell us the three or four things we needed to do to win. ‘If you do this, this, and this, you’re going to win.’ And that’s how it would happen.”
The meeting in Foxboro following the release of Milloy had been about one thing: professionalism. As a group, the Patriots were not whiners. Belichick was not going to lose the team because they were the team and they were not going to allow themselves to be lost. They wanted to win just as much as he did, and after the first wave of commentaries passed, they knew that the coach and his staff were going to give them a chance every week. They didn’t have to love him; they just had to respect that.
Anthony Pleasant had learned about professionalism a decade before when he played for Belichick in Cleveland. Pleasant jumped offside one game, and Belichick took him out and cursed him. The Browns came back to win, and Belichick tried to shake Pleasant’s hand afterward. “Man, I ain’t shaking your hand,” he told the coach. “I’m tired of you messing with me.” He went to Belichick’s office the next day and apologized. He had been wrong. They shook hands. “It’s the way I’ve handled business with him since then. I go talk to him when I have a problem. At least he will listen. You know, some cats won’t even listen.”
What Belichick liked about players on his team, he couldn’t respect about Jackson. Many of them could admit mistakes, face to face. Jackson never did. He would extend his hand to Belichick on a bizarre February night in Houston. Belichick offered a few words, but not his hand.
After all the talk about Jackson in Philadelphia, the biggest story to come out of the city was an injury to free agent linebacker Rosevelt Colvin. He limped off the field in the second quarter against the Eagles and didn’t return. It was obvious that he was hurt, but no one knew it was as bad as a fractured hip. Placed on injured reserve, Colvin was knocked out for the season.
Belichick had spent so much time talking about increasing team speed and acquiring team speed. When the Patriots finally got it in the form of Colvin, they lost it after two games. It was late September, and Colvin and guard Mike Compton were already out for the season. Nose tackle Washington had a broken leg, linebacker Ted Johnson had a broken foot, linebacker Mike Vrabel had a broken arm, cornerback Ty Law had a sprained ankle, and receiver David Patten had a knee injury that would eventually end his season too. Brady had an elbow so sore and swollen that it looked as if he’d had a softball implanted.
No one in Foxboro talked about sympathy or pity because they all knew what the coach knew. They were good and they had depth. “If you look at some of the people we have on our inactive list, they’re pretty good players,” Belichick said one day outside of the Gillette Stadium cafeteria. He’d stop in there, but he never seemed to be picking up a complete meal. “I’m not saying they’re great. But if you look at the inactive list for some teams, you wouldn’t even want to put those guys in a game. Our team isn’t like that.”
His team was smartly built, with one eye on the cap and the other on the field. He was good at figuring out how much better one player was than another and seeing if the price matched the production. Jonathan Kraft, the team’s vice chairman, is amazed by his ability to do that.
“Let’s say he has a player who has a 100 rating, with really no upside above that. He’s a solid 100, he’ll be there a few years, he’s making $4 million. Bill can see another player who is a 75, making $500,000, and has upside. He knows he can put that kid in a system where the deficiencies between 75 and 100 can also be protected.
“He’s never going to get into salary-cap hell chasing that elusive last guy or believing that one person makes your team. He is completely focused on team.”
It took a while for his team to catch on locally, though. When they beat the Titans on October 5, it was the same day the Red Sox were trying to tie their best-of-five series with the Oakland A’s at two games apiece. And when the Patriots went to Miami and won in overtime—their record was 5–2—everyone in New England was still talking about a silver-haired manager named Grady who refused to take the ball out of his starting pitcher’s hand. The region was wounded when the Red Sox lost to the Yankees in the seventh game of the American League Championship Series. In this case, Jackson’s words would have been accurate. New England really did hate this coach. The Sox led the game in the eighth inning, 5–2, and manager Grady Little famously turned his back to the bullpen and left a scuffling Pedro Martinez on the mound to scuffle some more.
Belichick was a Red Sox fan as well, and he frequently asked for updates on what they were doing. He asked because he liked baseball, but he also liked the challenge of looking at things from all angles to see what he would do. Most of the time he’d take the side of the manager. He loved it in 2001 when Jimy Williams, fired by the Sox, was the first manager hired in the off-season. That was one of the coach’s favorite stories. He didn’t offer many opinions on Little. He was more interested in seeing if a quick decision—accelerated by public opinion—would be made. A decision came on October 27. Little was out.
Meanwhile, Belichick had a team that was turning him into a mellow coach. These Patriots were much more coachable than his team from ’02. They listened. They were resourceful. They didn’t make excuses. They had gone to Denver and won, sparked by an intentional safety. That wasn’t even the best part of the game. On the winning touchdown, Brady to David Givens, the receiver ran the wrong route. He was supposed to be running a slant and took off on a back-shoulder fade instead. Brady noticed the error immediately and adjusted by throwing for the fade instead of the slant. The players seemed to have a wit and awareness that the coach loved.
This team played each week as if it had something to prove, and Belichick liked that. He respected this team. Whenever someone asked him about the team, he would reply with a rare answer, a “media-ready” answer that actually represented his true feelings. He would tell people that the thing he liked about the Patriots was that they always tried to do what was asked of them. They were students who stayed late after class, determined to figure out some theorem. It sounded kind of plain, but the coach liked their effort.
In case they came down with a bout of arrogance, he was always around to remind them of what they couldn’t do. He was good at reminding them to fear the trappings of football success. He could always find a potential distraction and hold it up as yet another Patriots opponent. When it was time to do that in early November, the distraction was close to him. The Patriots were scheduled to play the Cowboys and Bill Parcells on a Sunday night. The players were going to be asked about it. Belichick was going to be asked about it. It was going to be
explored from angles obvious and obscure. People were intrigued by Bill versus Bill because the sideline shots were all they got from the story. Everything else was imagined because neither man would get into the specifics of how he was feeling. This was going to be a hard week for Belichick, but it wouldn’t be emotional. It would be hard because the actual team was difficult enough to game-plan. Now he would need an effective game plan for comments about Parcells too.
Chapter 12
BELICHICK VERSUS
PARCELLS
It was one o’clock on a Monday afternoon— November 10, 2003—when Belichick welcomed his team back to Foxboro after an in-season vacation. The Patriots, winners of five consecutive games, had just finished their bye week. On the previous Monday, in Denver, the nation had watched them outwork and outsmart the Broncos on Monday Night Football.
The Patriots had trailed by a point, 24–23, with just under three minutes remaining. They were at their own 1-yard line, a few ticks and a few inches away from a loss. After three Tom Brady passes fell incomplete—including one Daniel Graham drop that proved to be helpful—the team was in an obvious fourth-and-10 punting situation. That’s when the best special-teams coaches of today and yesterday, Brad Seely and Belichick, decided to give up points to gain an advantage. Long snapper Lonie Paxton hiked the ball and placed it exactly where he wanted it: into the goal posts. New England would hand over the 2 points on the intentional safety, but it would pick up field position on the subsequent free kick and have a chance to retrieve the ball before the two-minute warning.
Special teams, field position, and situational football are all Belichick staples. They were all squeezed into those final three minutes in Denver. So after sitting hopelessly at their 1 with 2:51 remaining, the Patriots were actually able to smile thirty-six seconds later. They suddenly had the ball at their own 42, they had Tom Brady leading them, and they still had time to compose themselves. Predictably, Brady directed a six-play drive that ended with an 18-yard touchdown pass to receiver David Givens. The Patriots won, 30–26. The comeback and the safety left an impression in Denver. “That’s a smart play,” Broncos defensive end Trevor Pryce told the Gazette of Colorado Springs. “I’ve never seen that done before. That dude [Belichick] thinks.”
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