Big Game

by Mark Leibovich

  What was clear, and becoming more so, was that the Patriots machine was showing strain. In December, a report in ESPN The Magazine described grumblings along several fault lines: tension between Brady and Belichick; between Belichick and Guerrero, whom the coach banished from team facilities; between Belichick and Kraft, after Kraft ordered Belichick to trade Brady’s backup and possible heir apparent Jimmy Garoppolo (Kraft was in turn angry with Belichick for getting only a second-round draft pick from the 49ers in return for the coveted Garoppolo). “Division from within can be the biggest enemy in the NFL,” Kraft told me in an interview about a year earlier. He had described the Patriot Way to me as the ability to keep these divisions at bay, or at least out of public view. “With all due respect to the media, they don’t know what’s really going on,” Kraft said. “No one would believe what’s really going on.” I heard this as something between tantalizing and a thrown-off taunt. Regardless, the divisions had become hard to miss.

  It was a wonder that the Patriots’ dynastic foundation had held together as long as it had. Even more remarkable was that somehow the Patriots managed to scrape themselves into another Super Bowl, and nearly win the wacky game in Minneapolis. They had the ball on their own 33, down five, with over two minutes left. The Brady comeback routine was cued up perfectly. Philadelphia fans wore resigned looks. But then the center failed to hold. And the right guard failed to block—in this case block the Eagles’ Brandon Graham.

  Graham strip-sacked Brady. Philly recovered the fumble, and euphoria ensued from the beaten-dog fans of the green jerseys. And what right did spoiled-rotten Pats fans like me have to feel crestfallen? None, for sure, but I did anyway. If NFL owners can be greedy, why can’t we? Nothing’s fair in love, or rational in rooting.

  “Yeah, that sucks,” Brady distilled after the game. “But no one’s gonna feel sorry for us. That’s football.”

  * * *

  —

  I made a final run at Brady after the season. We’d emailed back and forth from time to time over the months. In March, as I was finishing this book, I asked Tom if he was up for talking to me once more. He invited me to send questions to him by email. “Interviews” by email are less than ideal, certainly from a reporter’s standpoint, but you can see where it would suit a message-conscious celebrity obsessed with control.

  I held off on the email questions, figuring I was in touch with enough people in Brady’s life to know that he remained unhappy with the state of play in Foxborough. His relationship with Belichick was strained beyond what it had been in years, maybe ever. The arrangement between the Patriots and Guerrero remained unresolved. Kraft and Brady had at least one conversation that Brady came away from less than satisfied that anything would change. “You go, ‘What are we doing this for?’” Brady said three days after the Super Bowl in the final Tom vs Time installment. “‘What are we doing this for, who are we doing this for? Why are we doing this?’” The question hung unanswered for months as Brady remained aggressively noncommittal about his plans through the off-season.

  Along with Gronk, Brady blew off the Patriots’ voluntary team workouts in April and May, something that would have been unheard of before. He kept ducking questions about his future. In addition to unsettling Bob Kraft, the possibility of Brady’s walking away was unsettling for me, too, selfishly speaking. If Brady wouldn’t be back in September, it would be good for me to know this now, before this book went to press in early May. Finally, I emailed Brady a bunch of questions, the most important one being whether he planned to still be the Patriots’ quarterback in September. He didn’t answer for a week.

  I bugged him again. “Hey, Tom,” I wrote. “Sorry to be a pain in the ass. I know you’re busy. You have a chance to look at those questions? I can re-send if you want—or I can just send them to your dad and he’ll answer them filterless.”

  This made Tom laugh, at least in that email way (“Hahahahaha funny”). He told me he was still “thinking through” the questions and wasn’t sure there were many he’d want to weigh in on.

  I crossed out all but three of the questions and sent them back, to streamline things. Another few days passed. Me vs Time, directed by Tom.

  On a Friday morning, just before six a.m., I got an email from Brady that said simply, “Let me know if this helps.” Attached was an audio file, about ten minutes long. It was Brady, sleepy-voiced, reading through my questions and riffing on them. I’d never had an interview like this before, if you’d call this an interview. But here was Brady, in my phone, and in full control of the game. I guess, in my case, you just take what the defense gives you.

  “Whassup, Mark,” Brady said. “I apologize. It’s just been sooo busy. Let me answer these as best I can. Some of them are obviously pretty deep.”

  The first question—which was probably unfair, but I asked anyway—was a redux of the earlier “void” question, the riddle of what could possibly replace football for Brady, perhaps the most football-consumed person on the planet? Brady’s answer couched football in creative terms, not competitive ones. “I still love being involved in creating things,” Brady said. “And there’s definitely ways to fill this creative outlet that’s been filled by football for so long.” Brady concluded that he did not think about the end very often.

  When I first met him, in the summer of 2014, one of the things Brady talked about was the always-unfolding mystery of the next move. He was speaking in the context of a team growing and evolving. He told me that that spring, he had been watching game film of Peyton Manning’s previous season with the Broncos, which ended in a Super Bowl loss to the Seahawks. Brady said he had focused on how Manning was able to change and improve the Denver offense from September to February. Brady was studying a peer-genius’s in-season evolution. He had become fascinated by the puzzle of adaptation; as if change itself was an art form, and the quarterback was a painter. The best ones can ascertain patterns and find nuances, fine-tune a machine on the fly and drive it downfield.

  A hallmark of the Patriots’ success over the years has been the team’s ability to overhaul game plans from week to week, depending on their opponent. They also are known for overhauling their rosters from year to year, depending on what tools were available and which ones brought the best value to the widget factory. “You’re always changing, you’re always evolving,” Brady said in the audio file. That would seem obvious, not quite revelatory. But hearing Brady talk, I’m struck by how he described his life in terms of shifting game plans and unfolding conditions. “Your kids are growing, another year goes by, you have a career,” Brady said. “But you’re going through your life as well. You’re trying to find what works in your life, and those things change from year to year.”

  Again, this can come off as obvious, if not simplistic, but I was struck by Brady’s positing the process of growth as the key to getting “back to center” from season to season. “Alex and I always spend time in the off-season trying to learn from the previous year,” he said. “This year, I want to work on having more quickness in the pocket, more speed from under center.” Those, he says, are “things just in my sport.” Otherwise, Brady said, he is devoting these months to his kids, his wife, and his parents, which he acknowledged “I haven’t necessarily done as good of a job of in previous years.”

  So would Brady still be the Patriots’ quarterback this fall? “It’s April, and I don’t intend to retire,” he said. “And I certainly don’t intend to get traded.” He added that “they can do whatever they want.” It was pretty clear that things were not great between “they” and Brady right then; my sense is—informed by talking to some people close to him—that it wouldn’t kill Brady if the Patriots were to release him into free agency, allowing him to control his next move. But that wasn’t going to happen, so here we were, and the game continued.

  Brady seemed to catch himself after saying “they can do whatever they want,” as if he was concerned he might have
sounded more abrupt than he intended. “I don’t mean that in a negative way,” he added. “It’s just, I’m training and getting ready to play like I always do, so that’s not in any controversial way, that’s reality.” He made a point of adding, “Obviously, I love Coach Belichick.” If I had a follow-up, I would have asked if he slipped the “obviously” in there for sarcasm.

  Brady emphasized that I could quote only from the audio file for the purposes of this book—nothing should appear anywhere before that time. In other words, he seemed content to keep the bastards guessing about his plans for a while, not least his employers.

  “Anyway, that’s it man, hope you’re doing well,” Brady said. “Hopefully this helps you out in some way. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  I imagined Tom lying in bed, still in his biodynamic sleepwear, talking into his phone. Was Gisele asleep next to him? Or was she out in back, in the yoga and meditation sanctuary? Was Tom in the car, headed off somewhere?

  I am writing this at the end of April, or—by the official NFL calendar—Day 3 of the 2018 draft. I used to waste beautiful spring Saturdays indoors watching the draft on TV; today I’m wasting a beautiful spring Saturday indoors trying to finish off this beast. I’m not sure this counts as an evolution. If I wasn’t doing this, I’d almost certainly be watching the draft—and maybe catch something like an orangutan named Rocky announcing the Colts’ fourth-round selection (that actually happened—as USC O-lineman Zach Banner can attest). Now I’m back to the scheduled car crashes of covering politics in Trump, D.C. The league held its annual meetings in Orlando a few weeks ago. I thought about going but decided to stay away—because football seasons have to stop sometime, including my own.

  The Patriots’ PR department was good enough to post on its website a “Best of Robert Kraft at Owners’ Meetings” montage, like one of those K-Tel Greatest Hits albums from the 1970s. The big news of the week was that Kraft’s on-again girlfriend, Ricki, was at the resort with her (their?) baby daughter. The baby’s name: “Monarch.” Like the butterfly. Or maybe they meant to honor the commissioner. I miss these people already.

  In other news, Kaepernick remained unsigned and is suing the league for collusion while simultaneously trying to get hired by some team (he showed up in a black Kunta Kinte T-shirt to attend a four-hour deposition of Texans owner Bob McNair). The league suffered its worst Super Bowl ratings in nine seasons in February and reported its highest number of concussions in six. It was another nonstop Christmas for the NFL doomsayers. Meanwhile, the league just kept printing money to buy new presents. How worried can you be when Fox is spending more than $3 billion for the rights to broadcast five years of Thursday Night Football (or “Poopfests,” as Richard Sherman called them). Likewise, the Carolina Panthers fetched a sale price of $2.2 billion for disgraced owner Jerry Richardson. That compares with the $206 million Richardson paid in 1993 for the right to found the Panthers. They don’t make doomed sports leagues like they used to.

  Everything was back and forth, a whiplash of outlooks to rival the pinball of a Super Bowl. Nothing feels settled or resolved. I’m back to just watching, despite myself, and happy to leave the existential cliff-hanger to the pros: Is this the decline of Peak Football we are watching in still-massive numbers? We await the replay.

  Oakland (soon to be Vegas) Raiders owner Mark Davis in a red carpet pose.

  New England Patriots owner Robert K. Kraft with his girlfriend, Ricki Noel Lander.

  Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones at ESPN College GameDay, Arlington, Texas.

  Gold Jacket Jerry Jones with his beloved Hall of Fame self, in bust form.

  Tom Brady in pre–Super Bowl shades, 2018.

  Brady in pre–Super Bowl press conference ski hat, 2018.

  Laremy Tunsil, Miami Dolphins O-lineman, in the infamous gas mask bong that ruined his draft night, 2016.

  ESPN’s Sal Paolantonio, reporting from somewhere (New Orleans, in this case).

  ESPN’s Adam Schefter—and his phone—on the set of NFL Insiders, pre–Super Bowl 2017.

  NFL commissioner Roger Goodell at the draft, probably being booed.

  Former Carolina Panthers owner Jerry Richardson, in better days, on his golf cart. (Richardson sold the Panthers in 2018 after receiving sexual harassment complaints from team employees.)

  Oakland Raiders’ Superfan Ray Perez (aka “Dr. Death”), in his element.

  Green Bay Cheeseheads at the draft.

  Los Angeles Rams owner Stan Kroenke on the sideline of his pre–Shangri-L.A. stadium (nowhere near St. Louis).

  Gisele, being Gisele.

  Underdog Nick Foles a few days before the Super Bowl that changed everything.

  Giants co-owner Steve Tisch with then-fiancée, Katia Francesconi.

  Falcons owner Arthur Blank, deep in thought, watching his team on a Monday night.

  Former 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick (7), kneeling during the national anthem, before a game in 2016—which may be the last season Kaepernick would play a game in the NFL.

  Postplaying-days Brett Favre, a few weeks before his Hall of Fame induction, 2016.

  Pete Rozelle, NFL commissioner from 1960 to 1989, who steered the league on its modern trajectory of popularity and riches.

  Vince Lombardi “treats us all the same,” one player said of the legendary Packers coach. “Like dogs.”

  Bill Belichick, looking ecstatic on the sideline during a game against Tampa Bay in 2017.

  Acknowledgments

  It starts with a whistle and ends with . . . the acknowledgments.

  So much gratitude to Arthur and A. G. Sulzberger, Dean Baquet, Mark Thompson, and everyone at the New York Times for your support professionally and personally. You run the most essential newspaper in the world, now more than ever. Just as important, you know what matters.

  Big Game thanks to Jake Silverstein, a great boss, editor, and rabbi; and to everyone at the Times Magazine, where parts of this project got started: Bill Wasik, Jessica Lustig, Mike Benoist, Charlie Homans, Erika Sommer, Kathy Ryan, Liz Gerecitano, Nandi Rodrigo, Rob Liguori, and alumni that include my friends Jon Kelly, Hugo Lindgren, Joel Lovell, and many others.

  Thanks to the Times D.C. bureau for letting me live there. I never take for granted the osmosis factor of going to work in such a killer newsroom. Gratitude to bureau chief Elisabeth Bumiller and longtime pal Bill Hamilton; the essential Ron Skarzenski, Jeff Burgess, Clif Meadows, Tahirah Burley, and everyone who makes it work. I’d be lost (and stranded) without NYT travel whizettes Robin Deblinger and Beth Ryan.

  Gratitude to my friends and colleagues who keep it fun and make me better: Peter Baker, Julie Davis, Michael Shear, Binyamin Appelbaum, Maureen Dowd, David Brooks, Maggie Haberman, Jonathan Martin, Glenn Thrush, Mike Schmidt, Mark Landler, Helene Cooper, Jennifer Steinhauer, Jim Rutenberg, Emmarie Huettemann, singer-songwriter Carl Hulse, and nugget consumer Mark Mazzetti; Ashley Parker and Matt Flegenheimer (dammit!) and Rebecca Corbett. Janet Elder, you’re an angel, and missed every day. Likewise, the incomparable David Carr and Robin Toner.

  To everyone in the Times Sports department, for letting me hang in the toy store. Ken Belson was a great “compadre,” as Mr. McNair would say. Game balls, too, for Jason Stallman, Terri Ann Glynn, Joe Drape, Michael Powell, and Ben Shpigel.

  Also receiving votes: Paul, Train, and all the Farhim; David Maraniss, Jeffrey Goldberg, Mike Barnicle, Tom Brokaw, Chuck Todd, Joe House, John Dickerson, Nem Hackett, Josh King, Ned Zeman, Matt Brune, Peter Canellos, Jake Sherman, Jessica Yellin, Nicky Dawidoff, Charlie Pierce, Mark Salter; Good ol’ Maggie Jones (for helping me navigate Catholicism in Pittsburgh) and Gotham Chopra, whose Boston fanboy and artistic fellowship I much enjoyed; Tom and Galynn Brady are GOATs in their own r
ight.

  So many sportswriters and Men Wearing Makeup took me into their guild and made me feel at home: SI’s Peter King is a big-time mensch. Old pal Sally Jenkins is a beast; it was terrific to meet and commiserate with Tom Curran, Ben Volin, Bob Socci, Mike Reiss, Judy Battista, Amy Trask, Seth Wickersham, Peter Schrager, Don Van Natta Jr., Dan Kaplan, Mark Ganis, and many others.

  My Times colleague Lindsay Crouse is the research equivalent of the fast-closing corner who thwarts disaster in the end zone. “Fact-checker” sells her short. Thanks also to Courtney Harrell for the reporting assist in Pittsburgh; and photo wrangler Thea Traff. All errors of fact and oversight are of course my own.

  Grateful to the run-stuffers at 345 Park Avenue for their professionalism and good humor throughout this process, such as it was. Same goes for a great and ever-helpful collection of friends at the “clubs.” If I start naming people, I’ll leave some out; or worse, leave some in. You know who you are, I hope.