Belichick and Brady

by Michael Holley

  Even though the new characters around him were different, and often insufficient, Brady didn’t suffer much. He clearly was manufacturing everything he could from the offense, and he was helped by a defense that was on its way to the best season in team history. By early December, the Patriots were positioned atop the division with a 9-3 record. The season, on the field, had been drama-free, except for another Belichick versus Mangini episode in November. In that one, leading up to the Patriots-Jets game, Belichick refused to refer to Mangini by name. There would be “he” or “him” or “they’re well coached,” but no “Eric” or “Mangini.”

  What the audience didn’t know at the time was that the organizations were fighting over cameras. Mangini knew that as part of their research to detect signaling trends, the Patriots liked to film coordinators giving signs, and he didn’t want it done to him. He interpreted it as a power move by Belichick, maybe even a test to see what he would do. Belichick didn’t see it that way, and so the taping continued. Mangini, in turn, planned to tape the Patriots. This, along with the Branch tampering charges, as well as the gossip about how he took the job, and just the fact that it was the Jets, accelerated the relationship to irreconcilable status.

  The Jets were 7-5, a huge improvement from where they had been after week twelve in 2005, so Mangini was doing something right. He was mentioned as a Coach of the Year candidate, and some writers had begun calling him “Mangenius.” He may not have been talking to Belichick, but he was acting like him as a team-builder. He went heavy on the offensive line in his first draft, selecting tackle D’Brickashaw Ferguson and center Nick Mangold. In free agency, he was interested in some familiar ex-Patriot names: Matt Chatham, Bobby Hamilton, Hank Poteat. With the way the division was unfolding, the Jets had a chance to make the play-offs and see the Patriots as their first opponent.

  Brady didn’t seem to have the postseason on his mind when he and the team went to Miami for their thirteenth game. The only good thing about the day, for the Patriots, was the plentiful sun. Brady kept dropping back and looking for the players he trusted. It wasn’t accidental that he targeted Brown and Kevin Faulk, his guys, more than anyone else. He was desperate and frustrated. The Dolphins limited him to twelve completions and seventy-eight yards all day, winning 21–0.

  Maybe the offense just didn’t get it, or maybe he was simply out of it. Moynahan was in Miami, too, but she didn’t visit him, nor did he visit her. It was surprising for the couple that had been spotted at NBA play-off games, galas, and random spots around New York and Boston. But there was a reason Brady didn’t see Moynahan at her art show event and she didn’t see him against the Dolphins. The relationship was over. Brady was the only quarterback in the league who could be the subject of the sports pages and Us Weekly. According to the magazine, and to Moynahan’s publicist, “They amicably ended their three-year relationship several weeks ago. We ask for your respect and consideration of their privacy.”

  But this wasn’t 2001 anymore. Privacy was no longer an option for Belichick or Brady. That would be fine with both of them if the public had just been gripped by the games and the cerebral matchups on the field. They had been too successful for that narrow gaze. Too handsome and too smart as well. Halberstam’s book on Belichick had become the writer’s fifteenth consecutive bestseller, and corporations and magazine photographers had reported no lack of interest in Brady’s brand, his body, or his face. Belichick and Brady were going to have to learn what some celebrities meant by the paradoxical statement that, sometimes, there’s deep loneliness in being famous.

  For a brief window, it seemed that the worst public relations were over for the coach and the quarterback. There wasn’t anything written about Belichick’s divorce, and the society columns didn’t share anything out of the ordinary about Brady. The first play-off opponent, the Jets, and the circus that they brought to Foxboro was refreshing compared to the pop-culture curiosity that the public craved.

  Mangini hadn’t spent all those years with Belichick in vain. He knew that the Patriots had greater talent, greater intangibles, and a greater quarterback. He would be able to junk up the game, defensively, for a while. Then talent was going to take over, which is exactly what happened. The Patriots won 37–16. With extra attention on the handshake between Belichick and Mangini at midfield, camera operators and photographers swarmed the would-be meeting point between professor and former student.

  One of the photographers there was a perennial award-winner named Jim Davis. He knew sports as well as he knew photography, which gave him a skill for capturing some of the most provocative images in the city. But as he stood there trying to line up the shot, he was the one who was provoked. By Belichick. The coach pushed him out of the way and wrapped Mangini in a bear hug.

  There was no coaching animosity between Belichick and Marty Schottenheimer, head coach of the Chargers. The only issue, beforehand, was the Chargers’ 14-2 record. But when the Patriots upset San Diego, and subsequently danced on the Chargers’ field, running back LaDainian Tomlinson attributed it to a lack of “class” and posited that it began “with the head coach.”

  There was so much accusing, name-calling, and finger-pointing after the game that not many people observed Brady’s visitor. She was tall and thin, striking actually, and was much more comfortable talking about fútbol than the American version of it. It was Gisele Bündchen, the Brazilian supermodel, and perhaps for the first time in her adult life, most people didn’t immediately notice her.

  The calm of the moment, the sliver of privacy, was temporary. That would all change later in the year, when everything about the Patriots was public and wrong. That would all change next week, in Indianapolis. It was hard to believe: Despite the hellish year, the Patriots still had a chance to return to the Super Bowl.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TO CATCH A PATRIOT

  In retrospect, Bill Belichick and Tom Brady’s first play-off game together was easy. The opponent that night, the Oakland Raiders, had been tough, along with the weather. It had taken a painstaking film review, slow frame by slow frame of Brady’s right arm, to reverse a game-ending fumble. After all that, a man who wasn’t wearing winter boots in a nor’easter was expected to keep his footing and kick a football forty-five yards.

  And that was only good enough to force overtime.

  At least it was just about football then, and nothing else. At least they didn’t have to put on armor before facing the local and national media because, for the most part, the media came in peace. They had learned to appreciate the coach, sometimes brainy and boorish, who was prep school classmates with Jeb Bush and Buzz Bissinger. They were smitten by the charismatic quarterback who always did and always would refer to Belichick as “Coach Belichick.” Their story had sold dozens of times in American history, and it would sell again. Overcoming the odds. Redemption after mockery. The power of teamwork. The rejection of groupthink.

  That Raiders game had been just five years ago, but it truly was from a different era. There was no such thing as Facebook or Twitter or TMZ then, and even if there had been, Belichick and Brady would have been too square for the format. But the years and a dozen additional play-off games had made them national celebrities. It was great for name recognition and the bottom line, although it also required profound self-awareness; if you’re a celebrity who doesn’t care about creating a public image, the public will scrutinize every piece of information about you and take over your self-portrait.

  January 21, 2007, wasn’t purely about football for Belichick and Brady, but it was one of the last times they’d take the field without having the legitimacy of their play-off wins and Super Bowl titles questioned. More pointedly, it was one of the last times they’d appear in public without having their characters probed and debated. The previous year had been accented by conflict at every turn, so much so that the default response of focusing on football was no longer valid. Their football world had been laced with conflict as well, and 2007 was going to be much wors
e.

  For the moment, in an overheated domed stadium in downtown Indianapolis, there was still respect for both men. While it was going to be Brady’s ninth career start against the Colts, it was only his third game in Indianapolis. According to the statistics, this was far from Brady’s best season, but the fact that Brady could draw twenty-four touchdown passes and 3,529 yards from this leaden receiving corps was a tribute to his talent. Belichick, meanwhile, had not only fought with Eric Mangini, the exiled disciple; he had improved the defense with his replacement. New defensive coordinator Dean Pees relied heavily on a concept that was known as a Cover 4. It was a conservative, big-play-prevention defense, but when his players complained about it he would give them a simple response: “Win on first and second down, and we can get exotic on third down.” They answered by winning a lot on the early downs, and they had finished with the fewest points allowed average, 14.8, in team history.

  Pees couldn’t have been happier in the first half, with the Patriots leading 14–3. That’s when Asante Samuel, an elastic corner who was proficient at anticipating routes, made eye contact with Peyton Manning before his receiver, Marvin Harrison, did. Samuel intercepted the ball and ran thirty-nine yards for an easy touchdown and a 21–3 lead.

  Adam Vinatieri had given the Colts five field goals the week before in Baltimore, and that was enough to get by the unimaginative Ravens offense. History suggested that the Colts wouldn’t be able to do that while facing Belichick and Brady. What the New England head coach and quarterback understood was that this team wasn’t like the others that had tormented Manning. Belichick had been nervous about the Colts’ speed, so he had inserted a young linebacker, Eric Alexander, to match up with Dallas Clark, the quick Indianapolis tight end. It was a reach, and Manning was smart enough to recognize it and exploit it.

  On offense, the problem for the Patriots was not complicated. They had a lone star, Brady. Two years earlier, Corey Dillon had run at the Colts, daring anyone to challenge his mix of fury, muscle, and speed. He was now in steep decline and not a consistent threat. Neither was his soon-to-be replacement, rookie Laurence Maroney. Troy Brown was the smartest player on the field, but this was going to be the last meaningful game of his career. Jabar Gaffney was fearless and athletic, a third option for a great offense, a primary option for this one.

  As for Reche Caldwell, he was the first exhibit for the prosecution that argued against the Patriot Way and its good-value principles. Indeed, he had come up with a season-saving fumble recovery in San Diego. It was telling, though, that his most memorable play had not come as a receiver. In this game, the most important one of the year, Caldwell had twice dropped passes with no one covering him. The costlier one, with just under nine minutes to play, was maddening. The score was tied at 28, and Manning was on the sideline nervously chewing on a Gatorade towel. Brady and the offense were set up at the Colts’ eighteen-yard line, and in a shocking defensive lapse, no one was lined up across from Caldwell. He waved his arms to alert Brady, and Brady saw him with his peripheral vision. He lofted a perfectly catchable pass to the receiver, who briefly touched the ball with both hands and then watched it fall to the turf. Nineteen-year-old Steve Belichick, the older of the coach’s two sons, put his hands on his head in disbelief.

  “It’s hard to explain,” Jim Nantz said to his TV audience on CBS.

  They settled for a field goal on that drive, which everyone in the building knew wasn’t going to be enough. Predictably, the Colts scored with a Vinatieri field goal, and the new kicker in Foxboro, rookie Stephen Gostkowski, responded with a forty-three-yarder for a 34–31 lead with 3:53 left. Unfortunately for the Patriots, they couldn’t take advantage of another gift, a three-and-out by the Colts. They had the ball with 3:22 remaining, and all they had to do was sweat out the clock and force Indianapolis coach Tony Dungy to use his timeouts.

  The strategy didn’t work, and sixty-five seconds later, the ball was in Manning’s hands again. This was where sweat came into play. The dome, with its arid heat and the relentlessness of Manning, was wearing down the defense. It didn’t look like a historic unit at all. One of Tedy Bruschi’s former coaches, Bo Pelini, used to have a meeting room saying when he was critiquing film with his players. The saying stuck with the linebacker during tough times. “The longest play in football is eight seconds,” Pelini would begin, “and if you can’t go hard for eight seconds, get the fuck out of my room!” They were going hard for those eight seconds, but they’d walk to the line of scrimmage with their hands on their hips.

  Manning was aggressive now, scanning a defense that didn’t have the loping Willie McGinest, who would practically pick up Manning’s receivers and change their routes. There was no Rodney Harrison, injured at the end of the regular season. Harrison was a thinker and a hitter, so every play in his direction was a surprise. There was no Roman Phifer, who could stick with Manning’s tight ends and punish them, too. There was no audacious Ty Law, who was now in Kansas City.

  Eleven yards here to Reggie Wayne. Thirty-two yards there to Bryan Fletcher, who ran past Alexander, the so-called speed option. Fourteen more yards to Wayne, who bobbled and nearly lost the ball on the catch. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had, because there was also a Patriots’ penalty on the play.

  The Patriots were wheezing. There were just under two minutes to play, with the ball at the New England eleven and the Patriots close to expiration. This was going to end their hopes of going to their fourth Super Bowl. Their run was not going to end, but their story was. This was their fourteenth play-off game since 2002 and, even if you didn’t root for them, there was no reason to view their accomplishments with disdain. That would soon change. This was the end of a no-snark, no-scandal era for them.

  So in the fourteenth and final act of the play, a production featuring the brilliant, cost-efficient, and authentic Patriots, they lost. Colts running back Joseph Addai ran up the middle, untouched, for a touchdown, and with twenty-four seconds to play Brady threw an interception.

  All sorts of things had shifted now. Dungy and Manning, who had been the foil to Belichick and Brady, were finally getting a chance to go to the Super Bowl. Manning could figure out a way to beat Brady and the Patriots when it was important after all. The next time the Patriots played a game here, the Colts would be defending Super Bowl champions while the Belichick-Brady public-relations stock would have fallen from hero worship to Hades.

  The first hit of the offseason arrived courtesy of the New York Times and Boston Globe, with both newspapers publishing stories containing biting quotes from Ted Johnson. The former Patriots linebacker, a member of all three Super Bowl teams, claimed that Belichick made him practice in 2002, knowing that he was concussed. Johnson, thirty-four, said that his postfootball life was in shambles and added, “There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong with my brain. And I know when it started.”

  He said that he was anxious and forgetful, full of disappointment and shame. In his view, Belichick had “played God” with his health. Johnson’s comments were a follow-up to a Times piece one month earlier, in which the paper reported that the 2006 suicide of former Philadelphia Eagle Andre Waters was caused by brain damage from football injuries. Belichick told the Globe that he would never ask an injured player to participate in anything physical. “If Ted felt so strongly that he didn’t feel he was ready to practice with us, he should have told me,” the coach said.

  Within a week, in an interview with ESPN’s Wendi Nix, Johnson backed off his story and said that he didn’t want to blame Belichick or anyone else for his struggles.

  It was never a good time to be accused of ignoring concussions, but PR-wise, this was the worst stretch of Belichick’s career. The resignation from the Jets, outside of New York, had a Saturday Night Live feel to it and wasn’t seen as egregious in all corners. The press conferences, as awkward as they could be, weren’t always criticized by the public due to the public’s contempt for the media. Some fans found it fascinating wat
ching the watchdogs squirm as they were given long pauses and minimalist answers. The controversial moves with Drew Bledsoe, Lawyer Milloy, and Adam Vinatieri could be interpreted as doing good business. There were even some who defended Belichick’s hearty push of Globe photographer Jim Davis following the play-off win over the Mangini-led Jets.

  But the testimony, under oath, from Morristown Family Court in New Jersey was hard to fathom. This was a multilayered nightmare for the coach: It was a story that he couldn’t control or even counter; its contents were explosive; and it gave the public a gateway into aspects of his personal life, of which he was fiercely protective.

  A New Jersey construction worker went to the court to request an amendment to his alimony payments. He said that he shouldn’t have to pay $350 per week because his wife was already receiving lavish payments, gifts, and services, and that they could only be coming from someone wealthy. And that’s when Belichick’s name became a part of what was supposed to be a routine no-fault divorce case. The woman, a former New York Giants receptionist named Sharon Shenocca, testified that she was the beneficiary of numerous gifts from Belichick, including a $25,000 rental for the summer on the Jersey Shore; help with an $11,000 retainer for her attorney; $3,000 per month; trips to Disney, Puerto Rico, and Jamaica; furniture; chartered flights; a personal trainer; a health-club membership; Giants season tickets; a trip to the Super Bowl; and use of a $2.2 million Belichick-owned brownstone in Brooklyn’s Park Slope, a historic neighborhood adjacent to Brooklyn’s version of Central Park, filled with trees, kids, dogs, and strollers.