Authors: Michael Holley
Patriot Reign (13 page)
A quick-witted Vrabel,
father or son, can usually get a laugh out of Belichick.
Rodney Harrison gave the 2003 secondary the production and
toughness it lacked in 2002. He helped establish a fine system and made sure
his teammates were conscious of rest and nutrition by frequently asking, “Are
you hydrating?’’
Having the thoughtful Brady, says Oakland Raiders defensive
coordinator Rob Ryan, is like having Belichick on the field “with a better
arm.’’
It wasn’t so long ago that Brady couldn’t get
the attention of a young woman he liked at the University of Michigan. Now the
bachelor, here with actress Bridget Moynahan, is rarely unnoticed, locally or
nationally.
In November 2003, the Patriots used intellect and determination
to prevent Peyton Manning and the Colts from gaining 1 yard in four tries. In
January 2004, the Patriots were even tougher. Manning threw five interceptions
in the AFC Championship game.
Scott Pioli and his
friend Cleveland Indians general manager Mark Shapiro often spoke of building
dignified championship teams. Shapiro reminded him of that after Super Bowl
XXXVI—and also gave him a quick fashion tip.
No one has to balance
the complexities of Belichick- Parcells more than Pioli. Belichick is his boss
and one of his best friends. Parcells is his father-in-law.
Belichick says that Parcells’s focus before Super Bowl XXXI was
“totally inappropriate.’’ Parcells left the Patriots for the Jets and took
Belichick with him. Three seasons later, the longtime colleagues had a public
split.
The passionate Lawyer Milloy was popular in New England because
of his style of play. But when he was released in September 2003, the move
triggered some commentary that Belichick would never forget.
At Andover, Belichick was a center and Ernie Adams (number 81) was a guard. They haven’t been far from each other since. Belichickrelies on Adams in the same way a president relies on a top adviser.
“My role right now is to get
this offense down. I’m still not really there. Some days and some weeks I get
it, and then on Sunday it’s something totally different. …I don’twant to be out
there hurting the team. I’d rather sit on the sideline until I feel comfortable
and I know the offense and the coaches know I know the offense.”
What Hayes didn’t say was what the Patriots already knew. He had a
learning disability, and the multiple options in the New England passing game
sometimes overwhelmed him. The team knew it was not a matter of intelligence:
Hayes was smart. They talked with him for hours before they signed him, and
they went over the situations in which he was comfortable learning. He actually
did grasp the offense when he was in the classroom. He put a lot of pressure on
himself in games but often broke on routes too early, too late, or didn’t go to
the proper place at all. It was telling that he felt most at ease during a
November 17 game at Oakland. He had no production that night. But he did have
something that the rest of the offense had as well: a list of plays on his
wristband.
After his admission in the
Globe
interview, Hayes caught one pass for the rest of the season. While the Patriots
had been fortunate with free agents in 2001—Mike Vrabel, Antowain Smith, Larry
Izzo, Roman Phifer—they were spotty in the same category in 2002. Fauria was
excellent for them, both on the field and in makeup. A mason’s son, Fauria
learned about the sand-to-cement-to-water ratio when he was eight years old. He
learned to make bricks and dig ditches. When he wasn’t doing that, his father,
Ashley, was telling him to either wash cars or do something that would put some
grit under his fingernails.
The Patriots were casting about for
that
type of player, and they had found
such players in abundance the previous year. Their 2002 free market talent
search, however, was frustrating and disappointing. Belichick respected Green’s
ability to make big plays, but he didn’t like what he saw on film. He didn’t
like how long it was taking the safety to get to the ball. He was even more
annoyed with a free agent defensive tackle named Steve Martin. Martin came
advertised as a 320-pound run-stuffer. He didn’t do that very well, although he
was as glib as his comic namesake. He was one of the few Patriots who would
approach reporters before reporters approached him. He had opinions on
everything from the wealth of P. Diddy to the conundrum of Michael Jackson to
the challenges facing an entrepreneur. He had attended the University of
Missouri and was trying to run a restaurant in Columbia.
“This guy
should be the fucking governor of Missouri,” Belichick said of Martin during a
coaches’ meeting. The room had been dark earlier, and Belichick had control of
the clicker. He was watching tapes of Martin in practice. “This is bad,” the
coach said. “This is just bad.” He was already unhappy with the performance.
The constant chattering and campaigning also sickened him, especially since the
performance was so substandard. What made it worse was that the Patriots didn’t
have a lot of alternatives behind Martin. Belichick wasn’t happy with what he
was getting, but Martin did play in fourteen games. No one knew it on December
16, not even Belichick, but that would be the defensive lineman’s last game as
a Patriot.
