Patriot Reign (7 page)

Faulk.

The central concept of the plan was to
annoy the running back, not the quarterback. Crennel, Adams, and Belichick
had all seen the same things on tape. Within the shifting and motioning there
were trends.

“If Marshall is in a ‘home’ position, we’re not going
to let him run the ball, okay?” Belichick said. “If he’s in an offset position,
we’re not going to let the fucker release out in the backfield and catch the
ball because we know we can’t cover that. So the best time to get him is to get
him on his way out. Our ends, instead of having them rush
the quarterback, they should come off and hit Faulk. And then rush.

“We’re not going to blitz Warner. We’re going to force him to hold the
ball and go to a secondary receiver.”

The home position was
Faulk’s traditional place, lined up behind Warner. The offset position was when
he was somewhere else, in position to run, take a screen, or run routes like a
receiver. The entire offense made more sense when the actions of Faulk were
studied.

That was half of the test. But there was still the issue
of coaching the concepts and getting the players to play off them. With the
game plan in their hands on Wednesday, the Patriot defense was told to
concentrate on Ram generalities rather than specific shifts and motions.

• Watch Faulk.
  
• Be wary of Bruce in the
  slot, because he doesn’t go there often.
  
• Don’t ever make
  the mistake of thinking Faulk is staying home to block; that’s either a screen
  or he’s going to have a delayed release out of the backfield.
  
• The St. Louis tackles and guards often tip when they’re setting up a
  screen—the tackles line up deep—and everyone on defense should recognize
  it.
  
• Remember, no matter what your eyes tell you, you’ll
  never see the same play twice. It may look like the same play, but it’s not.
  Don’t play the actual play. Play whatever your assigned concept is.
  
• Be physical with them at all times. They don’t
  like that.
  

“We’re not going to say ‘Watch out for
these fifty things.’ It’s too overwhelming,” Belichick said. “The concepts will
get it done the majority of the time, as long as we don’t give up the big play.
Hey, they’re going to gain 10 yards anyway. So if we say ‘When Marshall’s at
home, play run,’ and they hit an out for 10, okay. Life goes on. Let’s take
away something and then we’ll try to scramble to handle the things that we know
we’re not quite as solid on.”

The defensive theses began to be
drilled on Wednesday and Thursday mornings at 9:30, Friday morning at 8:30, and
Saturday morning at 9:00. You didn’t have to glance at the itinerary to know
that there was a meeting, practice, or treatment that you should be attending
on one of those days. Chances were that if you found yourself with a lot of
extra time, it meant you probably weren’t where you were supposed to be. The
itinerary was so focused and detailed that even the time to shower after
practice—4:00 to 4:30— was factored in.

Everyone knew what he was
supposed to do. The receivers knew they had to run sharper routes than they had
in November. There could be no turnovers by the offense, which gave the ball
away three times in the first game, once at the St. Louis 2-yard line. The
kickoff coverage and return teams understood that they had to be better than
they had been two and a half months earlier.

By Saturday evening,
their game plan memorized, Patriots players and staff found several ways to
occupy themselves until Sunday.

Belichick had spent thirty minutes
talking with two college friends, Mark Fredland and Jim
Farrell, the three of them reminiscing about their alma mater, Wesleyan
University in Connecticut. They barely mentioned football. Across town, team
owner Robert Kraft was hosting a dinner at the Windsor Court Hotel. Jerry
Jones, Bob Tisch, Lamar Hunt, and Al Lerner were among his guests. Following
the dinner, Kraft headed to a Bourbon Street bar with his wife, Myra, and a
couple of their friends. They stayed out until one
A
.
M
. with hundreds of Patriots
fans who were so comfortable with the celebrity among them that they called the
owner “Bobby,” patted him on the back, and offered to buy him drinks. Kraft’s
eldest son, Jonathan, was in a casino with vice president of marketing Lou
Imbriano. Jonathan watched Imbriano have one good roll and decided that was his
cue to leave. “I don’t want to affect the karma of tomorrow,” he said as he
went back to his hotel.

At the Airport Hilton, Tom Brady was
telling himself how uncomplicated his quarterbacking was going to be the next
day: “All I have to do is recognize the coverage, make sure guys are lined up
right, read my progressions, and make the throw.” And after getting himself
into a nonsmoking room, Vinatieri was having no problems. He was ready for
tomorrow. He knew an early bus would leave the Hilton for the Superdome at 1:30
Sunday afternoon. He knew he was going to be on that bus.

On the morning of Super Bowl XXXVI, Belichick
had no remarkable speeches for the team. He gave the Patriots the major points
of the plan once again, guessing it was the twentieth time they had heard these
instructions from him.

He spent most of his time
warning the players about the length of the day: it was going to be two hours
longer than normal. He emphasized that the players needed to pace themselves.
There would be long gaps between pregame warm-ups and introductions and another
gap at halftime. The point was that they shouldn’t expend too much too
soon.

Belichick was thorough—as usual. At least he knew no one
could ever use lack of preparation as an excuse. He thought of everything
before games: weather, time-zone changes, officials, field
quirks, unseen distractions. He was comfortable with his players and staff
members taking different paths to readiness, as long as they were ready to do
their jobs.

It was clear that he was the leader of an unusual
group. They were diverse when it came to religion, age, economic status,
philosophy, and race. But the uniting link began with football. They were one
when they needed to be—on the field—and allowed each other space and
individuality when they weren’t playing.

That’s why no one found
it strange that assistant strength coach Markus Paul was reading the Bible on
the way to the game as a few players sitting near him listened to hip-hop with
explicit lyrics. They respected his interests—he was planning to read the
Bible from start to finish—and he respected theirs. The players were even used
to a smiling Paul telling them on Mondays, their muscles still sore from the
game, why God was with them even as they lifted weights through the pain: “Come
on and lift. You know He wouldn’t put you in a situation that’s too tough for
you.”

The entire team had arrived at the 72,000-seat Dome on
Poydras Street by 3:00. They had looked out the bus windows to see thousands of
fans already lined up for extensive security checks. It didn’t take the players
long to change into their uniforms and test the turf. Some guys saw players
they knew and talked with them. Outside linebackers coach Rob Ryan looked
across the field and saw Rams cornerback Aeneas Williams. Ryan was defensive
backs coach in Arizona in 1994, and Williams had been his best player there, a
corner whose Hall of Fame skills were on display in the NFL’s literal and
figurative desert. The Cardinals, who have just a single
play-off win since 1985, couldn’t have dreamed of playing on the last Sunday of
the year. Both men acknowledged how fortunate they were to be one win away from
the oasis.

“Great thing is,” Ryan said to Williams, “one of us is
finally going to be a champion tonight.” They laughed, both thinking that the
other would leave Louisiana disappointed. Their last year together in Arizona,
1995, they were watched by 380,000 fans the whole season. Soon their game would
be televised to nearly one billion people.

Pop star Mariah Carey
was in the building to sing the national anthem. U2, Paul McCartney, and the
Boston Pops were also there to perform. One of Belichick’s heroes from Navy,
Roger Staubach, was an honorary captain. There were stars on the field and in
the stands. But moments before kickoff, fans in the stadium and those at home
or at their local bars and pubs were struck by something else. One of the
player perks of the Super Bowl is being introduced individually. It’s not that
each player is going to receive his fifteen minutes of fame, but for many
unknowns—their anonymity doubled by wearing helmets—five to ten seconds of
worldwide face time is an electronic souvenir, a natural TiVo moment.

But the Patriots chose to do something that was normal for them and
inspiring to an audience that was seeing it for the first time. They chose to
be introduced as a team. Forget about the individual announcements. They
bounced out of their tunnel, a confident and unified mass of red, white, and
blue. Four thousand miles away in Hawaii, Christian Fauria of the Seattle
Seahawks watched the group introduction on TV and knew something extraordinary
was going to happen in New Orleans. He called his father-in-law—they had a bet—and conceded defeat. The Seahawks’
tight end had picked against the Patriots. He now understood that they were
going to win.

“You’ve already won!” Fauria told his father-in-law.
Then he talked to himself: “This is what football is all about. It’s the
biggest spectacle in sports and you give up your individual right to be
noticed? The pinnacle of your career and you share it with some slapdick who is
never going to see the field? It’s commendable. It’s, it’s… man, I’ve got goose
bumps.”

At the start of the game, with camcorders and digital
cameras tracking Vinatieri’s kick to the St. Louis 1, the Patriots had a minor
slip. They had spent considerable time on concepts to defend the Rams, but
certainly not at the expense of anything else. With his experience as a special-teams coach with the Giants, Belichick often said he didn’t understand
why those coaches aren’t considered more strongly for head-coaching jobs.
Owners and general managers instinctively look to the coordinators, who are
each in control of one-third of the game. Why not consider those in charge of
the other third? Belichick’s emphasis on teams was obvious. So he wasn’t
pleased when the Rams’ Yo Murphy took the opening kick at the 1 and returned it
38 yards, the ball tickling the St. Louis 40-yard line.

Great
, he thought.
They begin with good field
position
.

Nine seconds later Warner connected with Holt
for an 18-yard completion. Just like that, the Rams were at the New England 43.
But the early drive, hurt by an offensive pass interference penalty,
stalled.

There is so much analysis of the game, from obvious
points of interest to minutiae, that the analysis itself can become an opponent
during Super Bowl Week. One reason Belichick wanted Brady to
have the ball was that the quarterback had an equal understanding of primary
and peripheral issues. After Brady called his first play—“O Flood Slot 74 Shout
Tosser”—he was amazed at how natural the game felt. The play, which began at
the Patriots’ 3, was a 21-yard slant to Troy Brown. This didn’t seem different
from any other slant he had thrown his best receiver’s way.

This is what the hype is all about?
he said to himself,
almost wanting to laugh.
It’s a normal game.

This
coming from a guy who had been a fourth-stringer the previous season. He played
as if he remembered that, and unlike many at twenty-four years old, he took few
things for granted. His salary was $298,000, and he approached every football
moment as if that salary were on the verge of being taken away.

The subtle opening drive was more justification for Belichick’s and
offensive coordinator Charlie Weis’s support of Brady. No matter where he was,
Brady never panicked. He had begun with his back to the goal and completed his
“normal” slant to Brown. Five plays later, the Patriots hadn’t scored, but they
had won the field-position game: Brady was handed the ball at his own 3 and
gave it up with St. Louis at its own 20.

That’s the kind of
quarterbacking they liked.

St. Louis had a 3–0 lead after one
quarter, and that was okay with Belichick too. The game was slow and physical,
and the Rams were earning their yards gradually. It took them ten plays to get
their points—on a 50-yard Jeff Wilkins field goal—and that wasn’t their style.
They had another ten-play drive end in the second quarter when Wilkins missed a
52-yarder.

People in Missouri must have known then that there
was trouble. This was not the animated “Greatest Show” they
had been used to watching. This was someone presenting the storyboards, one at
a time. The Rams just didn’t march for twenty plays to pull only 3 points out
of their pockets.

Six minutes into the second quarter, things got
worse. Crennel called for a play—“Turkey Zero”—that forced a smile out of Rob
Ryan’s father, who was sitting in the Superdome stands. Buddy Ryan was the
founder of the “46,” a pressure defense that leaves cornerbacks in man-to-man
coverage with receivers. “Turkey Zero” is a “46” call, and the Rams weren’t
prepared for it on first down from their39. Linebacker Mike Vrabel rushed from
the left, expecting to find some resistance from Rams right tackle Rod Jones.
There was none. Vrabel slammed into Warner, and Warner threw to where he
thought Bruce would be.

Bruce was there. So was Patriots
cornerback Ty Law, who was always telling people that defensive backs would
embarrass receivers if they switched roles for a day. Indeed, he closed on the
underthrown ball like a Pro Bowl corner and caught it like a Pro Bowl receiver
at the Rams’47. He was gone. There was the Patriots’ sideline to his left, the
end zone straight ahead, and gasps and flashing lights all around him. He
cradled the ball in his left hand and raised his right arm to the domed
sky.

“Now pat it down, big boy!” said his college buddy Steve
King, who was watching the game with a group of Rams fans. Law “patted” it
down, an end zone ritual that ended with him appearing to sweep up an invisible
mess, from left to right.

Did the crowd know yet that this was
going to be a game? Did the people at neutral Super Bowl parties around
the country and world know? It may have happened because of
a turnover, but the Patriots were able to do in one play what the Rams hadn’t
accomplished in 30. They scored a touchdown. And they weren’t done.

For all of Martz’s offensive innovations, he did have some weak spots. At
times it seemed as if small things irritated him. He could be like the customer
at the convenience store, paying for a newspaper with his Gold Card when
dropping a couple of quarters would be more efficient. He found himself in that
situation on the series following Warner’s interception. On second-and-1 from
the 50, Martz called for a Faulk run. Middle linebacker Tedy Bruschi stopped
Faulk for no gain. But on third-and-1, Martz elected to go with a pass instead
of a play for the exceptional Faulk, and the pass was incomplete.

Punt.

This allowed the Patriots to possess the ball for the
next four and a half minutes. This was precisely their enthusiastic alternative
to scoring. Their collaborative game plan was very good, but it was also
time-sensitive. Belichick knew that the St. Louis offense wasn’t likely to be
quieted for an entire game. If the Patriots couldn’t score, they weren’t going
to do anything stupid that would spark the Rams.

Just before the
half, Belichick and Weis got a chance to experiment with a play they had
changed in Friday’s practice. Ricky Proehl fumbled after catching a 15-yard
pass from Warner. There were eighty seconds left in the half, and Brady was
taking over at the St. Louis 40. Four shotgun plays moved the Patriots to the
Rams’ 8 with thirty-six seconds left. They called timeout. Now they were
revisiting the scenario from Friday.

“You
know,” Belichick said on Friday, “those goddamn corners are just sitting on the
goal line. It’s going to be hard to hit the out because they’re just jumping
it. These guys are right on the goal line. It’s just going to be too
tight.”

So the play—“F Right 50 Quick Out Go Slant”— was changed
from an out to an out and up. Receiver David Patten sold the double move
perfectly, and Brady found him in the back of the end zone. The play was
reviewed, just to be certain that Patten’s feet were inbounds. They were. New
England was ahead after two quarters, 14–3, and most people hadn’t thought that
was even possible.

It had truly become a waiting game in the
third. Those who knew the Rams kept waiting for that burst. Waiting for Warner
to drop back and dump a short pass to Faulk, waiting to watch Faulk make every
right decision in traffic before getting into the clear for 25 or 30 yards.
Those who watched this group of supposedly substandard Patriots kept waiting to
see how long they could delay what the audience had become so accustomed to
witnessing.

The Rams burned two of their three timeouts, threw one
interception, and had no points in the third. The Patriots got a field goal
from Vinatieri. It was 17–3 going into the final quarter, and something
unlikely was going to happen. Either the Rams were going to counter the
Patriots’ concepts with some of their own and win this game late. Or the
Patriots, winners of five games in 2000, were going to hold on for one of the
greatest upsets ever seen in professional sports.

Finally, in the
fourth, the Rams started to look familiar. Warner and the “Show” tunes were
finding some rhythm: 14 yards to Az-Zahir Hakim, 9 yards to Ernie Conwell, 22
yards to Faulk. They had driven to the New England 9 with twelve minutes left. Belichick’s team was exhausted. Warner
chipped off 6 more yards with a pass to Jeff Robinson, and the Rams were 3
yards away from slicing the lead in half.

After Warner threw two
incomplete passes, Martz made two bold calls. He wanted to go for a touchdown on fourth-and-goal from the 3. And he wanted a timeout to talk about the
approach. There were ten and a half minutes remaining; he was spending his last
available timeout.

Back on the field for the play, Warner had to
improvise. When the week began, Belichick said he wanted to take away the
quarterback’s primary option and make him hold the ball. His primary option,
Faulk, was covered. So he held. Then he began to scramble to his right. Only
fate could concoct what Warner was facing now: he was being chased by
linebacker Roman Phifer, a thirty-three-year-old veteran who began his career
with the Rams—the
Los Angeles
Rams. Phifer pursued at such an
angle that almost anything he did was going to be bad for Warner. He had cut
off a passing lane and was in position to make the tackle.

“Now
get his ass, Phife!” Ryan, his position coach, screamed from the coaches’
box.