Big Game: The NFL in Dangerous Times. Mark Leibovich

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СКАЧАТЬ selection out of Eastern Illinois University, and the highest draft pick the team has used on that position since Brady became the starter.

      A reporter asked Belichick after the game “if the quarterback position would be evaluated.” The coach chuckled, shook his head, and said nothing. He dispatched subsequent questions with “We’re on to Cincinnati,” a reference to the Pats’ next opponent, and he said it enough that it became the catchphrase example of Belichick’s tunnel vision and general noncommunicativeness.

      Fans and the press across the NFL were drunk on Schadenfreude. The Patriots had become widely resented for reasons that go well beyond jealousy. Fort Belichick is known as a paranoid and joyless place whose inhabitants are not above pushing rules to gain a “competitive edge.” Haters prefer the far less euphemistic term “cheating.” It’s a charge that stemmed from the so-called Spygate incident of 2007, in which a Patriots employee was caught illicitly videotaping the hand signals of opposing coaches. For critics, that episode is like the first Ebola exposure from which everything nefarious about the Patriots can be sourced.

      The Patriots would beat the Bengals ­43–­17, with Brady completing 23 of 35 passes for 292 yards and 2 touchdowns. He performed with urgency and even vengeance. “Trust me when I tell you,” the actor Rob Lowe would tweet before halftime, “beware the pissed off pretty boy.”

      I saw Brady briefly in the winning locker room. He was wrapped in a towel and carrying a toothbrush, exiting a shower room. “Nice seeing you here,” he said to me. “You picked a good week.” I told him I’d see him soon. “Awesome,” he said.

      The victory began a ­seven-­game winning streak that left the Patriots tied for the best record in the league, 9–2. I returned to Gillette the Wednesday before Thanksgiving as the Patriots were preparing to play the 8–3 Packers. It was a dreary, sleeting day in ­Foxborough—­a perfect backdrop for a Belichick news conference. The coach looked to be in an especially foul mood, like he was about to vomit. I thought of an Onion headline from a few years earlier that seemed apt at this moment: BILL BELICHICK FORGETS ABOUT LOSS BY RELAXING IN THE BATHTUB FILLED WITH WARM ENTRAILS. Back to live action, when Belichick was asked whether it was an advantage that he had never faced Aaron Rodgers, the Packers’ quarterback, he said: “I mean, it is what it is. Whatever hasn’t happened hasn’t happened.” In response to a question about whether he saw any similarities between Rodgers and Brady, Belichick said, “They both wear number 12,” then headed off.

      When Belichick was done, Stacey James, the team’s longtime head of media relations, opened the Patriots’ locker room to reporters for the ­league-­mandated ­forty-­five-­minute period. Locker rooms are not comfortable places for people who don’t belong there. Reporters are not sanctioned in the sanctuary, only briefly ­credentialed—­and at best tolerated. Unwritten rules govern most interactions. As an outsider among interlopers, I was unfamiliar with most of them. Nearly all of the thirty or so media ­bull-­rushers were from New England outlets. A good number of them carried some food or beverage item from Dunkin’ Donuts. Quite a few of them seemed to be named Ryan.

      Players walked around in various states of undress. Their eyes were fixed on their phones and headphones were fastened on. Reporters clustered around a few of the more prominent and talkative actors, like defensive back Devin McCourty and tight end Rob Gronkowski. The rest of the media massed in the middle of the room, talking quietly among themselves and reading ­Twitter—­out loud if there was something germane. “Aaron Hernandez murder trial delayed by other Aaron Hernandez murder trial,” said one TV reporter, reading a headline on BostonMagazine.com. I laughed, maybe audibly. Bad idea. Hernandez, the homicidal tight end, must never be mentioned in his former team’s locker room, let alone chuckled at. Fortunately no one heard me.

      Brady walked in wearing a red, white, and blue ski cap. He took a seat at a stool in front of his locker. He was given a wide berth, at least twenty feet in all directions. It is understood that Brady, given his star power, would do his own media sessions from a podium once a week and after games.

      Otherwise the King must not be approached. I didn’t realize this and walked up and said hello. ­Stink-­eyes were trained my way from some of the Ryans. How dare I address Zeus directly? Brady did not seem to mind, however, or was willing to humor me. We chatted for a minute or so. He wished me a happy Thanksgiving and I headed back to the scrum of Ryans.

      Brady returned to what he was doing at his stool, which involved stretching out a pair of ­gloves—­a task he appeared completely locked into. It was as if the rest of the nonfootball bubble did not exist, a place where he would, by necessity, need to transform into a less organic self (i.e., someone who has to make small talk with a clueless locker room invader). He stood up after a few minutes and headed out through a door marked athletic training.

      “In front of seventy thousand people, I can be who I am,” Brady would say in a Facebook documentary, Tom vs Time, that came out a few years later. “If I want to scream at somebody I can scream at somebody. I can be who I am in a very authentic way.” As Brady says this, it’s impossible not to extend the thought a ­beat—­and then he does so himself: “That is hard for me when I walk off the field.”

      Brady has described the sport as being “synonymous with my being” in a way that nothing else in his life could ever be. He can sit for hours in his den watching game film on his laptop, so fixated on the riddles and subtleties before him that hours can pass without his even noticing. Football for ­Brady—­and I’ve heard countless other athletes say versions of ­this—­is also the ultimate reprieve from the grind and bullshit of reality. It offers him his best shot at freedom.

      JAMES WALKED OVER AND ASKED ME IF I WANTED TO MEET “MR. Kraft.” Deadpan and efficient, James might have the toughest PR job in the league. He is charged with running interference among a competitive group of beat reporters, a mumbling control freak of a head coach, and an ­image-­conscious owner. James, a native of Washington State, grew up rooting for the Seahawks and joined the Patriots in 1993, the year before Kraft bought the team. He adheres to a stubborn and even slightly Baghdad Bob manner of devotion to the so-called Patriot Way.

      The Patriot Way is a term of admiration, ­self-­congratulation, or derision, depending on who is using it. To fans and insiders the Patriot Way stands for the selfless, no drama, “Do Your Job” mentality at the core of the team’s ­success—­an almost Maoist decree of labor for the collective. “Ignore the Noise” is another Belichick mantra (trademarked, licensed, merchandised) that is often invoked by the Greek chorus of Pats fans who make most of that noise.

      “No days off, no days off,” Belichick started yelling at one of the team’s ­post–­Super Bowl celebrations in front of Boston City Hall. Bizarrely, he would go on to chant the phrase nine times until he was joined by a good portion of the ­crowd—­many of whom had taken days off from work to attend the rally.

      To detractors, of course, the Patriot Way reflects a humorless and win-at-­all-­costs monolith. And while I’m grateful for all the victories Belichick has coached, I’d rather jump into raw sewage than go to work every day for Bunker Bill. In case Coach was thinking about asking me.

      The Patriot Way is ­also—­and I say this in the most respectful possible ­way—­complete bullshit. People use “the Patriot Way” as a catchall to justify all manner of cold decision making. The term is thrown around like it is some secret organizational sauce. When successful institutions rise to the level of having a “way” attached to them (IBM, Goldman Sachs), they are often too good to be true and invite comeuppance: I ­remember thinking this after baseball’s St. Louis ­Cardinals—­they of the “Cardinal Way”—­were busted in 2015 for hacking into the computer database of the Houston Astros.

      Players who might have previously had “issues” on other teams, СКАЧАТЬ