recognize the coverage, make sure guys are lined up
right, read my progressions, and make the throw.
“ ‘Gun
Trips RT 64 Under X Go.’ ”
He found Redmond again. This time it
was an 11-yard gain, and Redmond stepped out of bounds to save time.
They were at their 41. They had thirty-three seconds left. They had the
best kicker in the game simulating kicks on the sideline. This was going to be
easy. He missed on “G Patriot RT 64 MAX ALL IN XQ”—for Brown—so the same play
was called again.
Brown caught the ball over the middle, ran 23
yards, and stepped out of bounds at the Rams’ 36. Brady knew Vinatieri could
make it from here. But there was time to get him closer.
“ ‘Gun
Trips RT 68 Return.’ Tommy, throw it to Wiggins and then clock it.”
He located Jermaine Wiggins, the tight end from East
Boston, for 6 yards. He clocked it with seven seconds remaining. The ball fell
to the turf and then bounced up again into his waiting hands. He held it as if
he were posing for a picture. Bringing style to the mundane, the sixth- round
pick suddenly looked cool.
Vinatieri would step out soon to
attempt a 48-yard field goal. Who wouldn’t want a good kicker now? What coach
wouldn’t want his kicker to be his most consistent player in a situation like
this? Perceptions and legacies were going to be affected with this
attempt.
Patriots and patriots alike wanted this kick to be good.
Just to say I told you so. Just to prove that substance and grit and unity were
not outdated terms. Everyone could relate to not being tall enough, slim
enough, fast enough, rich enough, young or old enough. That was the Patriots’
appeal. Their roster and their staff were filled with people who were holding
on to some previous slight that they couldn’t or wouldn’t forget.
Lots of people were on their feet now, holding hands or hoping for a
miss. Veteran defensive end Anthony Pleasant was on the sideline, thinking of
his friend Rob Burnett, who had won a ring the previous year with the Baltimore
Ravens. Pleasant also thought of Scott Norwood. “Make it,” he whispered. “I
hope we don’t do like Buffalo.” Gil Santos was setting the scene for his
listeners in New England. Santos, the radio voice of the Patriots, was
concerned with the details first. Down, distance, placement. He liked to let
people know the snapper (Lonie Paxton) and the holder (Ken Walter). “If it gets
screwed up—if the snap is high or low— you want the people to have a sense of
what happened,” he once explained.
Vinatieri,
man of routine, was walking toward the field. He was trying to concentrate, but
he heard chatter from his own team. It was tight end Rod Rutledge, taunting one
of the Rams.
“Yeah, motherfucker. We about to win the
Bowl.”
Walter knew Vinatieri wanted to say something, and he knew
that this wasn’t the time for the kicker to be talking. “I’ll handle this,” he
told Vinatieri. “Hey, Rod. Can you shut up?”
There was no more
talking. The ball was snapped, the hold was impeccable, and the kick gave
Vinatieri exactly what he had been seeking on Saturday night: perfection. The
kick was worthy of its own frame, powerful and high and unmistakable. It was a
poll with immediate returns, a dramatic moment that eliminated all dramatic
excess. There was no wait to see if it would sneak inside a post or barely
clear one. It was a center cut. Santos had been trained to look at the
officials before commenting on a field goal, so there was some hesitation in
his call: “The kick is up and it is… good. It’s good….” He was
informing, smiling, crying, and embracing—his wife and son were in the booth—at
the same time.
The Krafts were still in their box, with a
panoramic view at the 50. They had a family hug for this kick, and they had a
family hug for themselves. They remembered how the Patriots were almost moved
to St. Louis in 1993 and how their family bought the team in ’94. They
remembered the financial and public
right, read my progressions, and make the throw.
“ ‘Gun
Trips RT 64 Under X Go.’ ”
He found Redmond again. This time it
was an 11-yard gain, and Redmond stepped out of bounds to save time.
They were at their 41. They had thirty-three seconds left. They had the
best kicker in the game simulating kicks on the sideline. This was going to be
easy. He missed on “G Patriot RT 64 MAX ALL IN XQ”—for Brown—so the same play
was called again.
Brown caught the ball over the middle, ran 23
yards, and stepped out of bounds at the Rams’ 36. Brady knew Vinatieri could
make it from here. But there was time to get him closer.
“ ‘Gun
Trips RT 68 Return.’ Tommy, throw it to Wiggins and then clock it.”
He located Jermaine Wiggins, the tight end from East
Boston, for 6 yards. He clocked it with seven seconds remaining. The ball fell
to the turf and then bounced up again into his waiting hands. He held it as if
he were posing for a picture. Bringing style to the mundane, the sixth- round
pick suddenly looked cool.
Vinatieri would step out soon to
attempt a 48-yard field goal. Who wouldn’t want a good kicker now? What coach
wouldn’t want his kicker to be his most consistent player in a situation like
this? Perceptions and legacies were going to be affected with this
attempt.
Patriots and patriots alike wanted this kick to be good.
Just to say I told you so. Just to prove that substance and grit and unity were
not outdated terms. Everyone could relate to not being tall enough, slim
enough, fast enough, rich enough, young or old enough. That was the Patriots’
appeal. Their roster and their staff were filled with people who were holding
on to some previous slight that they couldn’t or wouldn’t forget.
Lots of people were on their feet now, holding hands or hoping for a
miss. Veteran defensive end Anthony Pleasant was on the sideline, thinking of
his friend Rob Burnett, who had won a ring the previous year with the Baltimore
Ravens. Pleasant also thought of Scott Norwood. “Make it,” he whispered. “I
hope we don’t do like Buffalo.” Gil Santos was setting the scene for his
listeners in New England. Santos, the radio voice of the Patriots, was
concerned with the details first. Down, distance, placement. He liked to let
people know the snapper (Lonie Paxton) and the holder (Ken Walter). “If it gets
screwed up—if the snap is high or low— you want the people to have a sense of
what happened,” he once explained.
Vinatieri,
man of routine, was walking toward the field. He was trying to concentrate, but
he heard chatter from his own team. It was tight end Rod Rutledge, taunting one
of the Rams.
“Yeah, motherfucker. We about to win the
Bowl.”
Walter knew Vinatieri wanted to say something, and he knew
that this wasn’t the time for the kicker to be talking. “I’ll handle this,” he
told Vinatieri. “Hey, Rod. Can you shut up?”
There was no more
talking. The ball was snapped, the hold was impeccable, and the kick gave
Vinatieri exactly what he had been seeking on Saturday night: perfection. The
kick was worthy of its own frame, powerful and high and unmistakable. It was a
poll with immediate returns, a dramatic moment that eliminated all dramatic
excess. There was no wait to see if it would sneak inside a post or barely
clear one. It was a center cut. Santos had been trained to look at the
officials before commenting on a field goal, so there was some hesitation in
his call: “The kick is up and it is… good. It’s good….” He was
informing, smiling, crying, and embracing—his wife and son were in the booth—at
the same time.
The Krafts were still in their box, with a
panoramic view at the 50. They had a family hug for this kick, and they had a
family hug for themselves. They remembered how the Patriots were almost moved
to St. Louis in 1993 and how their family bought the team in ’94. They
remembered the financial and public
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