Patriot Reign by Michael Holley Page A

relations messes—from bankruptcy to bombast
to Bill Parcells—that forever trailed the Patriots through most of the 1980s
and the 1990s. They remembered 1971, when they were the Krafts of Graylynn Road
in Newton. Just a family of season-ticket holders who were
hoping Jim Plunkett could help deliver a championship.
    In the
coaches’ box, Scott Pioli had been standing on the stairs between the first and
second levels. He had been standing for the entire game, hoping that the team
he helped build could find a way to win. When the kick went through, Pioli fell
down the stairs and into tight ends coach Jeff Davidson. The box, tense and
serious most of the time, erupted. Pioli hugged Davidson, Brian Daboll, Berj
Najarian, everybody. They all lost themselves for a moment until someone
mentioned that they had to leave the box and head to the field.
    There was red, white, and blue confetti on the carpet as the organization
celebrated. Belichick, now finally and rightly clear of Parcells’s shadow, was
hugged by his daughter Amanda and lifted in the air by safety Lawyer Milloy.
McGinest was in tears. A group of Patriots scouts, in seats twenty rows from
the field, congratulated each other and fans they had just met. Guard Mike
Compton fell to his knees as if he were worshiping. Another lineman, Joe
Andruzzi, carried the American flag. His brother, Jimmy Andruzzi, was a New
York City firefighter who had barely escaped the Twin Towers on September
11.
    Patriots 20, Rams 17. Everyone with any connection to the team
began to move toward a roped-off area reserved for the champions. And, really,
that meant all of them.
     
    A n hour after the game, Pioli and
his wife, Dallas, walked from the Dome to the Fairmont. They had already cried, sharing the moment with Pioli’s parents and all his buddies
from back home in Washingtonville, New York—Matt, Tom, Paul, and John the Worm.
Three friends from college were there as well. Pioli then received a call from
his friend Mark Shapiro. Pioli and Shapiro had met when they both worked in
Cleveland. They had talked of their championship dreams for years. Now Pioli
was the director of player personnel for the Patriots, and Shapiro was the
general manager of the Cleveland Indians.
    “Scooter,”
Shapiro said, calling Pioli by his nickname, “great job, man. I just got two
words for you: collar stays, dude!”
    Shapiro had watched Pioli
interviewed on TV. The collars on Pioli’s shirt were pointing in the air. He
had raced from the box—but not before taking a Super Bowl banner as a
souvenir—to be on the field. Shapiro knew he could tease Pioli for looking
frazzled on the night that he became a champion. He knew how hard it was to
help build a team that was both successful and dignified. They both laughed,
and not just because Pioli didn’t have plastic collar stays. He wasn’t even
sure what they were.
    Now it was time for Pioli and everyone else
to exhale and wait until tomorrow before thinking about the ’02 season. He
tried to go to the team party, but it turned out that the selfless, anonymous
team he put together was a little too anonymous for his own good. He wasn’t
recognized at the door and was told he couldn’t get into the VIP section. He
and Dallas decided they would hang out instead with their friends from home.
Brady got into the party, where he relaxed with rapper Snoop Dogg.
    “Look at this,” Snoop said, standing in the Imperial Ballroom. “It’s the MVP of rap here with the MVP of the Super
Bowl.”
    Belichick was also at the Fairmont, in the hotel bar. He
had wanted to stop in at Pat O’Brien’s in the French Quarter, but security had
advised against it. There were thousands of people outside. They had just
watched or heard about one of the best Super Bowls ever played. Belichick would
be mobbed out there. So he sat with his wife, Debby, and a half-dozen friends.
He drank Hurricanes, laughed, and talked football until 4:30 Monday morning. He
slept for ninety