Mark Leibovich - Big Game - The NFL in Dangerous Times

Copyright

HarperCollins Publishers

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First published in the US by Penguin Press 2018

This UK edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

FIRST EDITION

Text © Mark Leibovich 2018

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Cover photographs © Kwangmooza/Getty Images (background); Darren Haggar (badge)

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Mark Leibovich asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Brief portions of this work, some in slightly different form, first appeared in The New York Times and The New York Times Magazine

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Source ISBN: 9780008317614

Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008317645

Version 2018-08-17

In loving memory of great friends:

my father, Miguel Leibovich,

and brother, Phil Leibovich

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction FOOTBALL, IN SPITE OF ITSELF

Prologue RESPITE

Chapter 1 THE SUPER BOWL WITHOUT JOCK STRAPS

Chapter 2 THE MONKEY’S ASS

Chapter 3 NUGGETS

Chapter 4 “TOM BRADY HERE”

Chapter 5 “BEWARE THE PISSED OFF PRETTY BOY”

Chapter 6 GARISH FIST ORNAMENTS

Chapter 7 BALLGHAZI

Chapter 8 CHEATER

Chapter 9 NO ONE BUYS TICKETS TO WATCH A MORALITY PLAY

Chapter 10 DINGS?

Chapter 11 WHUPPINGS

Chapter 12 “WE PAY HIM DAMN WELL TO BE NEUTRAL”

Chapter 13 NO BROKE DICKS

Chapter 14 ROGER AND ME

Chapter 15 THE BIG SPLAT

Chapter 16 IMMORTALITY GETS OLD

Chapter 17 “START BLOW- DRYING TEDDY KOPPEL’S HAIR ’CAUSE THIS ONE’S DONE”

Chapter 18 AMERICAN CARNAGE

Chapter 19 PATRIOTISM

Chapter 20 CHEESEHEAD ELEGY

Chapter 21 “WE DON’T WANT YOU IN LOS ANGELES”

Chapter 22 “I’M DRUNK, I’M STUPID, I’M A PATS FAN,” THE MAN TOLD POLICE

Chapter 23 THE TV REPORTER IN THE BELICHICK UNDERWEAR

Chapter 24 CLOCKS AND SITCOMS

Chapter 25 TURN-ONS

Chapter 26 THIS MAN’S LIVER BELONGS IN CANTON

Chapter 27 “FAITH, FAMILY, AND FOOTBALL . . . PROBABLY NOT IN THAT ORDER”

Chapter 28 “WE NEED A BLACK CHARLTON HESTON”

Chapter 29 JUST COMPARTMENTALIZE, BABY

Chapter 30 THE LAST VISIT

Picture Section

Acknowledgments

Notes

Also by Mark Leibovich

List of Searchable Terms

About the Publisher

Introduction

FOOTBALL, IN SPITE OF ITSELF

February 4, 2018

It fell to the Brazilian First Lady to settle the ­punch-­drunk scene. She strutted in with the ­self-­assurance of someone who knew her aura preceded her, even in defeat. “Great game,” she said, not aware of the player’s name (he was out of his jersey, a lineman by the size of him). He knew hers. Gisele Bündchen was working the big game ­after chaos in a back hallway of U.S. Bank Stadium in Minneapolis, seeking out Philadelphia Eagles to stun with her classy attaboys. I watched them ­flinch—“Uh, thanks, thanks very much.” Super Bowl 52 had just ended in a hail of confetti and an unanswered Hail Mary from her husband, New England quarterback Tom Brady.

He was already being criticized across the Hot Take Village for not sticking around the field long enough to congratulate his Philly counterpart, Nick Foles. So his supermodel wife, in Brady’s stead, was taking on his celebrity grace duties. She moved from Eagle to sweaty Eagle, representing Brady both as a sportsmanship ambassador ­and—­in a sly ­way—­as a killer consolation trophy to brandish over the new champs. She was the last power play in his playbook. And the Eagles had no answer for Gisele. She caught another one leaving the locker room. “Good game,” she said, startling him. “Uh, your guy’s amazing,” the Eagle muttered back.

Brady himself was behind a curtain dealing with the media. “Losing sucks,” he confirmed. “But you show up and you try to win, and sometimes you lose and that’s the way it goes.” The game had finished only fifteen minutes earlier, he reminded everyone.

Brady is an empire, like the league he plays in. Empires fall eventually, but one of their best moves is to sell the illusion of timelessness. Normal limits don’t apply. How many more big games did Brady have left? He kept getting asked this question, in so many words. “I expect to be back but we’ll see,” he said.

Four years earlier, in the Almighty’s den, Brady and I had discussed the “How much longer” question too: issues of age, mortality, and the actuarial tables that he knew were running against him in the NFL, or “Not for Long” as players call a league where the average career lasts 3.3 years. Barely anyone still plays in these big ­games—­much less ­excels—­past forty, Brady’s present age.

I wondered why he kept doing this, and whether he worried about confronting a void after he finished. “When I don’t have the purpose of football, I know that’s going to be a really hard thing for me,” Brady told me then. There was melancholy to him when he said this, one I’ve sensed in Brady sometimes, even in his pinnacle ­moments—­of which this batshit shootout in Minnesota was not one. He headed off his temporary stage and met up with his football goddess in a hallway. They shared a group hug with the kids, Instagrammed for proof.

Brady’s Patriot teammate Rob Gronkowski walked by en route to another makeshift podium. Gronk appeared dazed, more so than his usual stupor. He also had processing to do. Only ­twenty-­eight, the tight end had filled up an impressive share of stat sheets and medical charts over his eight seasons. How much more? He got that question, too. “I am definitely going to look at my future, for sure,” Gronkowski said, maybe more candidly than he expected. “I am going to sit down the next couple of weeks and see where I’m at.”

No one could blame him if he quit. His working life had been a pained procession of broken bones, concussions, surgeries, and rehabs. Even when health allowed, he performed under a doleful tyrant of a coach for a ­below-­market contract in what sure looked to be a cheerless work environment. He had plenty of money, two Super Bowl rings, and Hall of Fame credentials. He could move into any number of ­Gronk-­suitable ­existences—­WWE, action movies, or some reality show.

But Gronkowski was also born to play this game, as much as any mortal body can be. He was Peak Football, both in size (six foot six inches, 260) and temperament (beast). He could still dominate if he wanted to ­or—­more to the ­point—­he should still dominate because I really wanted him to still dominate. Yes, I want Gronk to keep playing because he helps my team win. That’s my selfish disclaimer: the Patriots are a disease I contracted early, growing up in Massachusetts. I still root for them, and am still trying to grow up (no longer in Massachusetts). The team has been great and interesting and despised for a long time. They make me feel like a winner, superior to my friends who root for other teams, and that’s important, God knows.