The Long Snapper

  The Long Snapper

  A Second Chance, a Super Bowl, a Lesson for Life

  Jeffrey Marx

  For Leslie Marx (“Po” to me)

  This book is also dedicated to the memory of Wendy Marx,

  my only sister and best friend,

  and to all who save lives through organ donation and transplantation

  Contents

  Prologue

  The job is probably the most obscure—and certainly the most…

  One

  He never really liked the idea of keeping his cell…

  Two

  Jacob Calvin Kinchen had a lot to consider when it…

  Three

  The first flight of the day—from Baton Rouge to Atlanta—was…

  Four

  He never aspired to be a long snapper, never even…

  Five

  His initial road trip as a professional athlete would have…

  Six

  One of the strangest things about being out of football…

  Seven

  It did not take Brian long to feel that he…

  Eight

  For a family with four generations of roots firmly planted…

  Nine

  When Lori went back to Foxborough for the Patriots’ divisional…

  Ten

  With the second semester beginning back at Parkview, Brian wanted…

  Eleven

  The Patriots already knew everything they needed to know about…

  Twelve

  Logan Kinchen began his eighth birthday with a sweet and…

  Thirteen

  Brian could not have been in a better frame of…

  Fourteen

  A big part of the problem was that Brian simply…

  Fifteen

  A white fire engine, lights flashing and siren blaring, led…

  Sixteen

  Concerned about poor conditions of the field they were using…

  Seventeen

  Brian had long ago learned not to get too hyped…

  Eighteen

  Eight hundred miles away, Harper LeBel was at his home…

  Nineteen

  A portable stage was positioned at the center of the…

  Twenty

  Two days after the Super Bowl, Boston threw a victory…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Jeffrey Marx

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The job is probably the most obscure—and certainly the most unusual—in any of the major professional sports. It requires a big, strong man to submit to a stance that is both awkward and precarious. He is bent forward at the waist, legs apart, arms outstretched. His head is dropped and facing back between his legs. Looking upside down at the world, he grips a prolate spheroid, basically an oblong shape with pointed ends, covered with pebbled leather and adorned with eight white laces. Most people just call it a football. And the man now holding it, soon to be unleashing the ball on its way to being kicked by another player, is called the long snapper. As soon as he lets loose of the football, he will get clobbered and stepped on and generally abused—all well within the accepted rules of engagement in the National Football League.

  The NFL employs thirty-two long snappers at a time—one per team in a limited but vital capacity that represents the evolution of sports into the era of specialized roles. If the long snapper does his job well, he will routinely perform before millions of people without ever being noticed. Total anonymity is considered perfection. And perfection is quite rewarding. In 2003, when our story begins, the average NFL long snapper was paid an annual salary of more than half a million dollars. He also ate and traveled extremely well—all courtesy of his employer—and the standard pampering and perks certainly did not stop there.

  But this exalted existence at the highest level of sport can be transformed into sheer agony with such dizzying dispatch. A single mistake at the wrong time, just one little slip or lack of concentration at a critical moment in a big game, and if you are the long snapper, you’re instant fodder for the media machine that never rests. You’re on the evening news, the goat of your city. Your mistake is shown on ESPN over and over again, dissected in slow motion. You’re an easy target on sports radio. And that’s not even the worst of it. You could also be cut from the team. Fired.

  There is always someone on the outside who desperately wants your job. He and his agent are constantly watching and waiting—watching for the first time a long snapper botches a play that costs his team a game, waiting for that perfect moment to call the general manager and encourage him to make a change.

  You can also lose your cherished job through no fault of your own. Football being football, the most violent of American games, your season or even your entire career might just come to a halt by way of injury. Nothing you can do about that. Of course, given the zero-sum nature of professional sports, a dream denied for one automatically means the chance of a lifetime for another.

  Nobody knew that better than Brian Kinchen.

  One

  DECEMBER 15, 2003.

  BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA.

  He never really liked the idea of keeping his cell phone on while teaching. He certainly would not tolerate such behavior from the seventh graders in his Bible class at Parkview Baptist Middle School, especially not now, while reviewing for the end-of-semester final exam that was only two days away. But Brian Kinchen had a wife and four young sons. He could not imagine being unreachable in an emergency. The phone was tucked away, on silent, in the front left pocket of his slacks, when he felt it vibrate at 9:20 that Monday morning. The little screen showed an unfamiliar out-of-state number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Brian, it’s Scott Pioli.”

  An old friend from a previous existence.

  Brian was an ex-jock. At the age of thirty-eight, after thirteen years of professional football and almost three years of searching for whatever might be next, he was new to teaching. He and Pioli were friends from their long-ago days together with the Cleveland Browns—Brian when he was a young player doing everything he could to keep his spot on the roster, Pioli when he was a young personnel assistant trying to move his way up in the front office. Pioli still worked in the NFL but now operated on a whole different level. As vice president of player personnel for the New England Patriots, he was one of the most respected executives in the league, working closely with head coach Bill Belichick, who was on his way to becoming the NFL’s winningest coach of the decade. Together they had orchestrated the franchise’s first Super Bowl victory after the 2001 season. And now—with only two weeks left in the 2003 regular season—the Patriots were well positioned for another championship run.

  Brian and Pioli had not spoken for nearly a year. Why this out-of-nowhere call at a time when his schedule has to be crazy? Brian wondered. Must be about that hat I asked him to have Belichick sign for that lady I met. After the obligatory small talk, Brian cut to the chase: “Hey, man, where’s my hat? I never got the hat.”

  Pioli had an entirely different agenda.

  “Listen,” he said. “You’re not gonna believe this, Brian, but we need to get a look at you. Bill wants to get a look at you.”

  Brian was familiar enough with football-speak to know exactly what that meant. His old coach—Belichick had been head coach in Cleveland when Brian and Pioli were there—wanted to fly him into Boston for a tryout. Brian was absolutely stunned. He paced in front of his class.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Our long snapper got hurt,” Pioli said.

  Most of the two dozen students were distracted from working on their review material
, trying to figure out what in the world their teacher was dealing with on the phone.

  “I’m thirty-eight years old,” Brian said.

  Pioli already knew that, of course, but Brian was only thinking out loud. “You realize how long it’s been since I’ve played football? I mean, I still work out, just went to the gym before school this morning, but I’m probably down about twenty pounds from the end of my career.”

  Brian stood almost six-foot-three and now weighed less than 220, big for everyday life, but not for someone banging heads with defensive linemen in the NFL.

  “Not a problem,” Pioli said. “We just need you to snap. We don’t need you to block. Don’t need you to cover. Just snap. Just get the ball back there.”

  “Really?”

  “Wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t mean it.”

  Brian was excited but also wary. Those painful memories he’d been trying to push away—the indignity of rejection and the empty feeling of worthlessness—came rushing back, once again washing all over him. What to do? What to tell his friend?

  “I really don’t know if I want to do this,” Brian said. “I’ll have to think about it. Can you give me a couple hours?”

  “I’ll call you back,” Pioli said.

  The teacher turned to his curious students and took in a deep breath. Gathering himself as best he could, Brian said, “You guys are not gonna believe who that was. This guy from the New England Patriots, Scott Pioli, he wants me to fly up there and try to make the team. He wants me to play football again.”

  It is not often that a Bible class turns into a free-for-all. Students shouted and cheered, so many voices competing for attention that Brian could not immediately make out the particulars of what anyone was saying. All that registered was the overall excitement emanating even from those who did not have a clue about football. But then came a voice of clarity through the cacophony. It belonged to a boy in the back of the classroom: “The Patriots have the best record in the league. Everyone’s picking them to win it all this year.” That was an overstatement; not everyone was picking the Patriots. But New England was indeed projected to be one of the strong favorites heading into the playoffs. The Patriots had won twelve of fourteen games—including their last ten in a row—and were tied with the Kansas City Chiefs for the best record in the NFL. Brian had no idea about any of that. He had not been paying much attention to professional football. Turning his back on the game he loved was the only way he could deal with its having unceremoniously dumped him after all those years.

  “What do y’all think?” Brian asked.

  “Awesome,” one of the girls shouted.

  “You gotta go,” one of the boys said.

  Then came a chorus of concurrence.

  “Yeah, go, Mr. Kinchen.”

  “You have to. You have to.”

  Brian settled everyone down and shared an idea. He would take a vote: “Raise your hand if you think I should go.” There was no need to count. Every student—boys and girls—had at least one hand up. Some were enthusiastically stabbing the air with both hands. The vote was unanimous. And the students erupted again.

  “We’ll watch you on TV,” one of the boys blurted out. “How cool is that?”

  If only it were that simple for Brian. Of course, none of the kids knew about the ugly ending and the string of rejections he had already endured. Brian had not only been a long snapper in the NFL. He had been a decent tight end as well, gaining recognition primarily for his blocking and tenacity, but also catching as many as fifty-five passes in a single season, 1996, while playing for the Baltimore Ravens. The apparent end to his playing career came four years later with the Carolina Panthers, after a knee injury and months of clinging to the false hope that his job would still be there for him the next year. Instead, after surgery and rehabilitation, Brian was cut loose. For a while, he remained optimistic about catching on with another team. But nobody called. Brian was crushed.

  Professional athletes almost uniformly voice the desire to retire “on their own terms,” a vague and shifting goal that is rarely realized. And they are often filled with regret and separation anxiety when closure does not come so neatly wrapped. Brian was by no means the first to struggle upon departure from the high-profile world of professional sports. Back in his hometown of Baton Rouge, where he had attended Louisiana State University (LSU), he certainly enjoyed the extra time with his family and the practically endless freedom to play golf. But Brian missed the intensity of the NFL and the camaraderie of teammates. He missed having a schedule and a specific purpose every day. He became depressed. And that was before the onslaught of disappointments.

  His second year out of football, 2002, Brian decided that he would no longer sit around waiting for someone to invite him back into the NFL. He would start calling people himself. So what if his thirty-seventh birthday would arrive before the start of the season? Surely someone could use a long snapper who had been steady and dependable for thirteen years as a professional. So he started reaching out to people he knew.

  The first thread of hope was extended by a former college teammate who was now working in player personnel for the Dallas Cowboys. Toward the end of summer training camp, right after their long snapper had struggled in a pre-season game, the Cowboys invited Brian in for a tryout. He thought he snapped as well as he ever had. The Dallas Morning News even reported that the Cowboys were expected to sign him. But they decided to go with a younger player, and Brian was sent home without so much as a hello or good-bye from head coach Dave Campo.

  A few weeks later, Brian got another shot, this time with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Their long snapper, Mike Schneck, was expected to miss six weeks with a dislocated elbow, and their special-teams coach, Kevin Spencer, had started his NFL coaching career in Cleveland while Brian was playing with the Browns. Brian’s confidence was further bolstered by the fact that he’d played for three other Pittsburgh assistants either in college or in the NFL. That only made the outcome all the more frustrating. After throwing what he considered perfect strikes in his tryout and thinking the job was his, Brian was offered nothing but a ride back to the airport. Once again, he had not even been allowed an audience with the head coach. Having been told that Bill Cowher was “in meetings” and too busy to see him, Brian seethed the whole way home. After all those years in the NFL, he thought that he should be treated with at least some degree of respect. He was devastated by the Pittsburgh trip.

  One more blow was yet to come. Midway through the 2002 season, the Denver Broncos were looking strong after winning six of eight games. Less than thrilled with the play of his kicking teams, however, head coach Mike Shanahan wanted to make a few changes. He was in the market for a new long snapper. Brian knew Shanahan and again thought he had a reasonable chance of being signed. He was invited to Denver for a tryout. He felt that his snaps were flawless. Then—without explanation and without ever seeing Shanahan—he was again passed over for a younger guy. Was it simply a matter of opting for youth? Was Brian considered too risky because of his less-than-perfect knee? Did league salary rules—his thirteen years of NFL service dictating that he’d have to be paid considerably more than a newcomer—have anything to do with it?

  “I don’t know what the deal is,” Brian told his wife, Lori, on the phone. “But I’m not putting myself through this anymore. Too much of an emotional roller coaster. I’m done.”

  It was not until the flight home that both the reality and the finality of that really hit him. His dejection stemmed not only from the worthlessness he felt after going zero-for-three in tryouts or from the absolute belief that he was unmistakably done this time. No, Brian struggled with something much bigger and broader and more debilitating than that—a blindness. It was simply impossible to see himself the way almost anyone else would view him: as a highly successful athlete who had parlayed his Hercules-like build and considerable abilities into a remarkably long (for football) and prosperous career. It was impossible because—after all the dre
aming and the training and the stretching of limits and the sacrifices—Brian could see only one word hanging over the entirety of his efforts: failure. All he’d ever wanted was to establish himself as an impact player, someone who would long be remembered and who might even accomplish something worthy of mention in the football history books. The mere thought of that desire now brought such discomfort and sorrow. Brian had a beautiful wife and four healthy children waiting for him at home. He had a profound spiritual grounding that had guided him and served him well for as long as he could remember. Yet there was nothing he could do on that plane to shake that one word—failure, failure, failure—and the depth of hurt that it triggered.

  The thoughts kept taunting him: I was just another guy who wore a jersey. Nothing really spectacular ever happened in my career. All I ever did was try to legitimize myself. But now I’ll never get what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve always needed. I’ll never have that stamp of approval that I really made it. No validation. No finality on my own terms.

  Speaking for the broad universe of professional athletes, Hall of Fame quarterback Steve Young describes retirement from the NFL as the emotional equivalent of falling off a cliff. “You’re at the top of your field, and then suddenly you’re done,” he says. “I was great at football, but I haven’t been that great at anything since. And once that sinks in, that realization is really hard.”

  Brian had done the best he could to pack away the emotional residue left from his fall off the cliff. And teaching seemed to be the right “next thing” for him. He truly felt he was employing his talents exactly as God intended. And he had even found several avocations—coaching middle school football at Parkview, helping the LSU football staff as a volunteer assistant, playing celebrity golf tournaments all over the country—that again allowed him to enjoy all that was good in sports. Now, though, he was flooded with confusion and doubt. Sure, he felt a lift from the blind affirmation enthusiastically offered by his students when he explained the phone call from the Patriots. He also felt a jolt of hope that perhaps there was still something left of his football career, maybe even the defining moment that had always somehow eluded him. But then there was the dread: What if I’m just being set up for yet another letdown? If I really found what I’m supposed to be doing, teaching, then how can I justify just picking up and taking off from school simply because some football team needs a long snapper, just because I might deep inside be starving for one final shot at the NFL?