The Long Snapper Page 3

  In response to the perfect regular season, LSU rewarded Dietzel with a new five-year contract that would pay him $16,500 a year (a raise of $2,500). The same day that was reported in the local paper—in fact, directly under the Dietzel story that ran in the Sunday Advocate on December 7, 1958—another headline trumpeted more good news for the football program: “LSU Signs Kinchen To Grant-in-Aid.” Gary Kinchen, an All-State guard for Baton Rouge High School, was the first local signee of the year and would soon join big brother Gus in Tiger Stadium. Of course, neither of them gave any thought to how far the Kinchen football tradition might someday reach. They were just happy to be college teammates.

  LSU went on to defeat Clemson, 7–0, in the Sugar Bowl. For the season, LSU had given up fewer than five points per game, outscoring its opponents by a stunning margin of 282 to 53. At the end of 1958, the Tigers were named AP “Team of the Year” not only for college football but for the whole of American sports, beating out the New York Yankees of Mickey Mantle and the Baltimore Colts of Johnny Unitas.

  Gus Kinchen’s popularity extended well beyond the football field. He was chosen to serve on the fashion panel of a downtown department store. He was invited to speak at church events and youth banquets. And he was later elected president of the LSU Student Government Association. It was in that role that Kinchen booked comedian Bob Hope to perform at LSU. Playing to a crowd of ten thousand that was well familiar with the Chinese Bandits, Hope had the theatrical flair to wear a coolie hat when he greeted Kinchen on stage. The place went wild.

  Then there was the girl. As if life were not already grand enough for Kinchen, he also ended up with the campus beauty. His girlfriend, LSU cheerleader Toni Whittington, was voted “Darling of LSU” both her freshman and sophomore years. She was the reason a new rule was established to disallow repeat winners: the powers that be simply wanted to give someone else a chance. A local writer described Toni as “petite…with sparkling brown eyes and a pixie smile…a brunette with lustrous dark brown hair.” On December 23, 1961, Gaynell “Gus” Kinchen and Maude Ann “Toni” Whittington were married in her hometown of Natchitoches, Louisiana.

  Forty-two years later, heading into the Baton Rouge airport for his trip to Boston and his final shot at football, Brian Kinchen walked unmistakably alone. Nobody else entering the building could possibly have known what was stirring within him: the thought that one trip, one tryout, could be filled with such tremendous possibility. Maybe he could finally find the validation and accomplishment for which he had always striven. But Brian was not flying off just for himself. He was also flying off for Jake Kinchen and for Gus Kinchen and for anyone else—young or old, athlete or not—who would understand what it meant when a man needed to prove himself on a field of play.

  Three

  The first flight of the day—from Baton Rouge to Atlanta—was uneventful. But the connecting flight to Boston offered quite a surprise. During the boarding process, Brian Kinchen glanced up from his window seat and saw a familiar face passing by in the aisle. Their eyes locked for just a moment.

  “Hey, Brian, what’s going on?” Harper LeBel said.

  “Hey, how are you?” Brian said.

  With a stream of passengers bustling for position, LeBel kept moving without a chance for any real conversation. Brian initially thought it was bizarre to randomly run into someone he had not even thought about for years. But then he started connecting the dots: Wait a minute. He’s going to the same place I am…trying out for the same job! LeBel was another out-of-work long snapper. He’d been out of the NFL even longer than Brian. In the world of football, he might as well have been Methuselah; LeBel was forty! What really jarred Brian was recalling the way LeBel’s otherwise steady ten-year career had come to a nightmarish end in Baltimore. That was where they had gotten to know each other, as teammates with the Baltimore Ravens in 1998. After Brian tore a tendon in his right thumb during training camp, LeBel was given the opportunity to take his place until he healed. The results were disastrous. In the season opener, a 20–13 loss to the Pittsburgh Steelers, LeBel pretty much blew the game with three bad snaps—one that led directly to a Pittsburgh touchdown and two that caused his own kicker to miss field goals—thereby earning the honorific “Goat of the Week” from writer Peter King of Sports Illustrated. Four games later, LeBel had another major meltdown, with multiple poor snaps on punts. That was the end of professional football for him. Reflecting on that experience during the flight to Boston, Brian could not help but think: Five years after that debacle, without ever playing again, and Harper LeBel is getting a tryout with the Patriots? How in the world does that happen?

  When they got off the plane, Brian and LeBel found each other in the terminal and walked together through Logan International Airport, catching up on what they’d been doing since their lives had last intersected in Baltimore. LeBel had not checked any luggage, either, so they went straight past the baggage carousels and outside to the curb, where someone from the Patriots was supposed to pick them up. They waited…and waited. And they shivered. The temperature was thirty degrees, fairly extreme for two guys just arriving from the South without sufficient outerwear, and with the wind whipping, they might as well have been stranded on an iceberg in the middle of nowhere.

  Finally, a van pulled up for them. It was late because the driver had been waiting elsewhere at the airport for the two other men now introducing themselves to Brian and LeBel. They, too, were unemployed long snappers. One was Chance Pearce, just in from College Station, Texas, twenty-three and still seeking his first NFL job after having been drafted but later released by the Houston Texans before the start of the 2003 season. The other was Dan O’Leary, from the Cleveland area, twenty-six and already an NFL veteran, having played partial seasons in 2001 with the Buffalo Bills and in 2002 with the Pittsburgh Steelers and the New York Giants. Although Brian had never met O’Leary and had no idea who he was when they shook hands in the van, it was he who had gotten the temporary Pittsburgh job for which Brian had auditioned the previous year. There was one other link between the two men. Playing high school football in Cleveland while Brian was playing for the hometown Browns, O’Leary had always been a big fan of his because they both played tight end in addition to long snapping. God, is this the same Brian Kinchen? O’Leary now wondered. Still out here after all these years? As a teenager, he had always wanted to be like Brian—he had watched him so closely that he still remembered Brian’s jersey number, eighty-eight, with the Browns—and now he was actually sitting right there with him. Even more amazing, he was on his way to compete against the guy for a job. Unbelievable, O’Leary thought.

  And off they went—four men sharing both a ride and a dream. The van had ample space for all. The dream had room for only one.

  During the season, Tuesday is generally the quietest day at the practice complex of an NFL team. Injured players visit the training room for treatment, and a few other guys might show up to lift weights or watch game film. For the most part, though, players are off, and this is the best time for all who work closest with them to dial down the intensity and take advantage of the respite to regroup for the next battle. Coaches work on game plans. Trainers restock supplies. Equipment managers repair helmets and shoulder pads. If the front office is looking to make a roster change, Tuesday is also the ideal day to conduct a player tryout. Track down and fly in a few free agents on Monday. Get them up early Tuesday for the team doctor to examine them. Have them on a practice field by mid-morning. And so it was for the four long snappers who were delivered by van to Gillette Stadium in Foxborough, Massachusetts, home of the Patriots, on the morning of Tuesday, December 16, 2003.

  They dressed in a small locker room—the one used by referees on game days—in the bowels of the stadium. Then they went outside and got a ride across a large parking lot to the entrance of an indoor practice facility generally referred to as the “bubble.” From the van to the door, the silence of stress was violated only by a single sound familiar to
anyone who has ever been around football: the loud click-clacking of cleats striking concrete. The noise lessened and then stopped altogether as the long snappers filed inside—their cleats now quietly sinking with each step into the soft cushion of turf.

  Brian gazed across the perfectly lined field. Walking slowly and taking in the sight of a few team officials with stopwatches and notepads at the ready, then noticing another staffer armed with video equipment, Brian could hardly believe he was once again subjecting himself to this glorified meat market known as a group tryout: Can’t believe I’m right back in the middle of this craziness. Can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve even thought about all this stuff.

  Brian and the three other Patriot wannabes were greeted by special-teams coach Brad Seely, who asked them to pair up and get loose. Brian worked with Pearce, stretching and tossing a ball back and forth, while LeBel and O’Leary did the same. After a few minutes, Seely said that they would begin the tryout with punt snaps, still working in pairs. O’Leary lined up to go first, with LeBel fifteen yards behind him to catch his snaps. Alongside O’Leary, separated by a couple of yards, stood Pearce, who would snap to Brian. Of course, each snapper would be concentrating not only on his own work; though wanting to be subtle about it, he would also be checking out how the others performed. In the early going, with O’Leary and Pearce alternating snaps, Brian did not see anything that really impressed him. Pretty average, he thought. Then came the first ugly mishap of the day: Pearce threw a wild ball over Brian’s head and beyond his reach. As the football bounced and then skidded away, so too did any real possibility that the young man from Texas might be getting a job that day. He’s done, Brian told himself. Three of us left.

  Once O’Leary and Pearce had each made about a dozen snaps, they swapped spots with LeBel and Brian. LeBel’s first snap was high but catchable, nothing that would cost him too much even in the unforgiving evaluation now taking place. Still, he was upset that he started that way. He looked up at the ceiling and reminded himself of rule one: Relax! After that, LeBel felt that his snaps were “nails”—right where he wanted them. Brian’s assessment was much more critical: He’s all over the place. Low. High. Nothing really bad. But pretty inconsistent. LeBel and Brian did share a general overview on which they’d agreed since their time together in Baltimore: LeBel threw a harder ball, which was quite impressive when it ended up exactly where he wanted it, but Brian was more consistent with his spiral and placement.

  Brian was pleased with his own performance in this first round of snapping in punt formation. Considering how long it had been since he had played football, Brian also felt surprisingly fluid and strong firing up into blocking position after letting loose of the ball. It was one of his assets that LeBel and many others in the NFL had long admired. Brian had spent years among the best at everything a snapper needs to do once the ball is released: popping up to block, quickly thrusting his arms forward into combat position; fighting off an enemy who is seeking instant gratification in the form of a blocked punt; and then charging downfield to cover the punt and maybe even make a tackle.

  Next in the tryout came the shorter snaps—seven and a half to almost eight yards, depending on personal preference—to a holder who would rest one knee on the ground and simulate the position he’d be in to place the ball for the kicker on a field goal or extra point after a touchdown. With the distance greatly reduced (basically cut in half) from the snaps in punt formation, the likelihood of error was also significantly diminished. But the whole operation could still be altogether ruined with one simple slip or lapse in concentration.

  Thinking only about mechanics and focusing on his target, Brian got off to a perfect start on his first few snaps at the shorter distance. Then came disaster. He sailed one right over the holder’s head. Brian was shocked and had no idea how it happened. He had never before thrown one so high like that, not in his whole life—not in practice, not in a game. Low, yes. Off target to the right or to the left, yes. But never high enough to where the guy had to leave his knee and still couldn’t get to it.

  None of the other snappers said anything. But they all came to the same conclusion: Kinchen’s done. No way he gets the job after that fiasco. Up to that point, it was hard for LeBel not to think that Brian was the favorite simply because he had played for Belichick in Cleveland. But now the door was open for the others. That was the one moment when LeBel had just a little smile on his face.

  Brian was well aware that one errant snap was usually all it took to be eliminated during a group tryout. I blew it, he silently conceded. I’m outta here. But he also told himself: Just keep on going. Maybe they’ll screw up, too. Wanting to put the bad snap behind him as quickly as possible, Brian grabbed another ball, positioned himself over it, and fired it back to the holder. Thwack. He was right on target this time. Brian moved off to the side, and the other snappers went through another rotation.

  When everyone was done, Seely singled out Brian for some extra work: “Hey, Brian, let’s get a few more short snaps before we go.” Brian did not know what to think of that. Neither did the other guys. They just stood off to the side—everything was so entirely out of their control now—while Brian concluded the tryout with four additional snaps. They were all bull’s-eyes. But the clean finish did nothing to lessen the overwhelming frustration of that one bad snap. A combination of disappointment and anger consumed Brian as he walked off the field, head hanging low. All he could think was: I cannot believe I just blew that. Best opportunity I’ve ever had, with the best team in football, last opportunity I’ll ever have…and I blow it like that.

  Back in the locker room, Brian went straight for his cell phone to give Lori the bad news. “I just can’t believe I threw it over the guy’s head,” Brian said. “I’ve never done that. Never! I just can’t believe it happens now. I don’t know how they could possibly give me the job after that.”

  “Well, Belichick hasn’t said anything yet, has he?” Lori said.

  “No,” Brian said. “I’ll call you back when I know something.”

  After finishing on the phone, Brian sat in a daze, frozen in his workout gear, while the others showered and dressed for lunch. He would soon catch up with them. For now, though, he had way too much on his mind to care about food.

  Brian was still stewing about his bad snap when he joined his fellow job candidates in the team cafeteria. Wanting to be alone with his thoughts, Brian sat apart from the others. He intentionally faced the entrance to the dining area because he wanted to keep an eye out for the head honchos: Belichick and personnel boss Scott Pioli. They soon walked in together and headed straight to Brian. Standing to greet them, Brian did not know if this was simply going to be the “hello” Pioli had promised or if he was about to learn his fate. Belichick and Pioli offered smiles and handshakes, and the initial conversation was entirely casual. While the other three long snappers continued eating, or at least fidgeted with their food while anxiously eavesdropping, Belichick and Brian exchanged updates about their wives and children. In Cleveland, Belichick had been friendly with Lori Kinchen, who was routinely around the team facility in her role as president of the Browns wives’ association. In fact, she had often dropped into Belichick’s office just to chat, which almost nobody ever did; given a choice, most insiders generally preferred to avoid the blunt and standoffish coach because he intimidated them. Although still not much of a contender to be voted Mr. Congeniality, Belichick now seemed genuinely pleased to hear that Lori and the Kinchen boys were all doing well back in Louisiana.

  It soon became clear, though, that Belichick had more than small talk on his agenda. When the conversation shifted to the tryout, he told Brian, “Looked like you did pretty well.”

  Instead of saying anything about the bad snap—even trying to explain it away would only draw attention to a negative—Brian wanted to stay as upbeat and light as possible: “Not bad for an old man, huh?”

  “Yeah, well, looks like you’re in pretty good
shape,” Belichick said.

  Brian still had no idea where the conversation was headed. He and Belichick spoke about how well the Patriots had been doing and about the challenges that remained—including the assimilation of a new long snapper only a couple of weeks before facing the do-or-die pressure of the NFL playoffs.

  “It’s not exactly the best of timing,” Brian said. “I mean, whoever you choose will probably have the team’s entire season in his hands at some point.”

  “You know what?” Belichick said with absolute nonchalance. “You’re going to be that guy.”

  “Really?” Brian said.

  “Let’s get this done,” Belichick said. “You have an agent you want us to call?”

  That was the full extent of Brian’s official invitation back onto the grand stage of the NFL—no bells and whistles, no lavish pronouncement, only matter-of-fact logistics. That was also how the other three long snappers learned—by overhearing the conversation—that they were about to be sent home.

  Brian told Belichick and Pioli there was no need for an agent. He had been out of football for three years, had long since abandoned the idea of ever being back in the game, and now he was being asked to join a championship-caliber team that was beating everyone in sight. He certainly was not about to quibble over contract terms. He just wanted to call Lori.

  “She’s waiting to hear from me,” Brian said.