After every game, win or lose, the head coach hugs his players. News conferences begin with a friendly greeting and then, as a sign of respect, the granting of the first question to a veteran female reporter.
The quarterback is often described as “humble” and “respectful” and has attended local high school football games for fun. “I got literally no swag,” he said recently. His wife has become a successful social-media influencer … for her recipes. (What, you haven’t tried the apple cinnamon oat crumble bar?)
The team has 13 victories but almost no big-name stars, an overachieving collection of mostly up-and-comers and aging vets. They keep shocking the NFL and perhaps even themselves.
America is used to the New England Patriots being great.
How about them being … likable?
For nearly two decades (2001-19), this franchise lorded over football. There were 17 division titles in 19 years, nine Super Bowl appearances and six Vince Lombardi Trophies. They married supermodels and dated Miss Universes.
Bill Belichick. Tom Brady. Such an immovable force that spoiled fans claimed the season didn’t start until the AFC Championship Game. It could be annoying. They also weren’t wrong.
Along with that came a reputation, a persona, a greed-is-good ethos that left the rest of football with a wonderful villain to root against. Scowling answers to reporters. Frayed hoodies. Feuds with the league office. Allegations of spying and deflating.
The quarterback took the NFL to federal court. The owner testified at a tight end’s murder trial. There were fines, suspensions and stripped draft picks.
Visiting teams, overcome by paranoia, would sweep their locker room for listening devices (nothing was ever found). During one stretch, when the Patriots converted 19 of 25 coin flips, some began wondering if Belichick had somehow hacked heads or tails. The tuck rule is still being heralded, cursed and debated.
The Patriots weren’t just an on-field dynasty. They were a soap opera, a conspiracy theory, a TMZ special.
They were a lot of fun to root for (if you happened to live in New England) or against (if you happened to live anywhere else).
They were truly, truly great, but often grimly focused on the pursuit of perfection, which at 18-0 they once nearly achieved. The team slogan was stark and demanding, more military than celebratory: “Do your job.”
Eventually, it crumbled, as all castles do. Rival fans reveled in the dysfunction as Brady bailed only to win a title in Tampa, Belichick and owner Robert Kraft’s relationship fully fractured and for five years the team bumbled about with bad picks and bad coaching just like everyone else.
They won just four games in 2023, and the same number a year ago.
Now, however, they are back. Kraft, who took plenty of hits from the pro-Belichick crowd for trying to claim an oversized share of the team’s success, has led the franchise to a reboot. They aren’t just winning again, though — they are acting like upstarts and underdogs.
Kraft’s best move was hiring Mike Vrabel, who played eight years in New England as a blood-and-guts linebacker, part of three Super Bowls. Vrabel had proved himself as a coach in Tennessee before the Titans foolishly fired him. (They are 6-26 since.)
He combines the toughness, innovation and focus of Belichick with a smiling, upbeat persona. He wears stylish vests rather than BB’s old hoodies, takes time to thank every player in the postgame tunnel and actually seems excited to engage with fans.
Tracking a tradition he began as coach of the Titans, he starts each news conference by saying hello to a veteran female reporter, in this case Karen Guregian, who has covered the team for decades. It’s a move that is equal parts recognition of women in media and deference to her longstanding work.
Belichick’s grunts, groans and eye rolls were often entertaining — “we’re onto Cincinnati” — but hey, a little politeness never hurt.
The Patriots have won 12 of their past 13 games while riding a collection of shrewd draft picks and reborn veterans. Their leading rusher is rookie TreVeyon Henderson. Their leading receivers are 30-somethings Stefon Diggs and Hunter Henry. The defense is bruising and opportunistic.
The offensive line has bonded by dining together each Thursday night. The drink of choice? Shirley Temples.
Then there is Maye, the second-year quarterback out of North Carolina, who is already being serenaded with “M-V-P” chants. That the Patriots, so quickly after enjoying Brady’s GOAT run, could land another franchise QB doesn’t seem fair. (We are sorry, Cleveland.)
Yet it’s hard to find fault with a guy who is talented, deferential to opponents and isn’t (at least not yet) in seven million commercials. He and his wife, Ann Michael, are a new-wave NFL power couple. Red-carpet appearances may be out. A southern living vibe is in.
Together since middle school in the suburbs of Charlotte, Ann Michael’s social feeds took off for whimsically making scratch recipes from her kitchen. She’s earned a nickname: Bake Maye.
Of course, Drake has a nickname as well. Its origin is partly a mystery, yet because of his sensible sensibilities, it somehow makes sense … Drake Maye.
Yes, Drake “Drake Maye” Maye.
“I couldn’t even figure out six-seven and now it’s ‘Drake Drake Maye Maye?'” Vrabel laughed on WEEI four weeks ago.
For two decades, the Patriots were the football equivalent of death and taxes; unrelenting, unforgiving, a forever string of strife, feuds and championships. Now they are a winning lottery ticket, unexpected fun and frivolity; all hugs and cookies.
No, America doesn’t have to suddenly cheer for them. They are still the Patriots.
They sure seem harder to hate, though.