When it comes to that Super Bowl, what people ask me about the most is the end of that game. Not the interception, but the real end of the game, when I got thrown out of the Super Bowl and lost my game check for beating Rob Gronkowski’s ass. People ask if I threw him around because there was some kind of grudge, if he had been cheap-shotting me or going for my knees. It was nothing that dramatic. It had been a really tough week in my life, and I just hated losing to them. My brain told me, You’re about to lose this game, but you’re not about to lose this fight. Not a proud moment, but if you haven’t been there, you don’t know what it’s like. Also, fuck Gronkowski.
After the game, I mourned. Not the game loss, but the loss of the people who’d left this world. Like my Popo said: “Death is death.”
In February 2017, I was back on the Super Bowl field. Not with the Seahawks, obviously, but with Martellus, who had just won with the Patriots over the Falcons. He played like a monster among men, and they came back from a 28–3 deficit. That makes the way we lost our Super Bowl look like a very small plate of potatoes. The Falcons yakked that up but the Patriots also had to capitalize on every single opportunity, with no margin for error, and score on every drive in the second half. Martellus was in the middle of that action. I was super happy for him. I felt the same way I had when we won, and I cried. I didn’t even care that it was with the Patriots. I was so proud of him because he put in the work. We both did the impossible—now two brothers from a Louisiana farm, with big mouths they always said would hold us back, have got rings. We did what Dan Marino couldn’t do. We did what Michael Vick couldn’t do. We did what Jim Kelly, Barry Sanders, and Bruce Smith couldn’t do. Those guys are considered the best, but they never climbed the mountain that the Bennett brothers climbed. They might have the best individual stats, but they’ve never been on a team that experienced greatness with everybody reaching a common goal. All of us put in the work together. When they hand out that trophy, they aren’t just talking about one of us. Every single person on our team gave a piece of themselves to make it happen. And I love that Martellus got to experience that.
I’m being honest when I say I didn’t even care that it was with the Patriots. The Patriots have earned every respect. Bill Belichick is so far ahead of his time in how he understands the game. Belichick is also more like Pete Carroll than people know. They are so opposite in superficial style, it’s as if they have come all the way around the circle to meet. Pete Carroll is like the high school teacher who listens and wants you to be yourself and share what you are thinking, the one who rolls up his sleeves and turns his chair around to sit. His message is that you can be yourself as long as you show up on time and do the work. Belichick is like the high school teacher who literally does not give a damn what you do in his classroom. He’s in his own world. Like a mean Professor Dumbledore, he sees all and knows all, but he’s not smiling. You can do whatever the hell you want as long as you show up on time and do the work. Same ends, different means.
Belichick and Carroll know how to reach players, and they also understand the game. A lot of coaches don’t meet that description, and usually it’s because their daddy or granddaddy had power in the NFL. It’s worse than an Ivy League college. You’ve got great guys like Sherman Smith, our former running backs coach, who was on the NFL sidelines for more than twenty years and, before that, played in the league for eight years—but never had an opportunity even to be an offensive coordinator. So many qualified people have never had a chance to lead a team because they don’t have legacy status. It’s an elitist aspect of the sport that no one wants to talk about. And these legacy coaches, far more often than not, tend to suck, because they have no one’s respect. Because they never really had to get their hands in the dirt, they, in particular, don’t understand that when you’re a veteran you basically coach yourself. I watch tape on my own or with the line to learn what needs to be done. We figure it out.
When I watch the best defensive linemen, I don’t look at how the play ends or just how quickly they come off the ball. I’m looking at their hands. What is the angle of his hands on the turf? How are his feet moving when his hands hit the offensive line? Are his hands moving in rhythm with his feet? How quickly does he run to the ball? How does he work his
