Tom told me that he didn’t want to do the press conference on Thursday. He begged me, “Coach, can’t I just read a statement?” Now, obviously I told him not to be ridiculous—of course he had to stand up there and answer all the reporters’ questions. Then I kicked him out of my office and called half a dozen guys who owe me a favor, told them to pose as the press, and see how fast they could make Tommy cry. I really thought he was going to crack up there, in front of the Flexball poster.

I’ll admit, I was impressed with Tom. He’s stronger than those pretty-boy looks and that silly pom-pom hat would suggest. He held it together until we were alone. That’s when the tears started to flow. “I’m not sure they believed me, Coach!” he wailed. As Tom sobbed into my shoulder, I stroked his silky hair and whispered, “Don’t you ever question my judgment again, or next time you will cry on national television.”

That’s just the Patriot Way. To build a championship football team, you have to break it down first. You have to crush not just their bodies but their souls.

The first time I call a player, after he’s been drafted or traded to New England, I ask him three things: Is he ready to win? Is he dedicated to the Patriot Way? And who in this world does he fear losing most? I could care less about the first two answers, but the third I keep on file in case that player needs a little extra motivation as the season goes on. I haven’t had to use it yet, though—I run a tight ship. The first time a player is late to practice, I wait until night, go to his home, blindfold him, put him in a van, and drive to an unmarked field fifty miles away from Gillette. I dump him there with no cell phone and no clothing, and throw the practice schedule out the window as I drive off into the darkness.

There’s never a second time.