These are the moments which I'd like to tug that hoodie over Bill Belichick's head and keep pulling until he's small enough to dunk through a Pop-A-Shot hoop. The Pats coach, of course, is the one who made it trendy for coaches to be secretive, autocratic, unnecessarily paranoid and unhelpful. And right now I need all the help I can get.
Just before the season, I was assigned the task of finding out why pudgy nose tackle Kelly Gregg was named Ravens lineman of the year in 2006. This would be a tough enough chore as it is, I figured, considering that Gregg plays a near-invisible position and is surrounded by big names like Ray Lewis, Bart Scott, Ed Reed, Haloti Ngata and Terrell Suggs. But in today's lockboxed NFL? Forget it.
I take Gregg to lunch in suburban Baltimore, but he's of no use. "I have a lot of great teammates," he says, shrugging as he hunkers over a Sprite. Gazing at him, it's hard to believe he's had more than 100 tackles in three of the past four years. The 5'10'' Gregg is thick and doughy and lacking a neck. His gut houses a fair portion of his 310 pounds.
"Are you a football player?" our waiter asks.
"Yeah buddy, you bet," says Gregg.
"What's your name?"
Gregg gets this often. He says "you bet" often, too. He's terminally Oklahoman, having been raised in tiny Edmond. While other Ravens ride in Hummers, Gregg owns a navy F-250 four-door. While teammates dress in Gucci, Gregg has one buttondown shirt, which he says he dons eight times a year, for road games. And while plenty of pros fiddle with iPhones, Gregg lost his cell this off-season and replaced it only after two months of nagging from his wife, Krissy. "I remember the days before cell phones," he says. "Those were good days."
Quality, quirky, personal stuff, for sure. But it doesn't explain why Ravens defensive coordinator Rex Ryan calls Gregg "the guy who makes it go for us." After a few Sprites, Gregg gives me a lift back to the Ravens' complex. Soon I'm in the office of defensive line coach Clarence Brooks. Here's how these encounters usually go: A coach will utter a few clichés and I'll pretend he's been helpful. But what's that in Brooks' hand? A TV remote?
Brooks has actually arranged a DVD of 15 Gregg highlights. Gregg is the only NFL nose tackle who plays a pure-zero gap, lining up directly over the center on every down. All-Pros such as San Diego's Jamal Williams and New England's Richard Seymour usually shade right or left. But watching film, it's clear why Lewis calls Gregg "my partner": The nose tackle absorbs blockers and wrangles them any way he wants, giving Lewis a lane to the ball.
On the 15th play Brooks says, "This is why he's great." Against Cincinnati last November, Gregg shot into three blockers totaling 845 pounds: center Eric Ghiaciuc, left guard Eric Steinbach and tight end Reggie Kelly. Gregg's stocky build helped him put the trio on their heels. His legs didn't give, not with meaty calves that rise from his ankles like martini glasses. And his hands were under the offensive linemen's pads so he could maneuver. Gregg broke through the triple-team and caught tailback Rudi Johnson's ankles for a short gain. "That's as incredible a play as I've ever seen," says Brooks.
Then, instead of sneaking me out of the building, Brooks drops me off at Ryan's office. Ryan coached Gregg during the tackle's senior year at Oklahoma, in 1998, and saw in him what few did: an NFL future. But Gregg's height dropped him to the sixth round in 1999, and after stints on the Bengals' and Eagles' practice squads, he found himself jobless in September 2000. At that point, Ryan, in his second year with Baltimore, wanted to give his old player a look. When coach Brian Billick saw Gregg, he turned to Ryan and said, "Who did you owe a favor?"
The Ravens, apparently. Gregg rose to first string in 2002, and has missed only two games since. Now, Ryan loves to brag about his find. Baltimore keeps a stat called Attaboys, for play above and beyond what's expected. Last year, Gregg had 13 Attaboys, the only Raven in double digits. "You can see why I love this guy," Ryan says.
Now I have plenty of material, but Ryan won't let me leave. He asks if I know that Gregg wrestles his training camp roommate every year for remote control privileges—and no one has lasted more than 15 seconds. Or that he's famous for pillaging the lost-and-found box and wearing what he finds, such as Willis McGahee's sneakers. Or that in April, when Gregg heard that Ozzie Newsome wanted to talk, he thought he was getting cut. Instead Newsome gave him a four-year extension worth $20.3 million. Finally, I ask Ryan what gives? Why is everyone being so, you know, helpful? His answer: "Because Kelly is that good. He deserves the press."
That's why Ryan says, "Thank you," when our interview is over. It's why Brooks does the same as I pass his office. And why, when I see Gregg the next day, he says, "Thanks, buddy. I appreciate it." You bet.