Opinion: You Think This is a Fucking Game?

By Bill Belichick

All right, let’s get this out of the way. You all watched the greatest comeback in Super Bowl history, probably of all time. You watched the entire thing. The fall, and the rise. Don’t think I don’t know. You watched as the greatest coach in history hung thirty points on the league’s best defense in twenty minutes. And yet all I could see was a bunch of nobodies talking about how the Falcons had this game in hand. How they were going to fell the mighty Patriots dynasty.

You doubted me? Did you think that this was just a fucking game?

Fuck you.

I am a god not among men, but idiot, drooling animals. When Dan Quinn was busy shitting himself in the second grade I was diagramming the spread for my father at Navy. When these slack-jawed Atlanta hicks were getting their rocks off in college I broke an assistant special teams coach’s spine for giving up a touchdown to goddamn Buffalo.

I don’t coach football. I am football.

Every machination of this game was in my palm. The championship was mine last fucking Tuesday, they didn’t have a chance. I don’t give a damn if they were up 25 at half; by choosing to play against me they chose to lose. I knew every three-step drop Matt Ryan would take two plays before he called a pass. I saw every fake blitz their pathetic outside linebacker tried to shove down my throat. And you know what I did? I laughed, and I scored anyway.

And I don’t give a fuck who you are, what you do, how you do it, as long as you do it my way. The winning way. As soon as you decide you don’t want to win you’re out of my sight. You don’t think I had Chicago on the horn after that Pick-Six? You don’t think I had Garoppolo warming up in the tunnel before the half? You don’t think I had a fully drafted speech midway through the third quarter telling MY New England Patriots that Tom Fuckin’ Brady just got sold down river for a second and two thirds? Then you’re out of your goddamn mind.

“But Coach,” I hear you bleat, “you’ve won five Super Bowls already!” Shut up. Pittsburgh has six, and what I leave in the toilet daily is both more intelligent and cleaner than anything in that god-cursed slag pile.

Get ready to see a lot more of me. Everywhere. In the championships. In the war room. Drafting the next Emmitt Smith and his replacement. Hell, I could run for president and hang sixty-two percentage points over the lout who dares oppose. Winning is easy. You rubes just can’t contemplate what divinity looks like. I’ll give you a hit: it has my face.