Nothing against Black Jesus or Willie, but he loves it here. He eats
omelets for breakfast, crab legs for lunch, the AFC for dinner. He
doesn't have to be the face of the franchise – Coach and No. 12
handle that – and when he fumbles in the red zone, nobody has a
heart attack. So far, what a year. He's lost his Monday Night
Football virginity, his inaugural playoff game is next, and if he
ends up in the Super Bowl, he may never grow cornrows again.
It all goes to show that one team's poison is another team's MVP....
Back in Cincinnati, where Black Jesus and Willie are trying to
resuscitate a franchise, this transformation is all met with
bewilderment. They wonder why he wouldn't buy in, why he'd want to
bail just when the going was getting good...."The grass is greener on the other side," Dillon says, a sparkle in his eye. "Don't ever confuse it. The grass is very green." This is about losing and how it can ruin a man. This is also about winning and how it can deodorize a man. It's about feeling absolutely naked against eight- and nine-man fronts, and having no faith at all that Akili Smith or Scott Mitchell can audible and make the defense pay....The mystery is why he gave up on a pro's pro like Lewis, but Dillon has his reasons, and he's willing to share them. It's early
December, five days before his Patriots will play Marvin's Bengals,
and he starts rehashing it all from a couch in his condo outside
Boston, starts talking about a Cincinnati offensive line he says
wouldn't block for him and a front office that "thought I was done."
These are real scars, and what he's saying is, if he can't trust
you, he can't be with you.In seven years as a Bengal, Dillon had eight different starting quarterbacks. That meant the ball was going to him endlessly, that the team's record depended on him. It meant he was the face of the franchise, a role he detested, a role he says "just ain't ever been
me." If he fumbled, coaches and players reacted "like the sky was
falling," and after his third season, he claimed he'd "rather flip burgers" than be a Bengal. He wasn't the first Bengal to grouse. Carl Pickens, Dan Wilkinson and Takeo Spikes all wanted out at times during Dillon's tenure there. "I understand why Corey was pissed," Anderson says. "We both said, man, if things don't change, I ain't showing up for nothing." Still, Dillon played through the abyss, missed only two games in his first six seasons and went to three Pro Bowls. The team was 06 in 2000 when he managed to set the then-single-game rushing record, with 278 yards on 22 carries against the Broncos, a breathtaking number considering the Bengals netted only 14 yards passing that day. "Defenses were bringing eight-, nine-man fronts," Corey says. "Seven years of that? That's too much."
Dillon's relationship with owner Mike Brown was only "hi and bye," and the more ornery Dillon got, the more the locker room became anti-Corey. "Guys didn't know him," says Anderson...But Dillon didn't want to know them either. Loss after loss (Cincy went 2670 in those first six seasons), he'd see teammates laughing at their lockers, and hate them for it."
Lewis never had Dillon's ear. The losing, the ambivalence toward Brown and the friction with teammates had worn Dillon out. He was the only veteran to skip Lewis' first voluntary minicamp, and that was the opening salvo... When Dillon suffered a knee injury in the second game of the season and began sharing carries with Rudi Johnson, his time as a Bengal was essentially over...Not long after, a local paper reported that team officials were open
to trading Dillon, that they felt that, at 29, he was possibly in decline. A hardbody who doesn't drink, Dillon was livid that no team official denied the story. "To me, they were saying I was done,"
Dillon says. "And for a guy who strapped that franchise onto his
back, nobody has the decency to say this is not true? As soon as I
get hurt, I'm done? From that day I said I would not return. They
could've won the Super Bowl and I still would have said it."
Then Dillon got smart: he shut up and rooted for Rudi. "The light flashed," he says. "Rudi was my ticket out. Rudi made me expendable." After last season's finale, when the Bengals finished 88 and missed the playoffs by a game, Dillon tossed his pads into the stands. "One 88 season wasn't doing it for me," he says... "Guys were crying because Marvin came in like a bulldozer and we got so close," Anderson says. "Then I see
our franchise running back basically laughing, saying, 'I'm outta here.' It hurt. I said, 'If he wants to leave, let him go. Good riddance.'"
Later in the off-season, Dillon responded by calling Anderson a
"bum" on national television. But it was over long before then. The
day after the last game, Dillon put his house up for sale – he says – and emptied his locker. "I'm thinking, you say you're winning without me, you've got your Black Jesus, I'm your Judas, why hold me hostage? Set me free,"
Immediately, Dillon's agent, Steve Feldman, began shopping for a team. Oakland looked to be the front-runner, but the Raiders would give up only a third-round pick and Brown wanted a second. Talks stalled. Then, at the advice of another client, Patriots safety Rodney Harrison, Feldman dialed New England. Yes, that New England. Selfless New England. Initially, the Pats brain trust didn't consider Dillon a fit, believing he was too me-first. "All that
stuff in Cincinnati," Dillon says. "That'll make anyone leery." But Belichick and Scott Pioli, the team's player personnel director, heard raves from former Bengals coach **** LeBeau and decided to give up the second-rounder pending a face-to-face with Dillon and Feldman. They brought Dillon to a hotel near Foxborough and, after they shook Dillon's hand, Feldman told him, "These two men think you're a bad guy. Tell them why they're wrong." Dillon bared his soul, told them he'd been traumatized by seven years of losing, that losing can ruin a man. And Dillon remembers the look in Belichick's
eye that day, the look of I get it, I get it.
At training camp, Dillon shaved the Cincinnati off of himself. He stood in front of a mirror, took one look at the cornrows he'd grown in protest and clipped them goodbye.
What a world he was in now. Tom Brady – whom Dillon just calls No.12 – was a sight to behold. He was skilled, secure and laughed off tough questions. Better yet, there was an army of Bradys. Ted Johnson, Tedy Bruschi, Willie McGinest, Harrison and more on defense; Joe Andruzzi, David Givens, Matt Light and more on offense. Dillon had his wish: he was one of the guys. There was no face of the franchise here. Only faces. Coming in, he'd worried his reputation would precede him, but what mattered more was Dillon's work ethic – "Hotdogs get weeded out here," Harrison says – and whether the new guy could take a joke. You need a sense of humor to mesh with the Pats, and Harrison and McGinest tested Dillon early by walking by him one day and saying, "Man, we should've gotten Eddie George." Dillon laughed, and when he later saw Harrison eating dessert, he said, "Ronnie Lott wouldn't have eaten cookies." He could dish it out, too? He was in. On the field, it was a no-brainer. In both of their Super Bowl-winning seasons, the Patriots had a running game by committee, and Dillon was the every-down bruiser who could make the team even more efficient, if possible. He could run inside and out, was a bull in short-yardage and transformed the Patriots from a pass-first offense to a balanced one. His career- best 1,635 yards this season broke the franchise's single-season rushing record by 148 yards, and his presence kept the pass rush off Brady and the Patriots defense off the field.
"Our missing piece," Harrison says. "Every play, he goes 100 mph. After all that punishment in Cincinnati, he's looked 23. Like a rookie making 100 grand. Never complained once. Classy dude. Been our MVP."
Along the way, Dillon got to play in his first Monday Night Footballgame, against the Chiefs on Nov. 22, and he was so hyped he ...
fumbled in the red zone. But a strange thing happened: teammates kept coming up to him and saying, "It happens. Forget it." He was amazed. Belichick approached calmly and said, "Corey, ball security. Get your pads lower. That's why it happened." Belichick hadn't chastised him, he'd coached him. "It dawned on me, he was right!" Dillon says. "Coach tells the truth. And I love the guy to death for that. My wife will tell you. She says if Bill was in my age bracket, we might be best friends. I've bought in. I trust him."
The whole New England experience has lit up his life. Every time Dillon sees Pioli in a stadium corridor, he tugs on his sleeve and says, "Thanks for believing in me." Then there are the perks. "Like locker room equipment," says Dillon, who was a Bengal when Brown was at his most notoriously frugal. "I ask, 'Can I have an extra sock? Shirt?' The answer is, 'Of course.' In Cincinnati, it was, 'No!'" "How about the chiropractors and stuff?" Desiree reminds him. "Oh, my god," Corey says. "We have a chiropractor who comes to the stadium! A masseuse! I tried bringing a chiropractor to camp last
year, and there was almost a brawl. They were talking about calling security, kicking him off campus. And the food here? They serve breakfast, lunch and dinner. Steak. Crab legs. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Greens. Omelets, croissants for breakfast. Five-star, man. This is the last stop for me. I'm a free agent in a year and I don't want to play nowhere else."
His guard is down now, and he wants to talk all afternoon. It's a side of him Cincinnati never got to see. It's five days before his Patriots play Marvin and Willie's Bengals, and he recognizes he's still a bit agitated over his old team. Two days later, Harrison sees him in the locker room and they talk. It's just the Patriots way. They talk. Harrison says, "Corey, go out there with a sense of peace. Don't go out there with bitterness or revenge." ...
Game day arrives, and the prayer is answered. Dillon hugs Lewis before kickoff, telling him, "You'll never hear anything else out of me." And after the Patriots win by seven, he sees Anderson and tells him, "Keep them guys' spirits up." Back in the Patriots locker room, Belichick brings his team together, then calls for his running back. "You get the game ball," he tells a beaming Dillon. Nothing else needs to be said. Because Corey Dillon can see the look in his new team's eyes, the look of We get it, we get it.