PISCATAWAY, N.J. – Brian Belichick peeks his head out from behind a black curtain along the back wall of a wide, windowless room.

His presentation was supposed to begin one minute ago beneath the stands at Shi Stadium, home of Rutgers football and, on this Friday night, a clinic for New Jersey high school coaches. Belichick eyes the small stage in front of him, the dropped projector screen, the podium within an arm’s reach and his audience of a few hundred.

The room’s listed capacity is 250, but the power of celebrity will soon cause that number to double. Belichick ducks back behind the curtain. What’s another minute to kill?

Less than two weeks out from the NFL Draft, the Patriots’ draft preparation is almost complete. Belichick arrived on campus hours earlier with company, not to scout prospects but speak at the invitation of Rutgers coach Greg Schiano.

Finally, a tall, clean-shaven, bald man wearing the unofficial uniform of football coaches everywhere  – khakis and a team polo – climbs the stage and steps behind the podium. Joe Susan’s voice is deep and commanding, befitting an assistant nicknamed “General Joe” who looks like he might lead the nation in ass-chewings.

Susan introduces Belichick, and the 31-year-old safeties coach takes the stage. He wears a hoodie, of course, and jeans. The hoodie is black, with navy block letters carrying white trim just above his heart. They read, “NEP DBs,” for New England Patriots defensive backs.

“I am Bill Belichick’s son,” he says, his light brown hair slicked back atop his 5-foot-9 frame. “I grew up in the game my entire life.”

Belichick is the opening act to tonight’s keynote speaker. His lecture will cover the physicality of defensive backs, a basic and broad topic he chose figuring it would better relate to his audience than a complex coverage or set of drills.

“A lot of people think the game is going toward finesse,” Belichick says. “There’s some truth to that.”

Over the next hour, he reads from prepared notes. He accentuates most points by gesturing with an open right hand. He invites questions. The audience stays quiet for most of the night, feeling him out.

“I’m here to tell you the defensive backs out there, despite what the players may think, they have to set the tone to skill positions,” he says. “That’s the beauty of defensive backs. You can take it to them no matter what they’ve been saying.”

Much has been said about the Patriots and the Belichicks the last three years. Their team is 25-26, wandering the NFL wilderness with mediocre franchises they used to look down upon. The Patriot Way almost feels like a relic, a promise of the past.

Do your job, ignore the noise and a path to victory will clear. The coaches at this clinic want to illuminate their paths, though some treat these offseason events as chances to network or steal a selfie with a famous head coach.

For speakers, clinics might be a quick paycheck, contractual obligation or way to give back to the game. But whatever brings them through the door, inside these coaches are at church. Every clinic presentation is a declaration of belief; in this system, those techniques, that play, these concepts.

Belichick believes defensive backs should play physically. He learned this from his father, the keynote speaker, who will refer back to Brian’s talk several times during his own.

But for now, hands tucked in his pockets and eyes lasered to the front, Bill Belichick stands across the room. He watches the future of his family legacy show how fundamentals of the past can propel the sport forward, just a 30-minute walk from the birthplace of American football.

This is The Belichick Way.

Known locally as “The Barn,” College Avenue Gymnasium is a nondescript brick building home to two basketball courts, a fitness center and rock wall on Rutgers’ New Brunswick campus. It stands on what was once College Field, the site of Rutgers’ 6-4 win over Princeton on Nov. 6, 1869, the first football game of record.

Historical accounts note the game back then resembled nothing like the sport celebrated by tens of millions today, though the soul of football is largely unchanged. Rutgers and Princeton, just like the Patriots and Jets, played a simple game of orchestrated violence.

Hit hard, run harder, block with control, defeat blocks, tackle well, and you will win. The Belichicks didn’t come to the clinic bearing secrets – a 154-year-old game has few left anyway – but tonight they will bring their audience closer to the truth.

Within the first 10 minutes of his talk, Brian conjures a clip of an All-Pro wide receiver the Patriots faced last year. From his pre-snap position in the slot, the receiver angles toward the middle on an ordinary run play hoping to block Patriots safety Kyle Dugger by merely stepping in his way.

Brian hits play, then rewind, play, then rewind and play again. A buzz builds in the crowd. At the point of contact, Dugger levels the receiver, sending him flying backwards. A popular face of the league crumples over and over again, all because Dugger hit first.

Brian emphasizes physicality is a long game. Wearing out your opponent, taking something out of him for the next play, the next block, the next time they come over the middle. The All-Pro receiver finished with several catches that day, but also fumbled and was the intended target on an interception in an unexpectedly close game.

“When they release off the line,” he says, “they’re thinking about when we jammed the (expletive) out of them last time.”

He calls up more clips from the 2022 season. There’s Adrian Phillips blowing up a Pro Bowl running back in blitz pickup. Jabrill Peppers tosses another running back into his quarterback’s throwing lane. Dugger prowls the right edge of the box across from a Pro Bowl tight end.

“Great tight end,” Brian says, circling their matchup before the play begins.

He corrects himself.

“A great receiving tight end.”

The ball is snapped, and it’s a run to the right. Dugger folds the tight end back like a playing card. He destroys the entire play.

“All week, no one in the media’s talking about what the matchup is if he’s blocking. … When you get a good strike, you’ve already won.”

Dugger’s highlight leads to a discussion about setting the edge, a staple of any Belichick defense. Setting the edge is not necessarily a duty for defensive ends or outside linebackers, especially in New England. Setting the edge is the duty of any “force player,” a defender who is expected to force a ball carrier inside or make a perimeter tackle.

The video flips back to a classic example in 2001. There’s former Patriots linebacker Mike Vrabel knocking another poor tight end two yards behind the line of scrimmage in a regular-season home win over the Chargers. Vrabel has bent the edge to his will, and the running back surrenders.

Twenty years later in another clip, cornerback Jalen Mills squeezes down against a run at Carolina, baring his teeth as the force defender.

Next, a lowlight from 2001. Brian pivots from singling out players with praise to speaking in the first person. He aligns himself with this defender whom he’s never coached before and is now making a mistake on the screen. It’s a subconscious expression of another Belichick staple: players win games, coaches lose them.

“We never want our weight on our heels,’” he says of a cornerback who’s lost the edge.

Minutes later, another lowlight: “Now we’re blocked.”

Amid all the time travel and play breakdowns, Matt Stevens, a forgotten safety on the first Super Bowl team, plays linebacker in one highlight from the Patriots’ 2001 regular-season loss to the Rams. He’s at the center of a dime package, the type of six-defensive back groupings the Patriots run more than any other defense in the league nowadays through Dugger, Phillips and Peppers. So-called modern defense.

What’s old is new again.

At this time, the presentation grows a bit scattershot. It’s about defensive backs setting the edge, addressing blocks, tackling and pushing red-zone wideouts out of bounds once the quarterback has broken the pocket. Physicality is a thread tying together more than it can hold.

Back to basics.

It’s a run-force drill from training camp last summer. Devin McCourty, a proud Rutgers alum whose picture hangs on a nearby wall, is at the center of the video. As a free safety, McCourty’s game is designed for space, but here he’s as physical and fundamentally sound as any player on the roster.

“He’s been in the league 13 years,” Brian says, “and he’s still doing it in practice even though he’s already done it 16,000 times.”

Brian is now demonstrating the techniques he’s giving voice to, how to hit with a proper base and initiate contact with your near leg and shoulder. Not every attendee can see him – something he’ll reflect on later – but soon enough, the coaches will follow the screen and see Peppers initiate contact on an incoming block last season. With minimal build-up, Peppers lays into an opposing receiver who’s covered close to 15 yards to hit him.

Peppers wins.

In the waning moments of his presentation, Brian slows down to spotlight a play from one of the worst games of the Patriots’ 2022 season: their Monday night loss to Chicago. The Bears are running right at midfield, where Phillips is about to be double-teamed as the assigned force player. He’ll be tasked with what Brian calls winning from a losing position, a problem the Patriots could soon face as a projected fourth-place finisher in the AFC East.

Brian stares at the screen, and speaks as if he’s coaching Phillips in real time.

“Fight that pressure with your own pressure,” he says. “Keep extending it.”

Double down. On your position, your fundamentals, your belief. Fight.

Phillips holds his ground. Help arrives.

The Patriots make the stop.

“Bryan Cox, go get some!”

Before ceding the stage, Brian wraps his presentation by covering interception returns. The rolling video shows the Patriots dynasty taking its first steps on the back of Peyton Manning, who threw two pick-sixes during Tom Brady’s first win as a starter in September 2001.

On the screen, Otis Smith covers virtually the entire field running one interception to the end zone. Then Ty Law speeds 23 yards to pay dirt. Brian rewinds the clips not for the scores, but the blocks along the way.

He circles Cox, Tedy Bruschi and defensive linemen hunting offensive players turned hapless defenders.

“This is our show now!”

The last clip is from 2022, an end-zone view of players jogging through a return drill during a non-padded practice. Steve Belichick, Brian’s brother and the team’s defensive play-caller, has intentionally thrown a pick. Steve, Brian and the rest of the assistants are in pursuit to simulate an opposing offense now scrambling to stop the Patriots defense.

Patriots players toy with them en route to the end zone.

“Making us look stupid,” Brian says, as a smile creeps across his face. “They love that.”

A 10-minute break allows for coaches to visit with Brian. He’s gracious with his time, taking a few pictures before eventually stepping to the back. During the next presentation, he stands alone and occasionally flips through his phone.

For the first few minutes, Brian is the only person inside the room – packed with more than 400 football coaches, players and staffers – without their eyes glued to the front. Bill Belichick is behind the podium now in a sharp navy suit, sky blue shirt and navy tie. He’s accompanied by a telestrator, which he’ll use to scribble arrows, circles and coaching points on every video clip that follows.

But first, his decades of speaking experience shine through. Bill casts his eyes to the back of the room, a room he commands without needing to let you know he’s in charge. He scans his audience from left to right so every attendee feels seen. Everything is off the cuff, from his introduction to the finer details of the lessons to come.

“We play once a week for three hours, and we’re judged on that,” Bill says. “But you can’t get better three hours a week playing football.”

He commits his entire hour to a single topic: the Texas drill.

It’s a 3-person exercise involving one runner, one blocker and a defender. The defender and blocker face each other in 3-point stances along an imagined line of scrimmage, while the runner is set roughly seven yards back and another five to seven yards to the left or right. The drill begins when the runner takes an outside toss and runs at his block before ideally cutting inside, unless the play allows him to bounce out.

But if he takes too long to decide, he runs into his blocking or, worse yet, a tackle. Cut too quickly, and the defender can react and jump into that gap for an easy stop.

The first clips are teach tape for the offense. The faces are familiar, starting with star back Rhamondre Stevenson. The Patriots coaches cycle all possible ball-carriers through this drill, including their receivers and tight ends. Bill shares that he runs the Texas drill every time the players don pads.

“When we don’t do this drill in practice,” he says, “that’s when there will be another (head) coach.”

Here comes the lowlights. Runners are jumping too quickly now, blockers are losing control with their inside arm and defenders fail to anchor properly. Bill stops scanning the back of the room. His eyes are locked onto the screen.

“This is terrible,” he says. “Not what we want to do at all.”

One rusher springs free, but his premature cut leaves the offensive lineman overextending to secure his block. A ball-carrier must help his linemen, Bill explains, by rushing in the time and space he’s expected to according to the play design.

“Everything is wrong about this.”

It’s on to defensive tape. The same drill from the same sideline and end-zone camera angles. The inevitable Lawrence Taylor reference arrives after just 20 minutes.

“Defeat the blocker and then make the play,” Bill says. “Good.”

A coach in the first few rows raises his hand. Bill takes a step away from the telestrator to address him: “Yes, sir.”

Moments later, he punctuates his answer to this coach by inviting more questions.

“Feel free to shout ‘em out.”

The next question pertains to the alignment of defensive linemen, not only in this drill but during games. Bill gets almost philosophical in his answer.

“How good is this (player)?” he asks. “How good am I? Who am I? Who is this guy?”

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A third coach notices Patriots captain Matthew Slater, a legendary special teams player, has been running on the side of every clip against a would-be blocker. He inquires. Is he involved in the play?

"No,” Bill deadpans. “That's just the kicker and somebody else out there.”

Overeager laughter fills the room.

A few minutes later, the screen goes black. A student staffer bolts to the back of the room, hurrying like he’s being chased. Bill offers a half-hearted joke about technical difficulties.

More laughter.

The telestrator springs back to life, and Bill returns to scribbling on the screen. A few high school coaches sneak pictures of his presentation, defying the signs taped around the room reading: “NO PICTURES. NO VIDEO.”

Bill continues to rewind every practice rep six, seven and sometimes nine times, unearthing a new detail after every return. He’s now pulling from midseason practices, including the Patriots’ road practices before their season opener at Miami. He highlights how disciplined rushing can build confidence in an offensive linemen.

Or, vice versa: "This is really a poor block."

Forty-five minutes into his presentation, Bill finally dives into game tape. Of his 13 clips, 10 are pulled from games during the Patriots' last Super Bowl season. The exceptions are a Rex Burkhead run in 2020, and two defensive plays from the same year.

He covers edge-setting, gap control, running with patience, proper defensive leverage and block destruction. And he sneaks in one shot at an impatient opposing runner who gets dropped for a loss.

“Not on our recommended list,” he says.

The end of his lecture is abrupt, almost awkward.

Bill steps on his own coaching tip to express his appreciation to Schiano, the Rutgers coaching staff and the opportunity to speak tonight. Amid loud applause, he repeats earlier points about the value of high school coaching, and the lessons that stick with young athletes.

But whatever compelled Bill to get off the stage so quickly is not as strong as the force keeping him now for a few extra seconds. He holds his position, doubles down.

“That’s what it’s all about,” he says. “Good fundamentals.”

The applause surges again, and he turns away. After a few pleasantries off to the side, Bill retreats behind the curtain, where there are no secrets to be found, only more work to be done.