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HOUSTON -- Brian Flores had a problem, a big one, at halftime of the New England Patriots' divisional-round playoff game with the Houston Texans last month. Bill Belichick's linebackers coach had just discovered that his pregnant wife's water broke while she was sitting in the Gillette Stadium stands. In other words, a man who works for Mr. Do Your Job was no longer sure he could do his with the Patriots holding a vulnerable four-point lead. Flores informed Belichick of his predicament. Based on the vibe the coach projects in public settings, and the character he plays in his news conferences, strangers might've expected him to remind Flores that the season was very much on the brink, that his wife Jennifer was a savvy veteran of the experience (she'd already given birth to two boys), and that maybe this time she needed to take one for the team. Instead, Belichick told Flores he could leave the building immediately if he needed to be by his wife. Jennifer ended up in an ambulance heading for the hospital, but on the phone she told her husband she wasn't having contractions, and like a true Patriot, he should stick it out for the second half. Brian made it to the hospital after the Texans were dispatched, and their daughter Liliana was born the next morning. "It meant a lot to us," Flores said, "but Bill's response was exactly the one I expected. There's a tremendous human side to him. He was at my wedding, and that was great. He knows football is very important to all of us, which is why we spend so much time and hours around the game and constantly work at it to get better. But at the same time Bill understands family comes first." On Sunday night, when the Patriots face the Atlanta Falcons, Belichick will have a chance to become the first head coach with five Super Bowl victories to his name. He has maintained a staggering 16-year dynasty often defined as cold and robo-like, churning out division titles and 14-win seasons while cutting and trading the lesser lights surrounding the franchise player, Tom Brady, as soon as they earn or want to earn a dollar more than the Belichick system says they're worth. In fact, it seems the Patriots are portrayed as human only when the subject is their real or imagined human failings (i.e., anything with the dreaded "gate" attached to the end of it). But there is indeed a heartbeat inside this winning machine, no matter how hard Belichick tries to hide it. New England's assistant coaches spoke to that truth in the lead-up to Super Bowl LI, and only the big-game rules requiring Belichick's helpers to be available to the news media three times last week allowed them the opportunity. Most football fans know the coordinators, Josh McDaniels (offense) and Matt Patricia (defense), because McDaniels is a photogenic former and future head coach, and because the bearded, robust Patricia looks like he just stumbled out of a scene from "The Revenant." The rest of the cast is about as faceless as Belichick's practice squad. The non-coordinators haven't been heard from since the middle of the season, when they emerged groundhog-style during the bye, saw Belichick's shadow, and quickly retreated to their bunkers for another 12 weeks of wintry silence. They do have stories to tell, of course, and Steve Belichick, the safeties coach and the boss's son, spent the week sharing some about his old man and his late grandfather, the lifer scout at Navy for whom Steve was named. Steve seemed to do a pretty good job dealing with the repeat questions and the lights-camera-inaction media setting that will never be comfortable to a member of the Belichick brood. The other assistants? They're not Bill's flesh and blood, and so they might've been better equipped to give the average fan an idea of what it's like to work for an expressionless figure often painted as a dark overlord of an all-work, no-play program. And to a man they swear that Belichick is not merely the greatest NFL coach of all time; he's the greatest listener of all time. They say he forever encourages assistants to come at him with contrary opinions and creative takes, as long as they have the goods to back them up. Belichick notarized that thought the other day when recalling past debates with his former director of pro scouting, Detroit Lions general manager Bob Quinn, and admitting "quite often [Quinn] was right in his opinion and I felt like he was wrong in mine. He gave me great direction."  The nicest thing Belichick has done for youBut Belichick's connection with his subordinates doesn't revolve only around a free-flowing give-and-take on strategy and personnel. Eight Patriots assistants were asked this simple question -- What is the nicest thing Bill Belichick has ever done for you? -- and nearly all of them paused or stammered before answering, as if their internal Patriot Way alarm clock had suddenly gone off. Should I really answer this? Would Coach Belichick want me giving specifics here? Does Bill really care to be humanized like this, especially during Super Bowl week? Flores, a Brooklyn guy and a Belichick employee for 13 years, was one of the quicker aides to offer up his anecdote, and even he cautioned himself by saying, "I'm not sure this is the time and place for that." Brendan Daly, defensive line coach and a third-year Patriot, was also relatively fast to the draw with the story of his father-in-law's death last year the day before Thanksgiving. "We're playing at Denver on Sunday night, and I needed to be at the services for my wife and kids on the Monday after the game," Daly said. "Bill was phenomenal. I went to the game in Denver, and he had a car grab me at the stadium as soon as it was over and rushed me to the airport and got me there. He said, 'Do whatever you need to do and take whatever time you need to take,' and I ended up going to the services Monday and coming back late Monday night. He made it easy." It's fairly clear from a little time in the company of New England's hidden assistants that they're earnest, focused and likable men. Dante Scarnecchia (offensive line) and Ivan Fears (running backs), the senior citizens of the group, would be all-world quote makers for reporters covering a less restrictive regime. Fears spent part of an interview last week pleading with a reporter to understand what really makes Belichick tick. "The guy you guys are seeing isn't Bill," said Fears, who started working for the Patriots when Belichick was a rookie head coach in Cleveland. "That's the guy up there to do the press conferences. No, you've got to know Bill. No, no, no, you've got to know Bill. If you know Bill, you understand why the players love him and you understand why we love working for him. Bill is a hell of a dude, I'm telling you. ...Get away from the media thing and know Bill." Fears didn't want to answer the question about Belichick's kindest personal gesture, other than saying he appreciated his continued employment. But when pressed, the running backs coach said, "Well, I'd rather not tell you. I've had some health issues and he's been a good boss. He's been a really, really good boss." Scarnecchia readily agreed with that assessment. At 68, summoned out of retirement after the offensive line's AFC Championship Game collapse last year in Denver, Scarnecchia raved about the Belichick work environment, and the boss's flexibility on blocking schemes and the rest. Only when it came to specifics in the area of common decency did the old-schooler go old-school. "I think for the staff, Bill's done plenty of nice things," Scarnecchia said, "none of which I'd share with anybody outside the staff room. There's been plenty of times, and that's just him. But listen, if you're looking for a lot of 'attaboys,' there's not many of them, OK?" OK, Belichick will never be confused with his Patriots predecessor, Pete Carroll, when it comes to fostering an atmosphere best described as warm and fuzzy. Without blinking, Belichick has gotten rid of big-name, medium-name and little-name Patriots the minute they had lost a step, their past contributions to his legacy be damned. He's in the business of serial winning, and he never forgets that serial winning is just that -- a business. Only he couldn't inspire his coaches and players to achieve at such a high level for such a long period of time without reaching them on a personal level. Josh Boyer, cornerbacks coach, said he prefers to keep Belichick's gracious gestures private. "But anytime I've ever needed help," Boyer said, "Bill has always been there to help me." Jerry Schuplinski, assistant quarterbacks coach and a fourth-year Patriot, spoke of the first time he sat with Belichick for a job interview. "He made you feel very comfortable," Schuplinski said. "He was asking me about my career, why you would want to do this, what your family situation is like, and what your wife feels about this job. It almost felt like I was talking to one of my buddies about something important. I really don't think he's got an ego." And about that nicest thing your boss has done for you? "Oh man," Schuplinski said. "Gave me a job. Shoot, um, just knowing who my kids are and knowing who my wife is when they happen to be around. We'll talk every now and then, and around the holidays he gives the kids a gift or says, 'Hey, give this to your daughter.'" Brian Daboll, widely known as an all-around good dude and fun guy, coached under Belichick in the early dynasty years, left to work with Eric Mangini in New York and Cleveland, and actually returned in 2013 (despite his association with Mangini, the one who fingered Belichick in Spygate). Given that second chance, Daboll was a bit hesitant to elaborate on Belichick's lighter, behind-the-scenes touch. "I can go on and on," Daboll said. "He's done a lot, he really has. He lent me a car for my first six months just so I could get around in 2000, when I had absolutely nothing and was just grinding away. He's a really good person." Chad O'Shea, wide receivers coach for eight years, said the most underappreciated part of working for Belichick -- whose younger son, Brian, is also on staff -- is the care he shows for employees' families. "I think he's outstanding that way," O'Shea said, "and it's far from probably what people think of him. He's very good with our children. He's very generous on holidays in terms of gifts. It's not uncommon for him to get football cards for the coaches who have sons. "There's not a day I go in there that I don't genuinely enjoy and want to work for Bill Belichick. I feel strongly about that because he cares about you both as a coach and as a person."  The softer side of BelichickIt isn't hard to summon the tales from Belichick's crypt that show him to be an awfully difficult guy to deal with. Those stories are real. Remember what he did to that poor photographer just doing his job years ago in the postgame scrum? Remember how he excommunicated Mangini for being the Spygate whistleblower? Remember ... oh, well, remember a lot of things. Belichick has committed plenty of unforced errors against his own public image, though he's not a one-dimensional intimidator who rules exclusively by fear. So this is an equal-time airing of the softer side. Take Willie McGinest, a defensive star of the past. When Belichick released McGinest after the 2005 season, the player was upset; McGinest wanted to retire a Patriot. The coach showed some grace and respect for McGinest's stature by calling him to ask his permission to give his No. 55 jersey to the new guy, Junior Seau. (Permission granted: Seau had passed down the number to McGinest at USC, he told the coach.) Take a defensive role player from the past, Dan Klecko, who never forgot it when Belichick gave a speech to the entire team about Klecko's father, Joe, a great pass-rusher with the New York Jets, while shooting Dan a wink and a smile. Klecko once saw the coach give a book of children's poetry, "Where the Sidewalk Ends," to a teammate whose wife had just had a baby, and wished people could see through that window into the coach's soul. Take the assistants in Cleveland who were worn down to the nub by Belichick's near-maniacal schedule, but who were rewarded with Belichick's generosity; he gave them all the money from his Browns radio and TV shows, and even offered hundred-dollar handshakes to crew members who had to put up with his bunk. Take Vince Lombardi's grandson John, who was a scouting assistant in Cleveland when Belichick would wave him into an office and hand him a hundred bucks or a steakhouse certificate for a job well-done. Take Tony Dick, a member of Belichick's grounds crew in Cleveland with current Falcons GM Thomas Dimitroff. Dick attended New England's Super Bowl victory over Seattle two years ago, wrote a note of congratulations to the winning coach, and then received from Belichick an autographed Super Bowl ball for his son. Take Mark Jackson, the Villanova athletic director now and a quality control coach with the 2000 Patriots. His father died of cancer on Christmas day that year, and he never forgot Belichick's support. Take current Patriots tackle Nate Solder, a testicular cancer survivor who has credited Belichick for his steady reassurance since Solder's 18-month-old son Hudson was diagnosed with kidney cancer in 2015. Take former Patriots fullback Heath Evans, who blew out his knee as a member of the 2009 Saints and, within hours, had a phone message from his former coach expressing his dismay and asking if there was anything he could do for him. "And I wasn't Willie McGinest or Tedy Bruschi or Mike Vrabel when I was there," Evans said. "That message meant a lot to me and my family." Take Kyle Eckel, an undrafted free agent on the 2007 Patriots who rose one morning that season to a Boston Globe story about his alleged misconduct at Navy -- cherished home of all things Belichick -- and his dismissal from the military. Eckel showed up at the Patriots facility that day sick to his stomach. As the coach approached him in the hallway, Eckel thought he was toast. "Instead, he pulled me over," Eckel recalled, "and says, 'Don't worry about it. I've had much worse written about me.' He cracked a small smile. It felt like a thousand pounds were lifted off my shoulders. ...I was a special-teams guy who came in at the end of games when we were up 40 so nobody else had to get hit. I can't imagine what those interactions with Coach Belichick do for guys who play every down and make big plays in big games." Those big-name, big-play guys found out the hard way at the end of that 2007 season. The Patriots suffered their most devastating defeat of the Belichick/Brady era, losing Super Bowl XLII and an historic 19-0 season to the New York Giants on, among other things, David Tyree's helmet catch, maybe the most absurd play the sport has seen. In his locker room afterward, Belichick found a wide circle of broken men. To ease the pain of those who were hunched over and crying, and of those who were frozen in a state of disbelief, Belichick blamed himself for the defeat. He told the best team he ever had that he should have done a better job preparing it for this night. It might've been his finest moment as New England's head coach. So if the Patriots fail to defeat the Falcons on Sunday night, they'll at least know this much: They will be addressed on the losing side of the stadium by a real human being with real human feelings, and not by some heartless machine.
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