Football

Drake Maye Won’t Bury the Patriots’ Super Bowl Loss — Seattle Is Waiting in Week 1

Jack T. Taylor

Every quarterback learns the same survival trick early: forget. Throw the interception, lose the game, flush it, sleep, move on. The memory is the enemy. Drake Maye has decided to do the opposite. Months after the worst night of his football life, the New England Patriots quarterback keeps pulling the tape back up, freezing the plays that beat him, and sitting inside them on purpose.

That refusal is the real story of New England’s offseason, and it is stranger than the two tidy narratives the coverage has settled into. One camp has already decided the Super Bowl broke him, and with him the team’s window. The other is selling the gentle redemption arc — young man, humbling night, he’ll grow. Maye is offering neither comfort. He is offering ownership, total and unblinking, of a defeat most players would spend a summer explaining away.

Asked which plays from the final he would want back, he did not choose one. “What would I like to have back? I’d like to go back to the beginning and redo it,” he said. It is the least evasive answer a losing quarterback can give — not a single throw, not a bad bounce, the whole thing. He has said the ending “eats at” him, that when the defense kept the game within reach, putting points on the board was his job and he didn’t do it. There is no locker-room cliché in that. There is a competitor indicting himself.

The tell is what he does with the tape. Most players quarantine a loss like that. Maye watches it. “You definitely take a peek,” he said — the throws he would skip now, the reads he wants to see again. It sounds masochistic. It is closer to a craftsman refusing to let a botched job leave his shop unexamined. The trait that carried him from a raw rookie to a Super Bowl starter in two seasons is the same one on display here: he will not look away from the thing that hurt him.

And it hurt in more than pride. Maye played the biggest game of his career on a shoulder he had wrenched weeks earlier in the AFC Championship, stiff-arming a Denver linebacker into the turf. He absorbed six sacks behind a rookie left tackle and took hits long after the ball was gone. He threw two interceptions, lost a fumble, and still dragged two touchdowns out of the wreckage in the fourth quarter, after the result was already decided. The body was compromised. The refusal to quit was not.

Now the schedule has done something almost cruel, and Maye sounds thrilled about it. The Patriots open the season on the road at Seattle — the same Seahawks who beat them 29-13 at Levi’s Stadium, in the same building where Seattle will raise its championship banner before kickoff. It is the first Super Bowl rematch to open an NFL season in a decade. Maye calls it “a chance to get an opponent that left a bad taste in our mouth,” motivation he says will make his team work.

This is where the ownership stops being a press-conference virtue and becomes a risk. Seattle’s defense did not get worse; it returns loaded, the unit that sacked him six times and lived in his backfield. Opening night, a deafening crowd, the exact opponent that exposed him — New England has handed its young quarterback the hardest possible way to learn whether a summer spent staring at the loss built something or just reopened it. Coach Mike Vrabel now has a locker room that watched its passer take the fall and refuse to pass it around.

Most quarterbacks would want anyone but Seattle first. Maye wants Seattle first. On the ninth of September, in the loudest stadium in the league, he finds out whether all that film was medicine or a wound he kept picking — and whether a kid who won’t forget a loss can finally do something about it.

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