FALMOUTH — David Andrews is daydreaming.
He sees himself at home, dropping into his couch with a cold beer in hand and the Patriots on TV.
On the screen, Drake Maye might be whipping a cross-body, cross-field pass for 30 yards. Or Ja’Lynn Polk could be toe-tapping inbounds to complete a spectacular sideline grab. Perhaps little-known left guard Sidy Sow is delivering a crunching run-block to clear space for a go-ahead touchdown.
The screen can change because on its own, it doesn’t matter. The point of the dream is the Patriots are back in the Super Bowl, some season after Andrews has retired as their starting center. On the couch, he swells with pride.
His former team has returned to its former glory.
He smiles.
Andrews shares this daydream while living out another type of paradise: sitting in the back of a 41-foot, deep sea fishing boat with a black hull and white interior that trolls outside Martha’s Vineyard on a sunny Saturday afternoon.
It’s two days before the Patriots report for minicamp, the sunset of a long offseason that tossed out several franchise cornerstones in favor of a fresh rebuild. Yet Andrews, after nine seasons in New England and six as a captain, remains. A cloudless sky smiles down on the 31-year-old and every other angler in the Patriots Alumni Club fishing tournament, a charity event that annually draws players past and present.
The clock shows a couple minutes past noon.
In Andrews’ boat, an unlucky bluefish just ended a four-hour drought filled with small talk and morning beers. When the fish landed inside, Andrews stood up. He wore outdoor slippers and a gray John Deere cap over his curly, chestnut hair, with a navy sweatshirt and cargo shorts covering the rest of his generously listed 6-2, 300-pound frame. His energy pulled everyone else onboard into a small huddle around him.
“All right!” he shouted. “That’s the one we need!”
Andrews’ teammates today are mostly strangers: the boat’s captain, two locals assisting the captain, two Patriots fans from Rhode Island – brothers in their mid-30s – and me. The bluefish is returned to the sea, and lines drop back into the water, one off each side. Andrews sits down again, facing the four black engines powering us over the ocean.
Waiting for the next bite, we talk about how strange he must feel standing both at the start of a rebuild and the end of his career. Then it’s on to fatherhood, legacy, and what he’s chasing now with championships well out of reach.
“Just whatever I can do to help reestablish a winning culture,” Andrews says before detailing his daydream.
His voice trails off at the mention of this imaginary, far-off Super Bowl.
“I’d really have nothing to do with it,” he says, “but you do tell yourself that.”
Andrews is not quite wistful, but he can see the sun setting on his career and feel its waning warmth. Soon, football won’t be something he does, but someone he was, and the lessons and memories he leaves behind. Those remnants matter to him.
Then, the rod nearest Andrews snaps down. Fish on.
He leaps up, pulls the rod from its holder and reels, soaking in the moment every angler chases.
Tension in the line flowing into your hand, up your arm and into your heart, the place someone somewhere once planted a love of this moment. Nature’s two-minute drill packed into 30 seconds, no timeouts. Wonder, hope, excitement bursting all together, all at once.
Then, the line goes slack. Andrews stops. He waits a few seconds, and reels again. The line stays straight, but the loss of tension tells him the fish is gone.
He reels all the way back into the boat, and discovers something cut the line during his retrieval. A rock sticking up from the sea floor perhaps, or maybe a buoy. Only the ocean knows for sure.
Andrews plops down again, surrendering to circumstance. He stares into the distance, watching every wake we leave behind, determined to keep this new line in the water as long as he can.
Go fish
This story was supposed to start six months ago with a card game.
A card game Andrews organized weekly in a quiet corner of the Patriots’ facility to build camaraderie among players while a lost 2023 campaign crumbled around them. I heard about the card game late in the season, and approached most of its regulars in separate moments asking if they’d talk for a story. They all had the same condition.
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They would speak if, and only if, “DA” said it was OK.
So Andrews and I talked first about the game in mid-December, and for reasons that will die with that miserable, rotten, no-good season, my story of the card game will forever stay unwritten. But Andrews offered to make it up to me that same day, so I tossed up a Hail Mary.
“What if we went fishing sometime this offseason?”
He agreed.
Once the Patriots' organizational dust settled, I shot Andrews a private message in May. He remembered our talk, and after a couple weeks, suggested we meet again the weekend of the tournament.
Deal.
That day, June 8, I pulled into our agreed-upon Cape Cod Dunkin’ at 5:50 a.m. Ten minutes early, but not early enough. Andrews sat in the parking lot, alone in his Ford truck, which he loves more than you would think, even if I gave you three guesses.
We shared a 17-minute ride south; long enough, I figured, to break ice after six years of friendly, surface-level conversations contained largely to the locker room. But there was no need. Andrews melted it immediately.
Unprompted, he told stories the whole drive down. I couldn’t tell why just yet, but he was clearly comfortable, if not eager, to open up. Most of his stories were about simple times, simple joys.
Like, the first alumni fishing tournament he attended, just a few weeks after signing with the Patriots as an undrafted rookie in spring 2015. Ex-Patriots offensive tackle Marcus Cannon drove him down the night before, the details of which are now a bit … fuzzy.
“The night before kinda got away from us, and the next morning he woke me up at like 5 a.m. And I was not in great shape,” Andrews remembered later. “First of all, I was dressed for May in Georgia, not May in Massachusetts. And later, I was, uh, chumming the waters a little bit that morning.
“A tough day of fishing, but a great day of fishing.”
Then, there was the weekend that same spring his girlfriend, now wife, Mackenzie, visited, and Andrews spent his week’s paycheck to put them up in a Boston hotel room. Or the Saturday he ducked anonymously into a Back Bay bar, Clery's, because it had the Georgia game on — two days after he’d made his NFL debut as a starter on Thursday Night Football.
About enjoying an espresso martini now and then after dinner. The turkeys and deer that roam on his 176-acre farm back in Georgia. His two German Shepherds back home.
At last, we pulled into a parking lot on the Falmouth coast and sat for a minute. He scoped the marina lot for teammates.
Andrews had invited more than a dozen players to fish today, and relayed lodging requests to Pete Brock, the president of the Patriots Alumni Club and a former offensive lineman from the ‘70s and ‘80s. The club reserves motel rooms across the street from the marina, where players can stay the night before an early wakeup Saturday.
Andrews hoped attendance would be strong, but couldn’t be sure.
We stepped down from his truck and walked around the corner of what looked like a large, red warehouse, maybe three stories high. The facility was mostly empty, save for one long, rectangular table sitting front and center with coffee and donuts and 12 circular tables behind it, each draped in a white cloth and surrounded by eight folding chairs.
Around the tables, a mix of 20 ex-Patriots, organizers and a few fans milled about. Andrews entered not with the cold distance of celebrity, but a type of warm gravity. Shoulders back and chest out, he wore a soft smile and extended open arms to all in his path. Every angler receiving a hug or handshake.
Here, he wasn’t future Patriots Hall of Famer David Andrews, ex-teammate of Tom Brady, friend of Kenny Chesney, personal favorite of Bill Belichick, leader of men. He was Dave. Just Dave.
That is, with one nervous exception: a rookie who arrived minutes after us.
After eight or so players strolled in and stopped for coffee after a late night of team bonding, an undrafted youngster meandered to Andrews’ table; like he’d come to pay his respects.
“Thank you, Mr. DA,” he said.
(Late in the day, I asked Andrews about the title, sensing it might have tweaked him a little bit. “Yeah, that made me want to puke,” he said.)
Back at the table, Andrews began pouring his stories into Tyrone Wheatley Jr., a journeyman offensive tackle, and rookie guard Layden Robinson. One was about how he shared a hotel room at the Residence Inn during his first Patriots training camp and was forced to sleep in the living room. He went on about how veterans should support rookies, not disavow them.
Minutes from the start, organizers finally divided the anglers into different groups. Players accompanied fans whose donations secured their place on one boat and helped fund Tommy’s Place, a Massachusetts-based nonprofit that runs vacation homes on the Cape for kids fighting cancer. More than a dozen Patriots players attended.
Heading to the docks, I told Andrews that Keion White, a defensive lineman who kept his own company last year as a rookie, made it just in time. This made him happy; a captain knowing he’s reached his team.
We climbed aboard precisely at 7:30 on a brilliant day fit for fishing. Eight minutes later, cruising slowly out of the harbor, Andrews’ phone lit up, and so did he.
It was a FaceTime call. His two-year-old son, Ford, wanted to talk with his dad.
Football Dave
Close friends of the Andrews family have a favorite joke about their favorite center.
He’s two people in one.
There’s “Football Dave,” and “Offseason Dave.”
Football Dave is grumpy. Myopic. Sometimes a bummer, even after wins. He lives from July until January, but sometimes February, then goes into hibernation.
Offseason Dave? You just met him.
Fishing. Drinking beers. Telling stories. A good hang.
The day Mackenzie learned she was pregnant with Ford, Football Dave came home after a long day during a never-ending 2020 season. He’d texted her earlier, wondering what their plans were that night. No real answer.
Once he walked through the door, Football Dave asked again what was going on. He remembers her barking back three words: “Feed the dogs!”
He grumbled in thought.
OK, so I try not to be grumpy, and now you’re giving me an attitude?
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Football Dave walked to the closet where the Andrews keep their dog food. Opening the door, he slapped whatever crap rested on top of the food container, knocking it to the ground. He scooped some food out and turned around.
Mackenzie stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
That crap, she explained, was a positive test and a parenting book she’d left him as a surprise. His jaw dropped. They embraced.
Andrews laughs retelling the story to me on the boat, returned to the joy of the moment in his mind.
“It was a wild 10 minutes of emotion,” Offseason Dave says.
Since then, raising Ford has served as a life lesson that often comes with age: how the things that matter, truly matter, are those that last. Ford is already a greater piece of Andrews’ legacy than his two Super Bowl wins.
While championships are forever, trophies live in cases, and children live with you, then beyond you; breathing reflections of who you were as a parent and person. His mind runs to Ford next.
“Now we make him feed the dogs,” Andrews says. “He loves it.”
Football Dave still lives, he assures me, but he’s an outdoor dog. Mostly.
Andrews leaves the toll football exacts on him outside the house as best he can. Ford is the line he draws between what happens in Foxboro and inside his house.
“If I’m being honest, he doesn’t really care about what happens at work,” Andrews admits. “So how can I bring that home with me?”
But drawing that line has never been harder. The Patriots, specifically their offense, has been an abject disaster for two straight years. A portrait of dysfunction, from coaches to players and scheme. Andrews has been at the literal center of it all, and will soon lead a team projected to finish in the bottom of the AFC.
He insulates himself with a newfound outlook and balance.
"I think as you get older in your career, you try to find joy in little things. Maybe when you're younger, you take it for granted,” he says. “Even when things aren't going good or what you think they should be, you've got to try to find some joy in it. Because if not, those types of years will make you want to be done with it."
Andrews, firmly, is not done yet. He signed a one-year contract extension last month. He cherishes wins over bad teams now, triumphs he might have dismissed before; like the Patriots’ wins at Pittsburgh and Denver last December when fans and media clamored for them to tank for a higher draft pick.
“Everyone was just like, ‘please lose!’ And you hear that noise,” Andrews says. “But I got to come home for Christmas after a win. And that made Christmas that much better.”
It’s a stark contrast from the first half of his career, when Andrews only knew winning and the harsh, Hall of Fame coaching of Belichick and former offensive line coach, Dante Scarnecchia. Super Bowl or bust, every year. It suited him, the tough love, hard teaching and perfectionist standard.
Yet Andrew can distinctly remember relief washing over him after one Super Bowl, not euphoria.
“Dante was always like, ‘Enjoy the wins.’ But sometimes they could feel worse than the losses,” Andrews remembers. “And It’s hard to win in the NFL. But I think we took ‘em for granted sometimes.”
Joy, he’s since learned, can be found outside the scoreboard. Before he retires, Andrews wants to play in every NFL stadium. He wants to witness the Patriots’ young offensive linemen grow around him and have a hand in their development. That fills his cup.
It strikes him later that even in the Patriots locker room, away from Ford, he’s assumed a paternal role.
“You don’t realize how many times guys are looking at you, what you’re doing, how you’re carrying yourself,” he says. “It’s not like being a dad, but I guess it kind of is."
But Andrews knows the bottom line. The moment the Patriots can replace him with a cheaper, younger center capable of playing at a similar level, he’s gone. Finished.
Cut, like the line he’s lost to the deep blue sea.
Open and onward
The thing they don’t tell you about shots of Dr. McGillicuddy’s at 8 in the morning is they’re even worse than they sound.
Before zipping across the open ocean that morning, our captain claims his cooler was overstocked. His solution was to empty the sleeve of shooters he’d purchased the night before. He passes them around, one by one.
Why not?
The seven of us toast. Doctor’s orders, right down the hatch.
But the cooler, apparently, was still too packed. The captain calls for another round.
Down that went, minty and unsettling; like your dentist wasn’t content with just cleaning your teeth and insisted on your esophagus, too.
Now, the other thing they don’t tell you about shots of Dr. McGillicuddy’s at 8 in the morning, is you might divulge more than you expect.
Within minutes, Andrews pulls up a picture on his phone. It shows a spot of blood on the tip of his index finger. The blood, he explains, hurtled out of his lungs on the first day of training camp, 2019.
Believing he had a case of pneumonia, Andrews refused help throughout training camp and preseason games that summer. His performance suffered. Finally, in late August, he relented and saw a specialist who discovered blood clots that would cost him his season.
He went on blood thinners for months, and to this day, doesn’t know what caused the clots. Andrews still takes precautions, though, and pride will never push him that close to needless danger again. He’s matured with age, yes, but there’s more.
Three days after the Patriots’ season ended last January, Mackenzie posted a photo to Instagram.
In the picture, darkness envelops an empty Gillette Stadium. Snow covers the ground and the stands. She, David and Ford are on the field, hours after the Jets beat the Patriots for the first time since 2015; a dark day during the franchise’s darkest season in decades.
It’s a happy photo.
“BABY BOY #2 coming in hot in July,” the caption reads.
They’re expecting again. Overjoyed. But, Andrews shares, he’s unsure if he could love another child as much as he does Ford, and has even sought counsel from ex-teammates with large families, like Matthew Slater and James Ferentz.
They all reassure him. There’s nothing like it. You’re ready.
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Andrews doesn’t only open up himself. He puts personal questions to everyone on the boat.
Where are the Rhode Island guys from? What do they do? How about the captain? What about his buddies?
Conversations cover shark fishing and cars, raising kids, college stories, bachelor parties, the Celtics’ run to the Finals, last meals, on and on. These little talks fill the large gaps over a day that ends without another catch after the bluefish.
Our boat coasts back into the marina around 2:30 p.m. Faint music plays in the distance. It’s the new pop country hit, “A Bar Song,” by Shaboozey.
Gasoline and groceries, the list goes on and on
This nine-to-five ain't workin', why the hell do I work so hard?
I can't worry 'bout my problems, I can't take 'em when I'm gone
It's a song about booze and escapism, a party anthem timed perfectly for graduation season. But beneath the catchy chorus and acoustic strumming, deeper themes run: about shared human connection, the inescapable grind of day-to-day work and the choice to extend fleeting joys when you can, together, for as long as possible.
One, here comes the two to the three to the four
When it's last call and they kick us out the door
It's gettin' kind of late, but the ladies want some more
Oh my, good Lord
… Someone pour me up a double shot of whiskey
Andrews climbs out of the boat, looking back at the sea and the day behind him.
He takes a step closer to land, then another; toward Mackenzie, Ford and his unborn son. Toward the start of next season and his dream of restored Patriots glory.
Toward the rest of his life.
He smiles.
