BOB SOCCI

Before Jerod Mayo was introduced as the 15th head coach in Patriots history, I wrote about my experience calling games during the last 11 of Bill Belichick’s 24 seasons as his predecessor. This ‘Socci’s View’ originally appeared on 98.5thesportshub.com on Jan. 17, 2024.

So where was I? 

On Friday morning I started filling this space with thoughts about the past 11 seasons of Patriots game days and the times between them listening to Bill Belichick over conference calls, on WebEx streams and from seats in various press rooms. Several sentences in, news flashed by way of a phone notification, and I backspaced away from Bill for a forward-thinking rewrite about his successor Jerod Mayo.

Three playoff doubleheaders later, Belichick has interviewed in Atlanta and embarrassments of Dallas and Philadelphia have flooded every platform from X to ‘MyFace’ with memes of him under references to Jerry Jones and Jeffrey Lurie. By the way, which do you find the more tantalizing prospect: Bill responding to Jones’ weekly public critiques of his – always Jerry’s – Cowboys or Lane Johnson reacting to the Patriot Way becoming the Eagles way? 

Anyway, Bill’s on to the next team. Before he gets there, allow me to pick up where I left off, which was actually a good seven years before calling Belichick’s 206th win in my first regular season broadcast from Buffalo, where Mayo captained the defense and Tom Brady captained a comeback. 

It was a Sunday morning, on a rare day off for the Patriots, in October of 2006. Belichick was back home in Annapolis on the U.S. Naval Academy yard, where his father Steve coached and taught for 33 years and was laid to rest 11 months earlier. Dressed in suit and tie, his oldest son, also named Steve, at his side, Bill stood in the lobby of Navy’s football offices, on the second floor of Ricketts Hall. 

This was the building where Belichick’s dad remained a fixture well into his retirement. He’d swing by the football suite, grab a styrofoam cup of coffee and walk down the hallway to read the local newspapers delivered daily to the sports information office. Every so often, as the voice of the Midshipmen since 1997, I happened to be there at the same time. If I was lucky, I got to hear Coach Belichick, as everyone knew him around the Academy, spin an anecdote, offer an opinion or teach me a lesson or two. 

More than once, the topic was broadcasting. I learned, for example, that he watched games with the TV sound muted, unless Jerry Glanville was commenting (“he’s the only one who knows defense”). In another instance, I had my own work critiqued, after he heard me refer on-air to Bill Walsh as the father of the West Coast offense (“let me tell you about Paul Brown!”). 

Our longest conversation was our last, largely centering around the recently-published “The Education of a Coach.” Its author David Halberstam had described the book, written about New England’s Coach Belichick, as an homage to Navy’s Coach Belichick. What most impressed the latter, unsurprisingly, given his keen scouting eyes for the most granular details of an opponent’s formations, motions and play calls, was Halberstam’s meticulous reporting technique. No tape recorder. Full quotes, hand written, with context into his reporter’s notebook. I can still picture Coach Belichick in the back of Navy’s press box, a half hour to kickoff with Temple, demonstrating how Halberstam scribbled and highlighted, while pretending to flip the pages of an imaginary notebook. 

About then, our radio producer interrupted. Air time intervened. I could have listened all day. It was the last time I spoke to Coach Belichick. It was his last Navy game. 

Bill Belichick’s aforementioned homecoming in 2006 was on a bye weekend for the Patriots that began with a Saturday matchup of Navy and Rutgers – the Scarlet Knights, featuring twin cornerbacks named McCourty, shut out the Midshipmen – and concluded with Sunday’s campus visit. Bill and young Steve were there to formally donate more than 400 titles in the family’s football library to the Naval Academy. 

There, in the soon-to-be (and still) home of the “Belichick Collection,” a nostalgic Bill reminisced to a few reporters about game-days of his youth, when he hawked programs outside Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium on Rowe Boulevard. He wistfully answered questions, including mine, which related to my last conversation with the original Coach Belichick, and Halberstam’s homage. 

Holding a microphone off his left shoulder, I saw his softer side. The next time in his company, seven years later, I caught a different side of him.

Belichick had just wrapped up a spring press conference on Gillette Stadium’s press box level and, flanked by right-hand assistant Berj Najarian, marched toward the elevator. Patriots veep of media relations Stacey James and I trailed, more than a few steps behind. Hired weeks earlier to be the Pats new broadcaster by CBS Radio Boston, few people in the organization knew who I was; the head coach wasn’t one of them. The doors opened, they stepped in and so did we. Instantly, the doors shut on any foolish notion I might have had that my Navy football cred would afford me an ‘in’ with the favorite son of Annapolis. 

James introduced me, I smiled and started blathering. I failed to utter as much as the first few syllables of a mutual friend’s name: Navy coach Ken Niumatalolo. Maybe I made it past the initial “a” before trailing off into silence, frozen by the look. No, not the death stare gone viral from podiums around the NFL; the slightly less intense one that conveys annoyance and the question: ‘W(ho)TF are you? The ride down felt like the longest descent of my career. Before hitting field level, Najarian smiled, piercing the silence. “Get ready to call a lot of wins,” he said.

Najarian was right about that. My first six years on the call featured an average of 12.3 wins a season. Plus 2.2 wins a postseason. The Pats let me tag along to six straight AFC Championship games and four Super Bowls, and in three championship parades. 

While I still drew that look occasionally over the years, sometimes forgetting the question I intended to ask in the midst of a long-winded preamble to the point I never got to, and sometimes realizing before the words escaped my mouth that mentioning Vic Fangio’s reported blitz rate was a foolish idea Bill wasn’t about to suffer, I’d like to think I ended up earning credibility in the coach’s eyes. 

At least, that’s how I was treated, even after the great times gave way to not-so-good days since the final weeks of 2019. Of course, I unashamedly admit, being the play-by-play guy, my questions were likely to elicit Belichick’s softer side. Doing my job week-to-week required gleaning insight about opponents, general strategy, football history. Not that I didn’t sit uncomfortably or even cringe at times when others asked what they had to ask when controversies arose or the team felt the depths of a 30-point playoff loss or, most recently, a 13-loss campaign.

For me, on the whole, the seasons – 11 of Belichick’s 24 as Patriots head coach – and weekday sessions, particularly on Fridays, were a mostly joyful ride. And educational. 

Any opportunity to listen to Bill wax poetic about Paul Brown or Gil Brandt, break down the art and science of long snapping or left-footed-punt returning, drill down on the differences between one team’s  3-4 defense and another’s was like listening to a dissertation for a football doctorate. All his Friday lessons combined have taught me enough to realize how little I know.

What I marveled at most in my early summers around the Patriots is how fluid Belichick was on the practice fields, roaming between position groups to offer coaching points to all 90 players. One period he’s here, tightening up punt protection. The next period he’s there, pulling an undrafted rookie aside to correct his hand placement when jamming a receiver at the line. He always seemed to be paying attention to everyone, and everything. Frequently referring to himself as a teacher, it’s how I saw him at his essence; in a visor, twirling his whistle around a finger, gesturing with his hands to drive home his points to the last man on the roster. 

Of course, it wasn’t always easy to tell who he was talking to out there. There were OTAs when the Patriots practiced without numbers. And weeks in July and early August when rookies wore jerseys in the 50s and 60s. Inconvenient as they were for those of us in the media tent, such were Bill’s ways of doing things; they were among the many quirks of covering the Pats.

Most of my 11 seasons, his teams played well into winter, creating a history of celebrated schemes and heralded in-game adjustments and leaving a trail of confused quarterbacks and broken opponents. Yet, in looking back on the best of my 11 seasons, I think not of the ‘mad genius’ or ‘diabolical schemer’ often portrayed by national media (“Genius!” Steve Belichick used to say, according to Halberstam. “He walks up and down football fields, for goodness sake!”). Bill is a student of history, and practitioner of its lessons (see his choice of the wind over the football to start an overtime vs. Denver in 2013; born from a Bill Parcells decision vs. Washington a quarter century before). He, like his father, developed not only eyes for an opponent’s most minuscule tells; he had the will to turn over every rock, frame by frame of game film, to search for them. At their best, Patriots players were consistently put in a position to succeed; and they were generally kept out of positions to fail. And, frankly, the man who coined ‘Johnny Foxboro’ wasn’t above running practices like ‘High School Harry’; Patriots players ran laps after penalties or turnovers. 

My second season, I vividly recall joint practices with Washington in hot-and-humid Richmond, Va. As the last one concluded, most Washington players casually returned inside, while some mingled with fans and media. Patriots players stayed out to run gassers. Amid them all, Bill, twirling that whistle, bellowed: “This is when championships are won!” Or words to that effect. Five months later, they captured the franchise’s fourth title.

In the middle of their second dynastic decade, none other than nemesis Bill Polian, then doing radio color for ESPN, told me that week-to-week, the Patriots were the best-coached team he saw. Yes, save for four games in 2016 during my tenure, they always had the best quarterback on the field, week-to-week. But yes, I still believe, year-to-year, a lot of that quarterback’s growth into the best ever had to do with learning under the best-ever head coach. 

Unfortunately, since that quarterback left, the team that had seldomly lost began losing more than it won. The reasons are many, as I’ve discussed during Monday-morning chats with Fred and, when appropriate, in-game exchanges with Zo. There’s no need to include them in this space, for today’s purposes.

A few hours from typing these final words, Mayo will be introduced as the 15th head coach in Patriots history. I’m excited for him and the future, just as I’m grateful for my past 11 seasons watching and listening to the franchise’s 14th head coach. The sentiments aren’t incongruous, as numerous players have shown since last week’s news – about both Bill and Jerod – broke.

There’s a chance the third generation of coaching Belichicks will remain. Reportedly, both Steve and Brian have been offered roles on Mayo’s staff. It’s not surprising, and it goes beyond their relationships with Jerod. Much maligned, they’re proven themselves to be good coaches. Steve and Mayo have run one of the league’s best defenses over the past several seasons, including the last two, when Bill’s time was diverted more to offense and the offensive line than in the past. Within that period, there hasn’t been a better, more consistent position group than the safeties Brian oversees. Several started their careers here as cornerbacks, before cross-training in the secondary.

Whether they stay or go, wherever their father winds up, I wish them, like him, well. After all, weighing my experiences over the last 11 years, I had a hell of a ride.

Bob Socci has been the play-by-play broadcaster for the Patriots Radio Network on 98.5 The Sports Hub since 2013.

By age 12, Tyler Tidwell was certain of his future. He was bound for one of three places: Annapolis, Colorado Springs or West Point. He chose the former, fulfilling destiny as much as living a dream. A football standout, he graduated from the Naval Academy into the Marine Corps and started a family with wife Cassi. On Dec. 10, Tyler, a father of three young children, died from ALS.

A GoFundMe page was set up to help Tyler’s wife Cassi and family meet financial and educational needs. Click here to visit the page and donate.

I also strongly recommend that you read the beautifully-written piece by Jon Gold for The Athletic in December 2020, profiling Tyler and poignantly detailing a battle he and his family waged with grit and grace.

Following is a much older story by a far less accomplished scribe who had the honor of writing Tyler’s ‘senior feature’ for navysports.com from Aug. 23, 2006.

By Bob Socci

They were words from a child’s lips to his parent’s ears.

Spoken from son to father, they explained the remarkably logical reasoning of a precocious 12-year old.

While most kids his age were years away from their first thoughts about a college of choice, young Tyler was certain of a service academy future.

Bobby Tidwell figured it was part of a phase – this fascination with the military – and assured his wife, Linda, of such.

Until the moment he was taken aback by a startling realization – what was thought a passing fancy was instead a young boy’s destiny.

“I guess I was stunned,” explained Bobby, recently recalling that day outside the family home in the countryside near Oklahoma City. “We were talking in the back pasture and Tyler said, ‘You know Dad, if I go to a military academy all kinds of doors will open up to me after graduation.’ I stepped back and said, ‘Whoa.’

“I never encouraged him to go into the military, nor did his mother.”

The Tidwells didn’t necessarily point their second son toward a higher calling. They seemingly led him there through their lives in service to others.

Sure, Tyler was motivated enough on his own to search the internet for information about the academies, leading him to understand the importance of extracurricular activities in the admission process.

And true, it was Tyler who took what he learned to heart, acting on every bit of it. He would become a four-time class president and valedictorian at Deer Creek High School, while playing football well enough to earn an opportunity to be a Navy linebacker.

But it’s also obvious why Tyler’s here today, just months from fulfilling a dream by graduating into the Marine Corps.

He is Bobby and Linda’s son.

They met as young officers on the Oklahoma City police force, Bobby having returned from a tour in Vietnam and Linda having left home in South Dakota for an education at Oklahoma Christian University.

A fellow officer had asked Bobby to set him up with Linda. Instead, he asked for himself. They married and had two boys, Justin and Tyler.

While his wife, Bobby says, “instilled kindness and softness” in their children, he exemplified toughness.

“I grew up with men in my family who were in the military,” Tyler said, noting the duty of both grandfathers in World War II. “My dad has been the biggest influence on me. He was also a police officer, and growing up he was the toughest guy I knew. Nothing ever seemed to defeat him or wear him out.

“After what (he) did in the (Marine) Corps, everything seemed easy. There was a mystical aura around the Marine Corps. (To me) he kind of felt invincible. I wanted to be like him, to have a ‘nothing could beat me, nothing could get me down’ attitude. I wanted to be the kind of guy who, no matter what comes my way, can stay on top of it.”

The military service the son speaks so proudly of – including search-and-destroy missions in the far northern section of South Vietnam – the father downplays as “doing what many others were asked to do.”

But whatever is said or left unsaid about a war in a far-off place long ago, Tyler has first-hand knowledge of Bobby’s next line of duty.

“I would go to work with my dad,” says Tyler, now 21. “When I was in the fifth and sixth grade, he was running a narcotics team. There were 12 other cops under him who were undercover. I spent some time with them. They were interesting characters.”

It was a real-life look at what most experience only in the fictional world of cop shows and movies. Despite its life-or-death seriousness, Tyler took away many lighter moments.

“When I was playing Little League baseball, (my father) would often drive different repossessed cars (being used on undercover operations) to my games,” he says with a few laughs. “Half the parents must have thought my dad was a criminal.”

Every day was an episode of Law & Order.

“Cops were always in and out of our house,” said Bobby, who, like Linda, has since retired as a Lieutenant. “I ran specialized units and (Tyler) grew up around those guys.”

They were officers forming SWAT teams and bomb squads, working in plain clothes and on street crimes units.

“It’s a very tight group,” said Bobby. “Tyler was used to that fraternity. A lot of us were hunters. He saw that brotherhood that existed in specialized units.”

Their bonds were never more evident, or imperative, than in the aftermath of one of our nation’s darkest moments: at 9:02 a.m. on April 19, 1995, the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building was bombed, killing 168.

“I just transferred back into patrol,” the elder Tidwell remembered, his voice somber. “I got there that afternoon and was the Lieutenant supervising the on-site morgue.

“Officers would get off shifts and volunteer four or five hours every day to do what needed to be done. It was very, very hard. You’d come home and just want to hug your kids.”

As one would expect, the event affected how the Tidwells raised their boys.

“We’ve always stressed to Tyler to remain thankful and humble and don’t hesitate at night to say (his) prayers,” Bobby said, before shifting the mood. “He’s brought us a lot of enjoyment.”

Much of it takes place on Saturdays, either sitting in the stands or entertaining family and friends around the big screen in the family living room back in Edmond, Okla.

Whatever their vantage point, often it’s easy to spot their beloved number 45, considering how much time he spends disrupting opposing offenses.

As a junior last season, Tidwell ranked 14th nationally in tackles for loss, recorded 10 sacks and forced three fumbles. He was named Defensive MVP of the Poinsettia Bowl, making a career-high 11 tackles in Navy’s 51-30 rout of Colorado State.

Following a limited role his first two seasons, Tidwell seized his first starting opportunity defending both run and pass, while shifting from outside linebacker to undersized defensive end.

“We do a lot of things with him,” explains defensive coordinator Buddy Green. “The outside backer is critical for us. He has to take care of pass zone and run.

“When we go to our nickel package (of five defensive backs) we don’t want to take him or (fellow linebacker) David Mahoney off the field. (Tyler) was as effective with his hand down as he was in a stand-up position.”

Tidwell explains what he does with plenty of self deprecation.

“One play you drop into pass coverage and the next play you’re in a three-point stance,” he says, describing what it’s like giving away, in some cases, a hundred pounds to gargantuan offensive linemen. “Lately I’ve been playing defensive end about 75 percent of the time, which at 225 pounds isn’t a blast I definitely try to use my speed. Power isn’t going to do much.

“I remember games last year when the first time I lined up in a four-man front, the offensive tackle looked at me and laughed. He probably thought to himself, ‘Wow, you looked small on film, but…’ I can’t really blame him. If I was him and saw me on the defensive side of the ball, I’d laugh too.”

Of course, for the big guy wearing the smirk, it can be a now-you-see-Tidwell, now-you-don’t kind of embarrassment thanks to effort and experience.

“The first thing that jumps out is that (Tyler) plays 100 miles per hour,” says Green. “From snap to whistle he’s always going full speed to make up for a lack of size.

“He understands the game more. His recognition of formations and certain plays have helped him.”

Tidwell credits assistant coach Keith Jones and Mahoney, in particular, for helping him to play fast yet slow the game down.

“I felt ten times more comfortable with my position, learning to read at game pace and be more confident,” said Tidwell. “At the beginning of last year I was unsure of myself. As we started playing games, I calmed down.”

“We’d like to model everybody like David and Tyler,” Green says. “Tid has fed off David, who started as a freshman. They feed off each other, to be the guy who makes the most plays and forces the most (quarterback) hurries.”

They also measure themselves against the inside backers who stand between them, including defensive captain Rob Caldwell.

“We try to keep a competition between the outside linebackers and inside linebackers, to see who can make more plays,” says Tidwell. “It’s a friendly competition, giving each other a hard time.”

Mostly, though, the senior linebackers are giving the other team a hard time. Especially arch rivals Army and Air Force.

Together they’ve experienced a kind of academy ecstasy, helping the Midshipmen to three straight Commander-In-Chief’s titles with a 6-0 record against the Black Knights and Falcons.

None understands the magnitude of such achievement more than Tidwell.

At Deer Creek, where he and Justin were teammates on a state champion, Tyler refused to mail recruiting tapes to any Division I programs other than the academies.

Initially, he verbally committed to Air Force until Navy’s energetic assistant Todd Spencer persuaded Tidwell to visit Annapolis. Upon return, he was ready to conquer plebe summer.

More than three years later, including a recent experience at Camp Pendleton shadowing Marine infantry officers with Caldwell and cornerback Matt Garcia-Bragiel, Tidwell is certain of his next calling.

Just like in 6th or 7th grade.

“Those young officers were incredible,” he says. “It just seemed like the type of environment I want to be in. They’re very motivated, very excited about their jobs.”

As for much later in life, Green has an idea.

“I know he has mental toughness, physical toughness and a lot of moral toughness,” the veteran coach says of Tidwell, an International Relations major. “He could be one of the great leaders we’ll see in the next 10 years. This guy lives and leads by example.

“Someday he could be president of the United States. He believes in what he says. He gets respect because of who he is.”

Visiting relatives abroad, my thoughts are in a faraway place. I’m thinking of much younger days, when my father’s family celebrated July 4 by reuniting on our back lawn — the one time a year, aside from weddings or funerals, aunts, uncles and cousins on ‘the Socci side’ could be found in one place.

Mainly, I’m thinking of the oldest men in the family. Mostly, first-generation Americans. Mostly, veterans of World War II.

Like Uncle Les, who earned four Bronze Stars fighting in the Army’s “Big Red One” in Northern Africa and Europe and a Purple Heart from a battle in Sicily. Like Uncle Jim, a Marine who came home from the South Pacific with his own Purple Heart. And like my father, Tony, a Tech Sargeant the Army Air Corps kept stateside from the summer of 1942 to the fall of ’45 to fix the airplanes needed to train fighter pilots.

They loved this country and showed it with humble service and sacrifice. They worked hard, faithfully supported their wives and families, lived respectfully and honestly, cared about their neighbors and succeeded in raising children who did the same. They led long, full lives — Les to age 96, Jim to 93, my dad to 83 — and left us with a country better than the one they found. Imperfect, yes. But inching at least toward fulfilling promise and possibility.

Shifting thoughts from then to now, them to me, I worry on this 4th of July about the country we are leaving to our kids and their kids. I believe we have made gains and lost ground in significant ways. What worries me most is the desire of too many to ditch the entire idea of an ‘American experiment’ — as in “of…by…and for the people” — and the willingness or apathy of others to allow it to happen.

People like my uncles and father faced the hardship of the Great Depression and did their part to defeat fascism and the despots who rose to power as populists in times of widespread despair.

Will enough of us in these hard times do the same?

The National Sports Media Association annually honors many of the best in our business. More than that, as I experienced throughout my time in Winston-Salem, it reveals and celebrates what’s best about our business. Thanks to some charitable local peers, I was there to receive a state award. I left rewarded in ways that humble and inspire me.

Seeing ‘old’ friends and colleagues who’ve marked every step of my professional journey, from Chapel Hill to Boston. Getting to know others whose work I’ve enjoyed and respected from afar. Sharing time and insights with those in the earliest stages of their careers, trying to pay forward all the advice and encouragement I’ve accrued along my own way.

Meeting and, more so, listening to the men and women who led the way for others onto sets and into studios, press boxes and locker rooms; and/or raised the standards for everyone else lucky enough to call those domains our workplaces.

Like Jackie MacMullan, who delivered on her late father’s faith to become a Hall of Fame writer and example; Jayne Kennedy, who kept pushing for an audition with CBS, earned the full-throated endorsement of Brent Musberger and became the first Black woman to host a network sports telecast; and Ernie Johnson, simply the best at what he does in broadcasting and even better at what he is as a human being.

Thanks to Dave Goren, the NSMA board and their many volunteers for making this wonderful weekend possible.

Why and how I set out to finish what was left undone in my first Boston Marathon.

By Bob Socci

With every step, I counted. 

One. Two. Three. Four.

Over and over. Mile after mile. 

One (right). Two (left). Three (right). Four (left).

It was all I could do to keep a cadence, and part of a basic plan reliant on the simplest math and self-messaging to get through my first Boston Marathon. 

Treat it like 26 one-mile runs.

Keep your feet underneath you. 

Run your race. 

Smile.

Soak it all in.

‘What if?’

“Are you a runner?”

It’s a question I’ve heard on doctor’s visits due to my low heart rate and one I’ve gotten because of the shoes I was wearing, namely the “Run Happy” pair I purchased less because of the message than sale price.

“I like running,” I say, defaulting to self-deprecation. “But I’m not really a runner.”

To start, I’m short and thick rather than long and lithe. My pace is plodding, my steps too choppy to call strides. Mileage and frequency vary. More one week, less another. I generally ignore splits, my time less essential than the surrounding scenery and podcast keeping me company.

Nevertheless, running is my favorite exercise. It can be liberating, even inspiring; decluttering preoccupying concerns or filling my mind with (hopefully) the right words to later write or say. 

In a lifetime of travel, it’s the mode I’ve used most to explore new places. Quaint college towns and sprawling campuses. Small outposts on baseball’s minor league map. Big and vibrant cities of the NFL. The more to see, the longer I go. Frequently stopping, as you can see below, for picture-taking. 

Once, while summering as voice of the Norfolk Tides, I decided to try more than logging miles in the International League. So, I signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon. 

I set out on the sloped pavement near my apartment in Chesapeake, Va. for a long training run. It was hot and my feet and ankles were inflamed. Mistakenly, I tried powering through the pain and ended up with Achilles tendinitis, plantar fasciitis and out of the running. 

Thought of a marathon didn’t occur to me again until the spring of 2015. 

That’s when, two years into my tenure calling Patriots broadcasts for WBZ-FM, I got a call from Bill Flaherty, assistant programmer at our AM sister station. Bill mentioned that Patriots predecessor Gil Santos was also long a part of their marathon coverage. He offered me the same opportunity.

Although my role would be limited to describing the end of the wheelchair and elite races, station news director Peter Casey suggested I drive the entire course to inform my broadcast prep. Peter’s a Lou Grant-like pro. If he said so, I was going to do so. 

Without hesitation, I headed to Hopkinton, grabbed a coffee on East Main Street and returned to Boston by way of the Marathon route in my Honda CRV. Being a sports romantic with an appreciation for history in general, I thought it very cool. Of course, there was no medal at the end — only a media credential waiting to be picked up at the Fairmont Copley Plaza.

That Patriot’s Day I rose at the crack of dawn and rode the T to Park Street in a car full of runners, walked to the Public Library, climbed the stairs to the finish-line photo bridge and watched the city awaken. Hours before air, I was awestruck. 

The feeling remained well after sign-off, as waves of participants kept coming at me, increasing in numbers, turning off Hereford Street and rolling down Boylston. More than once, on that afternoon and subsequent others calling the race, I allowed myself to wonder.

What if?

The notion, however, was — unlike my own runs — fleeting. 

Until spring of 2019.

‘I’ll think about it.’

I met Mike Palmer a few weeks after the 123rd Boston Marathon at an annual gala for the Doug Flutie Jr. Foundation for Autism. Mike, who’s autistic, was an honoree, having just run the race on behalf of the organization. 

Father to an autistic son, I first saw in Mike a role model determined to meet his own expectations instead of limitations imposed by others. He set his heart on a goal and achieved it. By the end of the night, he set his mind to convincing me to do the same.

“You should run with us next year,” Mike said, excitedly pitching the notion in front of others. 

On the spot, I laughed, expecting nothing to come of it.

“I’ll think about it.”

“No, seriously, you should do it!”

“Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

Over the next several months, Mike’s suggestion was made an invitation from the Foundation. I really did think about it, ultimately deciding to go for it. In January after the Pats’ playoff elimination, I showed up in Back Bay for my first weekly run as part of ‘Dougie’s Team’ for the 124th Marathon.

To date, I’d considered marathoning a solitary pursuit. Saturday mornings with charity runners corrected my misconception. 

Hundreds of us from dozens of organizations convened at the Prudential Center. Venturing out and back together, we encountered hundreds more running up and down the Newton Hills. All along the way, volunteers supported us at tables stocked with drinks and snacks. 

More than striking, the spirit and sense of community was stirring. I began to understand. This is what Boston is about. This is why Boston is so special.

In early March, we bused to the Natick VFW Post and made it back to The Pru on foot. Totaling 17 miles, it was my longest run. And last, at least for a while. 

Before the next, the Boston Athletic Association (B.A.A.) announced postponement of the Marathon due to COVID-19. When it was eventually held virtually in the fall, I couldn’t partake. Nor would I try to run No. 125 in Oct. 2021. 

Regret over what was left undone two years earlier lingered into last December, when Mike touched base again. I told him I was thinking about the 126th; believing it possible but unsure if it was doable.

My thoughts, through Mike’s words, reached Nick Savarese, the Flutie Foundation’s executive director. A few days later, Nick texted.

“Hi Bob…Mike Palmer says you are considering Boston marathon?”

Although I allowed a week before verbally committing, I was back in training before I hit ‘send’ on my reply. I put the commitment in writing, paid the B.A.A. entry fee and launched fundraising. 

With conviction in and a strong connection to the cause, use of social media and generous response of friends and strangers alike, I started fast. Both goals — 26.2 and $8K — seemed attainable.

But in early February, I stumbled into a pair of proverbial speed bumps en route to one of them. First, a flare-up of diverticulitis, and no solid foods or exercise for a few days. Next, literally and understatedly, a stubbed toe on the first full day of a family vacation. 

We were in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, where my daughter wanted me me join her in our resort’s pool. I started down the first few stairs, expecting the same drop-off from the last step. But the split-second I reached out with my right foot came with an alarming, mid-step realization: it was three times as steep. 

My upper body splashed sideways into the water, as my left foot scraped the riser, cutting the “ring toe” and badly bruising the “pinky toe.” Both swelled to twice the size of their chubby counterparts on the right.

For the rest of the week I hobbled around the all-inclusive. As much as I hurt, it had to be far more painful for my wife and kids listening to my non-stop obsessing over the injury. Running gear I packed went unused and I worryingly supposed weeks ahead.

What if I can’t run soon? 

Will I have enough time to build up my miles?

Turns out there was. 

Walks on the soft, sandy beach and laps swum kept my cardio up. Indoor bike rides served the same purpose upon return to snowy Massachusetts. In March, I resumed running. 

On the 19th of the month, I re-joined our group and ran farther than I’d ever gone before. Twenty miles, Kenmore Square to Wellesley and back. Through the Hills. Twice. Going and coming. I was stoked. And sore. 

The next day, I was tight. Extremely tight. My heavy legs were like a wrung-out towel twisted into a rope. They loosened a little on a mid-week run, before a scheduled 12-to-14 miler over the weekend. 

Skipping Saturday and opting to stay local on Sunday, I took off from home in Milton to Dorchester. A third of the way through, I felt a tug on my right calf. I stretched, then continued. Again it pulled, tighter. Again I stopped to stretch. Finally, at mile six, the cramping became intense. 

Half complete, my run was over. I called my wife for a ride and, in panic mode, ripped off emails and text messages to teammates. To Mike. To Nick. To Terri. To Coach John. I called a friend who’d recently finished his first marathon despite a similar injury. 

Patience, they preached. Encouragement, they provided.

One recommended an appointment with acupuncturist George Leung of East/West Sports in Brookline. George has a history of treating ex-Red Sox and Patriots familiar to me, as well as skaters, ballet dancers and classical musicians I’ve never heard of.

Forty-eight hours later, I arrived at the brownstone housing his office, near Mile 23 on the Marathon course. The door opened to walls of photographs signed by clients. I laid down on a training table under pictures of Dustin Pedroia, Mike Aviles et al, felt a few pricks, the heat of a lamp and electrical stimulation. 

Another friend put me in touch with Dr. John Tierney at the Greater Boston Orthopedic Center. He diagnosed a strained plantaris muscle, which is a rope-like tendon that runs alongside the Achilles, and suggested physical therapy as an additional treatment. 

For that, I visited Joint Ventures in Kenmore Square. I was paired with Kyle Mahoney, who listened intently to my history, patiently guided me through testing and prescribed an exercise program to get me up and running. 

On a test run, I covered a couple of miles encouragingly. But on the next run, I likely overcompensated on an uphill climb and, a mile in, my improving calf injury had company. Pain shot through my right hip flexor. With less than two weeks to recover, Kyle added work for a second muscle group. 

There was one more specialist to see, Dr. Adam Tenforde at Spaulding Rehab in Cambridge. Formerly an All-America long-distance runner at Stanford, Adam is now an expert in extracorporeal shockwave therapy. On the final Wednesday before race day, shock waves penetrated the soft tissue of the strained muscles, causing micro tears to stimulate healing. 

Confidence increased with two short, pain-free jogs sandwiched around my last pre-marathon treatment. After three acupuncture sessions and the jolt of shockwaves, I left a fourth PT appointment, bumping fists with Kyle on the way out, and marched to Hynes Convention Center to pick up my bib for Monday.

Reaching the corner of Comm Ave and Hereford, I snapped a photo with my iPhone. I made the right turn and took two more. One, looking up Hereford, toward Hynes. One eying the finish line in front of the Public Library. I wanted images to refer to the next 72 hours that would help put my goals for Monday into focus.

The afternoon was awash in sunlight and Boylston Street was abuzz, 72 hours before the first Patriot’s Day Marathon in three years. About 30,000 participants were expected to start the race. At least a third seemed to be there on that Friday, creating a Back Bay hubbub of accents and languages from across the States and many of the 120 countries to be represented. 

People poured out of the Convention Center, while an equal number, like myself, went in. Remarkably, once inside there was order to what easily could have been chaotic. Hundreds of volunteers in yellow jackets and signs posted throughout pointed us in the direction we needed to go.

Up an escalator, down a long hallway and a few turns later, I came to a long row of booths fixed with numbered and color-coded placards. I spotted the yellow “25200-25799” sign and stepped up as entrant No. 25270. Bib in hand, inside a clear plastic bag containing some swag, I wandered the Convention Center. 

The Hynes was transformed into parts B.A.A. museum, runner’s world trade show and retail extravaganza for Adidas. After a few sips of Gatorade samples, I started on my way out, only to encounter a blue wall listing names of all of Monday’s competitors. 

People squatted at its base, searching low, and stood on their tiptoes, pointing high. Some posed for photos. Some waited their turn, standing four rows deep. 

I wriggled into the spaces between them, searching for surnames in small white print, all caps, starting in “SO-” until I spotted the one I was seeking. I found it between “SOCARRAS” and “SOCHAY,” next to my given first name: “ROBERT SOCCI.”

I now had my bib. My name was officially — and formally — in the field. And for the first time in weeks, my legs felt really good. 

All that remained were a couple of Saturday team events, hopefully a couple of good nights of sleep and, by far, the most grueling undertaking of my life.

It was time to go home and load carbs.

‘Remember who you’re running for.’

This time of year, mainly because of what I do, which allows plenty of free time while others must work, I’m often asked about another sport. 

“Do you play golf?”

“Rarely,” I’ll reply, in this case more self-aware than self-deprecating. “And terribly.”

I sold my last set of clubs in 2007; can’t center a fairway with a tee shot unless I bounce it there; and for every ball I hit onto a green, several others disappear into water and woods.

But lots of charities hold lots of tournaments requiring lots of celebrities. And around here, broadcasting Patriots games fits the definition of celebrity when a field of foursomes needs to be filled out for a mid-week round. 

So, I get invited to play two, maybe three times a year. Including September 2018, when I attended my first Flutie Foundation event. It was held at Brae Burn Country Club in Newton, whose course unfurls just off Commonwealth Avenue. 

Those 18 holes introduced me to the Flutie Foundation. Who knew, fewer than four years later, I’d run past that same spot on the 18th mile of the Marathon course, climbing the first of four infamous Hills in the Foundation’s singlet.

During the intervening years and months, our relationship grew through various non-golf functions. I got to know folks like Nick, who operate it, and many they serve. Among them is aspiring sports journalist and teenage Flutie Fellow Andrew Roberts. 

Andrew’s been blogging about Boston sports since his junior high days. Both an exemplary and eloquent advocate for his autism community, he was recently awarded a full ride to Ithaca College as one of its prestigious Park Scholars. 

It was one of the many reasons to celebrate as the countdown to Hopkinton reached 48 hours and the Flutie Foundation staged its Saturday-morning “26.2 Can-Do Fest” at Castle Island Brewery in South Boston. More than a pep rally, it was a reminder of why we’d chosen to run for Dougie’s Team.

Besides Andrew, who spoke of what the Foundation’s support has meant in his life, a group of young singers shared the mic. There were the Spectrum of Sound choir, a solo performer up from Florida and a rising rapper out of St. Louis. They gave us the gift of music born from the right of inclusion. 

Most of the nearly $300,000 raised by our 30 runners, as one of the 40-plus charity teams in this year’s Marathon, will provide basic home and school services unseen in such a public setting. What reverberated from these young practitioners of artistic passions, to and from the crowd, was the spirit behind it all.

A local craft brewer opening its doors to an organization it’s consistently supported. Good people, from the personally involved to the totally unaffiliated, enjoying a good time while supporting a good cause. Again, a moment of comm-unity. One of many that would mark this Marathon weekend. 

None was more touching for me than when a father and son approached to say hello. The dad was in a navy quarter-zip with Pat Patriot stitched over his heart. His boy wore the ‘Flying Elvis’ on a cap bearing the message, “Forever New England.”

“Hello, Bob,” the father said. “I’m Eric Taylor and this is my son, Caleb.”

We’d never met. Yet I recognized their names instantly. What’s more, I knew Caleb’s age.

During the first days of March, I received a string of notifications from my on-line fundraising page. Contributions in various increments started showing up from donors named Taylor and/or mentioning Caleb in their messages.

For Caleb Taylor’s 10th Birthday, good luck Bob!

I’m donating this on behalf of my cousin’s son, Caleb. I hope it helps!

Happy birthday Caleb, and good luck Bob! Thank you both for raising awareness!

There were plenty more, and their back story stemmed from the selflessness of a child. I learned that Caleb, an obviously big Patriots fan, was an avid listener of our broadcasts. When he saw that I was raising money for the Flutie Foundation, he told family and friends of his birthday wish.

In lieu of presents for him, Caleb requested that they donate to my fundraiser.

I’ve read or heard — or probably both — that in the Marathon’s toughest stretches, you should remember who you’re running for. 

With two days to go, I had a very good idea.   

‘Slow and steady.’

My diet as a kid was pretty diverse. Spaghetti and shells. Linguine and lasagna. And my favorite, ziti.

On average, I ate one type of macaroni (always macaroni, never pasta in our home) per weeknight. Always soaked in the sauce my mother learned to make from her grandmother. Always showered with grated cheese. And almost always served with Italian bread.

For the latter, we’d often visit the Columbus Baking Co. in Syracuse, where I loved listening to the old Greek bakers as they loaded dough on long-handled wooden peels into ovens that had been fired up since 1895. Long before “buying in bulk” was part of our lexicon, my parents bought in bulk. 

I couldn’t wait to rip off a fresh, hot piece to eat on the car ride home. We’d finish that loaf and mom would freeze the rest.

Did I mention that Saturdays were usually homemade pizza days?

Now you know why my buddy’s uncle used to call me “Lou Costello,” which was one of my kinder, gentler nicknames as a kid. 

Carbohydrates. Loved them then. Love them now.

Unfortunately, I’ve always struggled for self control over them. So, in my more health-conscious years, I’ve generally avoided them. 

Except for this year’s Marathon weekend. My menu featured two types of pasta dishes at Saturday night’s team dinner and a third, homemade by my brother-in-law, on Sunday. Yes, pasta for Easter dinner. That’s something not even the Socci family did in my youth. 

Then again, none of us were ever about to run a marathon.

Sufficiently stuffed, I spent the final pre-race night laying out my gear and readying my morning fuel.

Blue shoes and black compression socks. New blue shorts to match the blue-and-gray Flutie Foundation singlet. My misshapen yet trusty 98.5 The Sports Hub Patriots Radio hat and a white compression shirt. Garmin watch and Apple ear pods. Energy gels. Banana. Almond-buttered bagel. More carbs for the road.

Lights went out by 9:30. Eyes opened by 5:30. Relieved, I sat up from an overnight of undisturbed sleep and thanked Obi the dog for making it so. I showered and poured a cup of coffee, chased it with Gatorade, got dressed and got a lift from my wife to the North Quincy T station.

With my bib No. 25270 pinned to my singlet under an old sweatshirt soon to be discarded, I stepped from the platform onto the Alewife-bound train. Between there and Beacon Hill, more and more runners hopped aboard. 

One, in particular, had a bib in the 600s. A qualifier. A runner.

As we got off the car, I remember thinking to myself: “That’s the last time I’ll see him today.”

His race started at 10. My odyssey was set to begin at 11:15. Dozens of us hiked up the stairs and through the Park Street station doors opened to an idyllic sunny Monday.

I followed a huge crowd across the Common. Then, as later, I took note of the colorful arrangement of participants before me and the Boston skyline beneath a perfectly cloudless sky. Marching toward the Public Garden, I panned the park’s perimeter, left to right along Charles Street. 

Foreground to background, there were four parallel lines. A chain of metal barricades. A sidewalk row of runners waiting for their rides. A cordon of blue portajohns. And a convoy of yellow school buses. Without a break, they extended from the baseball diamond’s left-field corner to the corner of Charles and Beacon. 

Since our team agreed to meet at the Newbury Hotel, I had to walk all the way around the front of the lines and through the Public Garden. Doing so, I made way for the Ducklings, making special note of the B.A.A. medal draped around Mrs. Mallard’s neck and matching her flowery bonnet and the potted daffodils at her side.

Her medal was just like the one I was after, a few blocks and eight hours away. 

Before the ending, however, I had to get to the beginning. Around 8 o’clock, we left the Newbury for one of those buses. The ride lasted about 40 minutes. The bus pulled up to to the B.A.A. Athletes’ Village, adjacent to Hopkinton High School and we all emptied out. I didn’t sit again until dinnertime. 

From the moment we walked to the staging area behind the building, I entered an all-day state of amazement. There were thousands of runners changing out of sweats, stretching their legs and standing in lines for the hundreds more portajohns bordering the parking lot. Meanwhile, countless volunteers waited by endless cases of water.

Figuring I’d have plenty of time before Wave 4 was called to the starting line, I figured wrong. In a blur, I filled my pockets with running gel, applied sunscreen and anti-chafing ‘glide,’ posed for a team photo, tightened my laces and answered nature’s call. Though not necessarily in that order.

With the temperature rising from chilly to cool, we were summoned to start. Walking to the line covered more than a half mile. En route, I, like others, shed my outer layers. Winter hat, sweat pants and hoodie all went into the bags of clothing being collected for donation.

You couldn’t walk 20 steps without a cheerful volunteer to take your garments or trash and give you a smile and word of encouragement. Not yet on the course, I marveled at the magnitude of this annual undertaking. And the logistical efficiency with which the B.A.A. and cities and towns on the course pull it off.

I have no idea how close I got to the actual starting line before the ‘gun’ sounded. Once again, I was positioned to follow a big crowd. Coach John Furey emphasized the importance of resisting a speed trap on the initial descent — about 130 feet of lost elevation in the first mile. 

It wouldn’t — frankly, it couldn’t — be a problem for me or anyone else on this day, amid the congestion in the last wave of runners in the 126th Boston Marathon.

Usually, as I mentioned, I run to podcasts. If needing a pick-me-up, I go with music. For this run, I eschewed the ear pods. I wanted to hear the crowds others promised would be like nothing I’ve heard before. We took our first steps — and would take our last — to sustained cheers.

Quickly approaching Ashland, I picked up on the pitter-patter of the hundreds of pairs of feet now beginning to separate a bit before me. From an adventure that filled the senses, it’s a sound that stays with me a week later.

Meanwhile, roadside spectators implored us with shouts and signs. Some danced, others dressed festively, like the Chris Kringle clone holding a giant candy cane. Fairly early, I caught a funny remark from a runner coming up on my left.

“That’s awesome,” I said.

“Hey, I know that voice,” he replied. 

It was veteran Patriots reporter Chris Price, now with The Boston Globe. We laughed and jogged together until the next mile marker. 

During pre-Marathon meetings, a teammate advised us to take water at every station. In my recently-injured state, I took it a few steps further to fit my overall plan of 26 separate runs. At every drink station, I would downshift to a walk from the first hand-off of Gatorade to the last water table. 

With my last sip at each stop, I’d bend slightly at the waist, toss my crumpled cup aside and pick up my feet. Leaving the station, I strode toward the next marker, always striving to reach the next cluster in those familiar yellow jackets with their hands out.

Chris moved on and, solo again, I resumed my counting.

One. Two. Three. Four.

If I noticed another runner flailing, I re-focused, afraid to entertain the very idea of struggling myself. I knew it was bound to happen. I was determined to reach Boston — or, more realistically, Newton — before it did.

Colors continued to captivate throughout the first half. As the pavement moved beneath my feet, I watched the river of reds and blues and greens and golds flowing forward off in the distance.

Little more than a dozen miles down, right on cue, the crowd noise amped up to a steady roar. Past reading about race lore alerted to me to what awaited around the bend: Wellesley College. The students, yelling as they hung over the barriers, lived up to the hype. 

I didn’t need to tell myself to smile. Not there, and certainly not when I entered the town’s center and came to the end of Rice Street. That’s where my family was ready to greet me. My wife and children, in-laws, aunts and uncles.

My son and daughter stepped out for hugs. Like their mom, they had put up with my three-hour training runs on weekends, incessant venting over my latest ailments and outward fretting as the race drew nearer.

And here they were, pushing and pulling me in this race. Uplifted, I left with plans to meet again, at the finish.

Now I had to get through the Hills. 

The course was dotted throughout by municipal police, staties and national guardsman. At Mile 16, one of them, an M.P., nodded at my unhurried form.

“That’s it,” he smiled. “Slow and steady.”

Onward and upward, I pumped my arms and plodded along with a confidence derived from all the training we’d logged as a team. Still strolling through those drink stations, I ran with eyes out for landmarks.

The Johnny Kelley Statue. Boston College. The Chestnut Hill Reservoir. 

Like at Wellesley, the screaming Eagles at B.C. helped us over the humps that followed the last of the Hills. Some were especially boisterous, belting out “Flutie!” at the sight of my singlet. 

In Brookline, I looked for George Leung, owing him a big “thank you” as I passed East/West Sports on my right. I did the same in Kenmore Square, seeking out Kyle Mahoney in front of Joint Ventures to the left. 

With a mile to go, I realized, well beyond wildest expectations, what I’d been told.

The crowd will carry you home.  

I reached the street sign still on my camera roll from Friday’s snapshot and hung the right on Hereford. I took the left two blocks later, remembering something Doug Flutie told our team on Saturday.

“That finish line is a lot farther away than you think,” he cautioned. “Don’t start sprinting too soon.”

A relative term, I know, in my case. Still, I took his word for it. Besides, I was in no hurry anyway. 

I’ve strained to be heard above the din of 100,000 fans in Columbus and State College and had to lift my voice in the climactic moments of countless Patriots games, including Super Bowls. But those fans were cheering for others.

Here, on the last leg of the 126th Boston Marathon, these fans were cheering for me. Well, me and about 25,000 others. 

The running joke of the weekend in my family had to do with reports that identified me as a celebrity runner, grouping me with former contestants from shows like ‘The Bachelor’ and ‘Survivor.’ Apparently, the race organizers saw me the same way.

Approaching the finish line, I looked up at the same photo bridge where I used to watch and wonder.

Suddenly, the video board affixed to it greeted me with my head shot, name and job title as radio-TV broadcaster. Wanting a photo, I reached for my iPhone tucked into my belt. By the time I found it, my celebrity had faded.

Oh well, I still had a medal to collect. 

Volunteers directed me to keep walking. One handed me a bottle of water. Another gave me a bag of snacks. Finally, I reached a woman with the ribbons of five or six medals looped around her forearm. She grabbed hold of one, I lowered my head and she hung it over my neck.

Smiling throughout, I soaked it all in. 

Minutes later, I met my wife and children for more hugs, walked to the Foundaton’s suite at the Newbury to shower and change and went to dinner nearby. 

Before leaving, I checked for my official time. Five hours, 43 seconds.

The next day, I learned of my official results. I ended up in 23,036th place, behind 13,453 other men and 1,787 in my age group.

Not that I was counting any longer.