MICHAEL HOLLEY

Seymour's toughness is built-in

2/2/2002

EW ORLEANS - You can always hear the Patriots' theme song playing in a small South Carolina town. The prelude is a 5 a.m. wakeup call, and the music begins when the shovels start to bang at 6.

The town, Gadsden, is where a contractor named Seymour has lived all his life. If he asks you to carry a tune, this is what he means: He wants the wheelbarrows, filled with mortar, to groan; he wants builders to sweat; he wants bricks thrown; he wants solid buildings, capable of standing on their own.

It is no coincidence that Bill Belichick drafted a son of Gadsden - a son of a builder - with his initial first-round pick in New England. The Patriots coach is a fundamentalist, a man who thinks ''solid'' is a compliment. He believes football teams should be tough and smart, anchored by tough and smart linemen.

He found what he was looking for in 22-year-old Richard Seymour, a 6-foot-6-inch defensive tackle who grew up listening to Belichick's kind of music. He found someone who used to wake up before daylight and throw 20-pound blocks onto a scaffold, 1,000 times a day. A young man who used to take his wheelbarrow, place 17 scoops of sand in it, add two bags of mortar and two bags of water, and stir until the mix was just right.

''It could be too loose or too thick,'' he recalled. ''If I didn't get it right, my dad would be all over me. It was hard work. I think working with my dad made me a tough guy.''

Super Bowl XXXVI will be played tomorrow at the Superdome, and you shouldn't have to ask which team is Gadsden's.

The Rams call themselves The Greatest Show on Turf. You imagine them arriving at events in stretch limousines. You imagine them starring in style shows, wearing tuxes with elaborate tails. When you visit them at home, they direct you to their pricey art work, illuminated by expensive track lighting.

The Patriots are comfortable in dirt. They are construction workers. Their helmets should really be yellow hard hats. At home, they press hard against the walls to show you how well-built they are. They should spend their summers in South Carolina, temperatures at 100 and beyond, working under the guidance of Seymour's father, also named Richard.

After working as a builder in the summer, young Seymour would go to football practice. Once he returned home in the evening, he was put to work again.

''We have a big yard,'' his father said, ''so there was always work to be done there. Mowing, weed-eating, and what have you. And I have some rental properties. I put him to work there, also.

''Look, I was tough on Richard. I didn't want to spoil him. My plan for him was to hit the books. I wasn't at all worried about football. I knew if he was a player, that would take care of itself. I wanted him to get his education.''

When Seymour went away to college at Georgia, a few scouts said he was ready to go pro after his junior year. His father didn't agree. He told his son to stay for his senior year, mature, and continue to study. By last April, it was clear he was going to be a top-10 pick.

Seymour didn't hear from Belichick before the draft, but if he had been paying attention to New England, he would have known the coach was going to use the sixth pick on him. The Patriots needed a construction worker on the line. They got pushed around too often. With all apologies to Chad Eaton, they didn't have a versatile 305-pounder who could toss offensive linemen aside the same way a kid once tossed 20-pound blocks on a scaffold.

''New England drafted Richard and I said, `Son, they're 5-11. You have to be patient with them. You all will have to grow together,''' said the elder Seymour.

Who could have expected it to come together so quickly? Who could have expected a self-described mama's boy to be such a central character in the plan to stop the Rams?

It wasn't long ago that Seymour was a chubby little kid with big feet. His age was always two digits behind his shoe size. He was 9 and wore size 11 shoes. At 15, his shoes were 17s. He never played football as a preteen because he was too big. He was recruited late, primarily by Clemson and Georgia.

His hometown used to be known for barbecues, big Sunday dinners, hunting and fishing. The most famous Seymour in town used to be a street, Peter Seymour Road, named after a relative. The most famous Seymour in town now is the one who wears No. 93, the one who will make one Southern city and six Northeastern states happy if he can find a way to get in Kurt Warner's face.

''Do I think they'll win?'' the older Seymour says, repeating a question. ''What do you think? I think Belichick will help them out. I call him the little genius.''

No surprise there. It takes one craftsman to truly appreciate the work of another. The older Seymour is comfortable because he knows his son's work really hasn't changed. There's a different uniform. There's a different schedule. There's the same music.

Michael Holley is a Globe columnist. His e-mail address is holley@globe.com.