So, you’re a Patriots fan, right? You know the dynasty, the six rings, and the GOAT himself, Tom Brady. But let’s rewind before Bill Belichick’s hoodie and Robert Kraft’s steady hand. Who the heck owned this team before Mr. Kraft showed up in 1994?
Grab your coffee, because this story gets wild. It involves a failed movie theater, a gambling addict, and a guy who almost moved the team to Florida. Yeah, really.
The Original Dreamer: Billy Sullivan
It all starts with a guy named Billy Sullivan. He was a PR man, a hustler, and an eternal optimist. In 1959, the American Football League (AFL) was born, and Sullivan wanted in. Badly.
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He got the franchise for a pittance—something like $25,000. That’s less than the price of a new Toyota today. He named the team the Boston Patriots, and the chaos began.
Sullivan didn’t have deep pockets. He was a small-time operator who ran the team like a family business. Literally. His sons and daughters held top jobs.
The Perpetually Homeless Franchise
Here’s the thing: the Patriots didn’t have a real home. For years they bounced around like a pinball. They played at Fenway Park. Then at Harvard Stadium. Then at a crumbling dump called Foxboro Stadium.
Foxboro Stadium was a disaster. Open-air, freezing, and built with cheap bleachers. Fans called it “The Pile of Snow.” Sometimes you’d sit on a bench that was literally wet with rust.
Sullivan tried to make it work, but he was always broke. He was the guy who’d sell you a hot dog at halftime, then ask if you had a dollar for the bus. It was that bad.
The Dark Age: Victor Kiam
By the late 1980s, Billy Sullivan was drowning in debt. He owed banks millions. He owed the IRS. He even owed the stadium concession stand guy. So in 1988, he sold the team to a man named Victor Kiam.
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You might remember Kiam from his famous TV commercials. He was the guy who said, “I liked the Remington shaver so much, I bought the company!” Well, apparently he liked the Patriots so much, he bought the team.
Spoiler: it was not a great purchase. Kiam was a heavy gambler. Like, really heavy. He’d place bets on games, sometimes on his own team. That’s a huge no-no, even in the '80s.
The Slippery Slope
Kiam’s gambling got so bad that the NFL fined him. He lost millions in a single weekend at the racetrack. Meanwhile, the team on the field was a mess. They were mediocre, boring, and losing money.
There was also the scandal. A female reporter named Lisa Olson said some players harassed her in the locker room. Kiam famously said, “What’s the big deal? It’s just a few guys having fun.” Yikes. The league was furious. Fans were furious. Kiam had to sell.
So by 1992, Victor Kiam was out. His dream of owning a football team turned into a nightmare. And he left the franchise in shambles.
The Brief, Bizarre Reign of James Orthwein
Enter James Orthwein. He was a St. Louis businessman. He was rich, quiet, and did not care about Boston. Orthwein bought the Patriots in 1992 with one goal: move them to St. Louis.
He wanted to build a new stadium in Missouri. He wanted the team renamed the “St. Louis Stallions.” He even had a logo ready—a horse. Can you imagine? The St. Louis Stallions against the Bills? It sounds fake.
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But Boston said no. The city hated him. The fans hated him. And then, a miracle happened. Orthwein’s nephew, a guy named Robert Kraft, started calling. Kraft owned the stadium lease. He said, “Sell me the team, or I’ll make your life miserable.”
The Game-Changer
Kraft was a local boy with a printing fortune. He’d been a Patriots fan since day one. He’d even bought season tickets in the 1970s, sitting in the cold, wet stands like everyone else.
In 1994, Kraft bought the team from Orthwein for a then-record $172 million. Everyone thought he was crazy. “You overpaid,” they said. “This franchise is a dying dog.”
Well, jokes on them. Kraft turned that dying dog into a dynasty. He built a new stadium. He hired Belichick. He drafted Brady. And the rest is history.
What We Learned
So before Robert Kraft, the Patriots were owned by a dreamer, a gambler, and a guy who wanted to steal the team. They were broke, homeless, and a punchline.
Kraft didn’t just buy a football team. He bought a project. A hot mess. And he turned it into the greatest sports empire of the modern era.
Next time you watch a game at Gillette Stadium, tip your hat to Billy Sullivan (he meant well). Shake your head at Victor Kiam (yikes). And give a tiny, grumpy nod to James Orthwein—because if he’d succeeded, we’d be talking about the St. Louis Stallions right now. And that’s just sad.