FOXBOROUGH, Mass. -- The receiver was running at half speed.

The quarterback, Julian Edelman, simply could not stomach that.

Edelman had warned his Kent State teammate before. Run precise routes. Don't go through the motions. Do your job, even though the team had nothing left to play for but pride.

"But the kid just wasn't listening,'' former Kent State coach Doug Martin said.

The receiver was tired of Edelman riding him. He tuned out the diminutive QB, the know-it-all perfectionist who challenged coaches, baited teammates, kept pushing, pushing, pushing everyone to the brink.

"A lot of the guys didn't like him,'' former Kent State safety Brian Lainhart admitted.

They didn't understand how tirelessly Edelman worked for this opportunity, how many programs looked right through him like he wasn't there, even after dominating in high school, junior college and Kent State.

He was too small, barely 5-foot-2 through his first two years of high school. He had the ability, the drive, but he was manhandled by boys who had already reached puberty. His father Frank assured him, "The Edelmans are late bloomers. Wait 'til you are their size. It won't be fair.''

His father drilled him every day, seven days a week, season to season, football to basketball to baseball, before practice, after practice, on weekends. It was agility drills, conditioning drills, then 200 spirals or 200 jump shots or 200 ground balls.

"No more!" his mother Angie protested. "We're on vacation!"

But the father couldn't stop. He invented conflicts, challenged Julian mentally, reduced his son to tears. "I'm 12 years old and he's in my head,'' Edelman said. "I'm over there crying and he says, 'You have to master this part of it,' and finally I'd get so ticked off I'd battle him back.

"Keep on competing. That's all I knew.''

The Kent State receiver was messing with the wrong undersized, underappreciated football player. So when Edelman launched a pass and the kid didn't make the extra effort to haul it in, the option quarterback sprinted downfield, pinned the receiver to the ground and pummeled him with a flurry of fists.

"It was a brawl,'' Martin said. "But that was Julian, the most fiercely competitive kid I've ever had.''

Five years later, Edelman (now listed as 5-10, 198 pounds) is no longer a quarterback. He's a receiver, a punt returner, and, two seasons ago, when New England's secondary was depleted with injuries, a makeshift defensive back. Edelman will line up against the Indianapolis Colts on Saturday night as the most dangerous receiver in Tom Brady's arsenal, a player with more than 100 catches and 1,000 yards, who couldn't persuade a single NFL team to surpass the incentive-laden $716,000 the Patriots are paying him this season.

"I may have overreacted with that receiver at Kent State,'' Edelman said, "but I like to do things the right way. I was a fiery guy. I still am.''

In preseason, when players are vying for roster spots on the Patriots, skirmishes are frequent, heated, particularly among the receivers and the secondary.

"It's Edelman,'' Patriots DB Devin McCourty said. "If you are looking for someone in the middle of it, it's almost always him. There's no love lost between the DBs and Julian in training camp.''

"It's an everyday occurrence with him,'' corner Kyle Arrington confirmed. "He's an extreme competitor. He came out with that chip on his shoulder, a small guy from a small school. The chip's still there.''

Tight end Michael Hoomanawanui marvels at how Edelman bounces to his feet after crushing hits, still talking, still taking everyone on.

"It's every day,'' Hoomanawanui said. "It doesn't matter if it's big or small, Julian has something to say about it. It will be 'Why did you run that way?' or 'How come I didn't get the ball on that play?'

"The fire is always burning with him. Little man's syndrome, I guess.''

* * *

Frank Edelman lost his father when he was 3 years old. He was small but naturally gifted, and when his mom frequented the local taverns, he tagged along with his baseball mitt and a tennis ball. He played baseball in the back, designating a brick as his home run target. Sometimes he'd borrow his mother's hair spray cap and kick imaginary field goals.

As a quarterback at Kent State, Julian Edelman threw for 30 touchdowns and rushed for 2,483 yards in a span of three seasons. Andy Lyons/Getty Images

When Frank was a freshman cornerback in high school, he got beat on a deep route.

He quit. He had no father to encourage him to go back and try again.

Regret can be a powerful, lingering, aching sentiment. Frank Edelman's dreams ended when he went to work at an automotive shop to support his mother. He became consumed with making sure his sons fulfilled their potential.

"I was very athletic without any coaching at all,'' Frank explained. "I figured if my kids had a little help, maybe it would get them over the hump.''

So he put Julian in a pair of glasses with one eye plugged up with tape and threw him a football. He forced him to dribble left handed while his right hand was tied behind him. He threw him fastballs, right near his head.

Parents drove by and yelled out the window, "Frank! Why are you throwing bee bees at your 10-year-old son?"

"It was so bad,'' Frank lamented. "I was so possessed. We'd drive around and find a local baseball field and I'd hit him grounders, just enough not to ruin his arm. It was wrong.''

And, yet, the results were striking. Julian led his team to a 12-and-under national championship in Pop Warner. In basketball, he was the go-to guy for the last shot. He was a vacuum at shortstop, a .500 hitter.

He was the best athlete in his class -- until all those kids he ran circles around started growing. Edelman entered Woodside (Calif.) High at 4-foot-11, 70 pounds. Suddenly everyone was taller, bigger, stronger.

For years, Edelman had been chiding Sam Alipape, a talented but marginally motivated football teammate. Suddenly Alipape had 75 pounds on Edelman, so when Julian barked, "Move your lazy butt!" Alipape grabbed him and slammed his head into the locker.

"It was a rough three years,'' Frank said. "These kids he had been dominating wanted some payback.''

Julian Edelman finally grew his own 6 inches between junior and senior year. He led Woodside to a 13-0 mark with 2,237 yards and 29 touchdowns passing, and 964 yards and 13 touchdowns rushing.

He waited for the scholarship offers, but no one came calling, so he visited the College of San Mateo with his parents. Coach Bret Pollack proudly gestured to the photos of the All-Americans on the wall behind his desk. Edelman studied them, then asked Pollack, "Coach, where are you going to put my picture?"

Pollack was a physical education teacher and a fine badminton player. Edelman had never taken a swipe at a shuttlecock in his life, but declared, "I can beat you.''

The first game was 15-1. The next one was 15-2. Twenty games later, Edelman was only losing by a 15-9 margin, but his coach finally shut him down. "Kid," he said, "I've got to go home.'' Edelman desperately persisted. He couldn't handle "no."

"He gets a little fiery, but you can't take it personally,'' Pollack said. "He just wants to get something done.''

Pollack charted out each football practice, assigning points for a poor throw or a crisp route or a successful scramble. Edelman was the only player who kept track during workouts.