THE VENN DIAGRAM of men who are professional cornerbacks and men who deeply enjoy talking about themselves is very nearly just one circle on top of another circle. But there is, toward the bottom of the diagram, a tiny sliver of arc where the lines bend and the overlap gets a little bit blurry, and that is where you find Stephon Gilmore.

Now, Gilmore is trying. Over the past year, he has heard from everyone, including his own wife, that he needs to open his mouth. It is time, they say. It is necessary. So Gilmore is grudgingly dipping his toe into the shallow pool of self-promotion.

"Honestly, it just doesn't feel right," he says to me at one point during a recent conversation, describing the sensation that comes with praising himself as "weird" and "bizarre." He likened its aftermath to a "burning" in his stomach. "I don't think it will ever feel normal," he says. "I'm not sure I want it to either."

Gilmore's general reticence is authentic. Tyrod Taylor, a former teammate in Buffalo, recalls Gilmore as "literally the quietest" player he has known in the NFL. Sammy Watkins, another former teammate, says Gilmore doesn't talk much trash on the field -- "because he doesn't talk at all." When Devin McCourty, the Patriots' defensive captain, is asked what role Gilmore fills during the daily banter sessions among New England's defensive backs, McCourty looks flummoxed. "Well, he laughs when other people say something funny," he finally offers.

Gilmore's on-field credentials are impeccable: He had six interceptions in the regular season, tied for the most in the league. He has returned more interceptions for touchdowns (two) than he has allowed to receivers (one). He is a magician, turning the NFL's top pass-catchers into tiny rabbits that vanish inside his hat; earlier this season, he faced Amari Cooper, Odell Beckham Jr. and JuJu Smith-Schuster, allowing the trio just 11 catches and 130 yards combined.

In a somewhat underwhelming (by Patriots standards) 12-4 season in which the offense was less than its typically explosive self, Gilmore's reliability was staggering. And that constancy is what ultimately convinced him he needs to speak up, if only to make a statement on behalf of "all the other quiet guys" who get overlooked because they're not the brassiest.

To be clear: Gilmore is doing it on his terms. The godfather of the showman/shutdown corner is Deion Sanders, who had his own dance move, the "Primetime" nickname, an abundance of flashy clothes and a litany of antics that included once showing up to training camp in a Mercedes-Benz golf cart. Behind him is a long line of corners who would almost never hesitate to spew an entertaining sermon of self-promotion in full Deion fashion: Ty Law, Richard Sherman, Josh Norman, Aqib Talib, Jalen Ramsey and many, many more.

Gilmore, for his part, is fairly certain he'll never dance on the field. He mostly keeps his promotion to the relative soundlessness of social media (he often just reposts other people's compliments). When I meet him in Foxborough, he walks up wearing wind pants and the sort of duck boots your dad might wear to shovel the driveway.

"Do you think you're the best corner in the NFL?" I ask, and he hesitates, just for a second. But the questions come more frequently these days, and Gilmore has decided that -- however awkward it might feel -- he must talk (at least a little).

Are you the best corner in the NFL?

"Yes," he says.

GILMORE MET HIS wife, Gabrielle, when they were both student-athletes at South Carolina (Gabby ran track). It took about a month of Gabby trying different topics before Gilmore actually began talking to her, she says, but they fell in love and now have two children: Sebastian, who is 4, and Gisele, who is 2.

The Gilmore kids, according to their mother, "do not chill." They have "a different kind of motor" than the standard toddler, which generally results in them "destroying the playroom" on a daily basis.

Gabby says she and her husband have different strategies when it comes to playing defense against this wiggly, adorable hurry-up offense. "If it's happening, I'm sort of freaking out, running in there, trying to stop them from taking out another toy when there are like 50 toys already on the floor."

Gilmore, however, prefers to stand back from the mayhem. "His patience is ridiculous," she says. "He doesn't get upset, and he doesn't jump in. He's literally like, 'Sebastian -- please put the toy back in the box.' He just, like, waits. I don't know how he does it."

This is consistent with Gilmore's overall philosophy: Chaos should be bypassed in favor of a focused, steady plan with a clearly defined end result. The goal -- whether it is more interceptions or fewer dump trucks on the rug -- is always in view.

In high school, that meant seeking out a math tutor on his own because Gilmore had decided there was no way he was going to be sent to junior college. At South Carolina, it meant switching positions -- Gilmore actually came up as a quarterback -- because it was clear he was more likely to make the pros on defense. When he arrived in the NFL, it meant dialing back on heavy weights work in favor of focusing on explosiveness and his back-pedaling technique, which he knew would be necessary as the league became more and more fixated on passing.

And then, when he signed with the Patriots in 2017, it meant never relaxing or letting down, not even in walk-throughs. Not even if it meant drawing the ire of the Patriots' veterans.

McCourty recalls, somewhat gleefully, one of the very first walk-throughs Gilmore participated in with New England. Generally, the defense lays back in these workouts, allowing the offense to script out a few plays and make some easy completions. "I remember Tom [Brady] threw the first one over and Steph jumped in and picked it," McCourty says. "Then he threw another one over -- like, real easy, expecting it to be simple as it always was -- and Steph broke it up again."

McCourty giggles. "Tom and Jules [Julian Edelman] were pissed."

Gilmore's explanation is simply that he never wants to give up a repetition, never wants to pass on an opportunity to train his brain. It makes sense when you realize that Gilmore's overriding on-field strategy is the same one he brings to parenting his kids: patience. Over the past few years, while working with trainer Jeremy Boone and veteran cornerback Dre Bly in the offseason, Gilmore has refined a playing style that resembles the methodology that puzzle masters use to tackle a sudoku.

In the same way that the puzzler uses a process of elimination to cross out a number once it becomes clear that the digit can't be the answer for a specific box, Gilmore comes to the line of scrimmage for each play and quickly processes all the evidence in front of him. He has a list, as he puts it, "of a lot of little things that add up to something bigger." Where is the receiver on the field? What down and distance is it? What defense are his teammates in and, more important, how does that look to the quarterback? Which way is the receiver leaning? As the answers pour into his head, he mentally crosses off the various routes his opponent might run until he is left with only one or two options.

It is, Gilmore says, a proactive approach instead of a reactive one. And Week 15 against the Cincinnati Bengals was the textbook example: Gilmore intercepted Andy Dalton twice, returning one for a touchdown. On each play, Gilmore knew exactly where receiver Tyler Boyd was going to run.

Take the last pick, which helped seal the Patriots' victory. Gilmore cycled through his mental checklist: A second-and-long meant the Bengals would try a quick pass to get into a more reasonable third down. The Patriots' pressure meant Dalton wouldn't have time to throw deep. Boyd's position meant he was heading to the edge of the field, not the middle.

At the snap, Gilmore simply let the route develop as he knew it would, then stepped in front of the throw to make the interception.

In general, this is why Gilmore doesn't jam receivers at the line as often as many other corners; in his view, it actually hurts him instead of helping him. Remember, chaos is to be avoided.

"If it takes them out of their route, that's bad," he says, "because most of the time I know where they're going anyway, so I don't want to get in their way."

ONE DAY LAST June, while a group of team executives and current and former Patriots were on a trip to Israel, Robert Kraft, the team's owner, pulled aside former cornerback Ty Law. Kraft had been enjoying watching Law, a Hall of Fame corner, spend time with Gilmore as they stopped at sights along the Sea of Galilee.

"You know," Kraft said into Law's ear as he nodded toward Gilmore, "he reminds me of you."

Law nodded. Part of the comparison is surely circumstantial, since Gilmore had a critical interception in the Patriots' most recent Super Bowl win and Law had one to help seal the Patriots' title in 2002. But Law sees Gilmore the same way, going as far as saying that when he watches Gilmore play, he feels as though it keeps "my legacy alive." To Law -- and, clearly, to Kraft -- Gilmore is the next in a lineage of top defensive backs who might be less famous than, say, the Patriots quarterback but are no less critical to the team's dynastic success.

Understand: Brady's durability, his arm strength, his imperviousness to pressure -- all of it is otherworldly. But it is also impossible to ignore the defensive component to his legacy. Law was the best player on the 2003 championship team. We all know the Patriots don't win Super Bowl XLIX without Malcolm Butler's last-second interception, and they certainly don't win Super Bowl LI either if the defense doesn't hold the league's top offense that year to just seven points in the second half.

In fact, according to Pro Football Reference, the Patriots' four best offensive seasons during the Belichick/Brady era produced no titles. Conversely, in two of their four best defensive seasons, they did win a title. (And, for what it's worth, their defense this season is statistically better than any of those.)

All of which is to say: Gilmore knows the history here. He wears No. 24, the same as Law and Darrelle Revis, two corners who defined generations at the position. Gilmore wanted it because so many of his favorite corners -- Law and Revis, but also Champ Bailey and Charles Woodson -- have made it one of the league's most historic numerals.

To some, that pedigree would be daunting, but Gilmore has never shied away from it, not since he took over the number from Terrence McGee, 10-year veteran and holder of multiple Bills records, during Gilmore's sophomore season in Buffalo.

Gilmore spent the first five years of his career with the Bills, dealing with a slew of different coaches and coordinators, injuries to his wrist and shoulder, and a pile of losses that left many Bills players struggling to stand out amid the wreckage.

"When a season doesn't go well, sometimes people will jump ship, but he never did," says Rex Ryan, who coached Gilmore in Buffalo. Gilmore had five interceptions and 48 combined tackles and made the Pro Bowl in 2016, even as the Bills went 7-9 and Ryan was fired. "If they were all like him, I'd still be there," Ryan adds. "I honestly think we'd have won Super Bowls."

Instead, Bill Belichick targeted Gilmore, looking to add him to a considerable personal canon of corners. Belichick came up as an assistant working with the secondary, and even before he was a head coach, he helped the Giants beat the Bills in Super Bowl XXV by relying on his defensive backs to shut down Buffalo's passing game, virtually ignoring star running back Thurman Thomas. In New England, Law and Revis were panaceas for Belichick that covered up holes elsewhere, and Gilmore now joins Revis as one of only two corners in nearly 20 years on which Belichick has bestowed jaw-dropping money (five years, $65 million).

He isn't regretting it either. When Gilmore shut down Brandin Cooks and the Patriots stifled the Rams to win the Super Bowl last season, Belichick -- who isn't exactly known for his effusiveness -- pulled Gilmore close after the final whistle and said, "That was incredible."

GABBY AND THE kids gathered around the table one afternoon in September as the family prepared to celebrate Gilmore's birthday. Gabby brought out a beautiful ice cream cake that had been iced with a sprawling Patriots logo, a giant "24" and "Happy Birthday, Stephon" written in script. The cake was gorgeous and the children clamored.

Then, in front of Gilmore, Gabby put down two salads -- one that had "Happy B-Day Stephon" written on top of it in carrot strips and another that had "Happy B-Day 24" artfully dribbled in dressing.

Yes, for his 29th birthday, Gilmore cut loose and had ... "cakes" made out of salad. ("I preferred the ice cream," Gabby says.)

Gabby wasn't surprised, though. How could she be? This is who Gilmore is, how he works. The only time Gabby has ever seen her husband drink alcohol was after the Super Bowl last season, and even then it was only because of a bet between the two of them: If the Patriots won, she got to make him take a shot. They did, so she did.

"I gave him Tito's, and he got it down," she says. "But he wasn't thrilled about it."

At this point, Gabby -- and everyone else -- knows Gilmore's commitment to his routines are well ingrained. Gabby and the children go back and forth between Massachusetts and the Charlotte area during the season, often leaving Gilmore on his own during the week; it is a situation that makes him crave more time with his kids, to be sure, but also allows him the freedom to be meticulous about how he prepares to play.

He follows the diet laid out for him by New England's trainers after they analyzed his blood work. He spends hours organizing the notebooks he keeps on every receiver he has ever faced, updating and reviewing the tendencies of his next target. He gets four massages per week, a nod to his approaching 30 and the reality that he is, by NFL standards, at least, no longer young.

He does occasionally get more involved on social media than he has in the past -- he had a brief back-and-forth with DeAndre Hopkins after the Texans-Pats game in December -- but while Gilmore's personality has blossomed a bit, his determination to avoid vanity remains resolute. Even his touchdown celebration is muted. There are no pantomimed slam dunks or elaborate dance steps here; when Gilmore ran back his pick against the Bengals, he simply stood in the end zone with his hands behind his back, staring up into the crowd.

The display, which came from a suggestion by Kyle Van Noy, was perfect, symbolizing the handcuffs Gilmore puts on other teams while also highlighting his staid, detached approach to a position generally seen as anything but.

"I know what is typical, and I know that I'm not that ..." Gilmore tells me, his voice trailing off. He looks up. "But really," he says, "why should that matter?"

It certainly doesn't to New England. In fact, some of Gilmore's teammates have even taken steps to assist in filling the void of smack-talk that one would expect to come from a lockdown corner.

Increasingly this season, McCourty says, a number of Patriots, often led by Van Noy, run into the scrum of players after Gilmore breaks up a pass or delivers a hit simply to shout insults on Gilmore's behalf. "They'll get in there and be like, 'Yeah! He's mad because he's got zero catches!'" McCourty says. "Even though they didn't have anything to do with him having zero catches."

Many players wouldn't like that -- they wouldn't want anyone stealing their thunder. But this suits Gilmore just fine. In fact, it is actually what he prefers.

He knows how good he is. He would just rather have other people say it.