Coming Back Stronger (6 page)

When I got back from the trip, I was introduced to our new coach, Marty Schottenheimer. I loved the guy from the start. I’d still run through a wall for him. But when I started out, I was a young quarterback who needed to learn, grow, mature, and develop. He was a hard-nosed football coach who knew only one way. He helped toughen me up mentally and emotionally. He talked about the great quarterbacks he had coached in the past—guys like Bernie Kosar, Joe Montana, and Rich Gannon. I just hoped he would be talking about me like that someday.

Marty was passionate about coaching. He always wore his emotions on his sleeve. If he was talking about somebody he cared about, he’d get choked up. He’d cry at half the team meetings too—that was just his personality. And if you were sitting in the front row, your chances of catching some of his saliva on your forehead from the speech he was giving were pretty good. Behind that passion was always a very articulate and specific message. Marty was a great communicator and motivator, and he had an old-school mentality of taking pride in being tough. That was one of the things we loved about him. “We’re gonna pound the ball! We’re gonna play great defense! And we’re gonna hit ’em in the mouth.” That was saying it nicely.

At training camp in the summer of 2002, Marty introduced a new set of coaches: Cam Cameron, Brian Schottenheimer, and Pete Carmichael. Marty sized up the quarterback situation and said, “Competition’s open, Drew and Doug. And whoever wins this job will have earned it—I can promise you that.”

Doug and I battled it out that preseason. Doug was a fierce competitor, and his desire to keep the job made me better. Competition seems to bring out the best in everyone. By the time regular season began, I was named starting quarterback. To be perfectly honest, I think it was dead even between me and Doug. But the fact was, he was forty years old and I was twenty-three. Marty seemed to like the upside of the young buck, although he could certainly appreciate the fight the old dog still had in him. I started every game that year.

Then came a pivotal moment in a matchup against Buffalo, the fourteenth game of the season. We had gotten off to a blistering start that year, winning six of our first seven games, but now we were stalled. After a tough few weeks, we had an 8–5 record and still had a good shot at making the playoffs. We were losing to the Bills at Orchard Park, New York. Nobody on our team was playing well. I know I wasn’t. In the fourth quarter Marty came up to me on the sideline and said, “I’m going to pull you, and I’m going to put Flutie in.”

I knew Doug had some loaded history with the Bills after his time playing there. He was pretty pumped up for the game, and I could understand that. But I couldn’t believe that Marty would take me out. So I voiced my displeasure.

“We just need a spark right now,” Marty said. “I think Doug can do that for us.”

I could understand it from a coaching perspective, but I also remembered what Doug had told me about not letting your backup see the field. This was the first time anybody had pulled me out of a game like that. Coaches had taken me out because we were up by four touchdowns, more of a “Hey, great job—you’re done for the day” kind of thing. But this wasn’t a reward; this was pulling me for somebody else. And I wasn’t about to let that happen.

“No, I’m not coming out,” I said.

Marty recognized the fire in me and said, “You’re still the starter. It’s just for this game.”

I was angry and hurt, and I kept pushing. “No, you can’t do this. This is my team. I’m not coming out.”

He said, “Oh yes, you are. Doug is in.”

I fought Marty really hard, but there’s a point when you finally have to relent to the head coach. There was nothing I could say or do to change his mind. I realized I had to accept his decision and support the team.

We wound up losing our last four games and went 8–8 that year. Once again we missed the playoffs. But as we assessed the past few seasons, we could see a gradual improvement in the team. We had gone from winning one game to five games to eight games. That progression gave us hope for the next year. Our talent level was off the charts, and so were our expectations.

But in 2003, things didn’t work out as planned. Looking back, I can see how the adversity of that season helped prepare me for better things down the road, but it was excruciating at the time. I was still a young player, with much to learn about playing in the big leagues. Going into that season, we were as talented a team as I’d ever known, and the expectation was playoffs or bust. Unfortunately, it ended up being a huge bust. Injuries plagued us all season long, but the real problem was our youth, inexperience, and lack of leadership. When things started going downhill early in the season with a 0–5 start, the finger-pointing began.

No one wanted to admit they were at fault, so instead, players went around blaming everyone else. Cliques began forming on the team, and people would either bash the coaches or talk about the other guys behind their backs. The negativity became like a disease that spread throughout our team and infected us all to the point that we were completely dysfunctional. There was so much distrust in each other and in the system that the young guys didn’t know who to follow.

The fact is, we were all to blame. Especially me, because it’s my job as a quarterback to squash that kind of stuff the minute it rears its ugly head. But I was young and probably not equipped to handle it at the time. Still, you live and learn. Sometimes you have to go through some deep valleys in order to climb the next mountain.

The lowest point of that season came in the eighth game of the year. We were 1–6 and playing at Chicago. The minute I got into the game, I began putting intense pressure on myself. I desperately wanted things to turn around with this game. I knew I needed to relax and just play, but I couldn’t loosen up. This led to forced throws, and I played terribly for the first three quarters.

Near the end of the third quarter, we were down 13–0. Chicago had just kicked a field goal, putting us behind by two scores. If we were going to win, I knew we needed a big momentum shift. And it was up to me to create it.

After playing poorly the whole game, I saw this as my opportunity to come in and fix things, just like I’d done in college many times before. Cam Cameron, our offensive coordinator, called the play—a pass to wide receiver Tim Dwight—and I hesitated. I was lacking a bit of confidence, so I didn’t turn the ball loose and fire it in there like I should have. The throw was late, and the ball got knocked down. Incomplete.

On second down, another pass play was called, so I went through my read and threw it out in the flat. LaDainian Tomlinson got pushed out-of-bounds almost immediately for a short three-yard gain. So now we were third and seven, in Chicago territory. We called a pass play, and I felt confident we would get the first down. Tim Dwight ran the route again, and like most routes in an NFL offense, it required trust and timing for it to work—neither of which I had at that moment. Tim ran a nine-yard stop route, a pass I normally could complete in my sleep. He was open, and I threw it, but again my lack of confidence caused me to airmail the ball high and behind him. I was so afraid of making a mistake or making a bad throw that ironically, that’s what inevitably happened. When you think negative thoughts, negative things usually happen. On the flip side, when you think positively and visualize success, that’s usually what you get. It’s amazing how that works. Tim tried to recover to make the catch, but the ball slipped through his fingers. Incomplete again. Fourth down.

As I jogged off the field, reality set in. That was my opportunity to save my job, and I blew it. I realized I was about to get benched.

I got to the sideline, and sure enough Marty Schottenheimer came up to me. “I’m pulling you. Doug’s in.” I could see in Marty’s eyes that he was ready for a fight. He was remembering that game in Buffalo and the fire I’d shown him. He was expecting me to get in his face and refuse to come out of the game.

But by that point I was defeated mentally and emotionally. In my entire professional career, I’d never been this low. So instead of fighting with him, I just took off my helmet. “I understand.”

As I headed to the bench, I thought about my quarterbacks coach from Purdue, Greg Olson, who was now the quarterbacks coach for the Bears. He was a mentor to me, not only in my growth as a quarterback, but also in my maturity as a person. He’d been key in helping me approach the game professionally and develop a strong work ethic. We’d spent countless hours at Purdue studying film, with Coach Olson guiding me through each play, each mistake, so I could learn from it.

Knowing my former coach was across the field had been added incentive for me to play well that game. I wanted to impress him and show him that all his hard work was for a purpose. And now, instead of excelling, I’d just been benched.

We ended up losing to Chicago 20–7. Doug Flutie finished out the game at quarterback and led us on a scoring drive capped off by a LaDainian Tomlinson touchdown, but it was too little, too late. It was a devastating loss, bringing our record to 1–7. After the game, I was more disheartened than I’d ever been. The little confidence I’d had left seemed to have dried up. I walked across the field and found Greg. I saw the hurt in his eyes. He’s hurting for me.

“Hey, things are going to be okay,” Greg said, putting his arm around me. He continued to try to console me as I nodded to acknowledge his efforts.

I was fighting back tears. I felt lost. Suddenly something came over me—sort of a courageous feeling. I stepped back and looked him dead in the eyes. With my chin still quivering a bit, I choked out, “I’m going to be a great player in this league someday.”

It was kind of a funny thing to say at that moment, after such a miserable performance. But my hope was returning. I knew the kind of person I was—I knew I was capable of playing well. Something inside was telling me I was not going to go out like that. I had gotten this far; I was not about to give up now.

Greg looked at me, and I noticed there was a mist in his eyes too. “I know you are.”

Marty benched me for the next five games. I had let my backup see the field . . . and now I was the backup.

I could have looked at this benching as a huge negative, but gradually I started moving beyond the disappointment and seeing it as something that could help me. I wanted to use this obstacle to help me become a better player, a better man. The truth is, you don’t learn much from winning, but losing can make you a lot stronger. Some say experience is what you gain when you don’t get what you want. In that case, I was gaining a lot of experience on the bench. I can look back on that time now and say it was exactly what I needed.

I couldn’t have made it through that season without Brittany’s support. We had been married only nine months then, and already she was getting dragged along on this roller-coaster ride. When I returned to San Diego after the game in Chicago, I was lower than I’d ever been. I lugged all my bags into the house and couldn’t believe what I saw. There were sticky notes and signs everywhere! In the living room, in the kitchen, in the hallway, on the stairs—they were all over. You’re the greatest! You’re the best! Best husband ever! The best quarterback! You can’t keep a good man down! I went to our bathroom and saw that she’d taped pictures of me on the mirror—shots of all the great moments of my athletic career, from high school to the pros. Her support helped me bounce back after the big hit I’d taken. I am so blessed to have her in my life.

Marty’s goal was for me to gain perspective while I was on the bench, and for those weeks that’s exactly what I tried to do. Being on the sideline gives you an advantage you don’t have when you’re playing: you get to observe like a spectator. When a fan watches the game on TV or in the stands, things seem so obvious. “Man, how did he not see that guy? He was wide open.” I was the Monday morning quarterback for a change.

It was this perspective that helped me simplify the game and learn from what I saw. The last couple of games I had operated in a haze because of the pressure I was putting on myself. I realized I was making the game so much more complicated than it really needed to be. Before that point in my career, I’d felt invincible. I thought I could make every play. That meant that every time I stepped onto the field, I had to make every play. When you go into a game with that mind-set, you put undue pressure on yourself. And you’re destined to fail.

That period of warming the bench also gave me a chance to evaluate my attitude toward my teammates and my coaches. Human nature tells me to be angry and resentful and defensive when things don’t go my way—to seek revenge. I always have to fight that. The more positive approach is to step back and look at reality. This is not what I anticipated. But how can I make the most of it? What’s the silver lining? This door may be closed, but there has to be an open window somewhere. Anyone can see the adversity in a difficult situation, but it takes a stronger person to see the opportunity.

From the sideline I heard the play called. Flutie went into the huddle, then came to the line of scrimmage. I looked at the defense and immediately sized up the play: Our best matchup is the single receiver to our left. He should throw it there. Sure enough, Doug dropped back and threw it to the left. That was easy. Another play came in, and it was evident right away that we should check from the run to a pass because of the blitz look on defense. It was all coming back—the reasons I loved this game, the reasons I’d dedicated my life to it. This is what I was meant to do. If I was given another opportunity, I knew I’d be ready. I would go back out there and show them what I could do.

Doug started five games, and then Marty approached me again. “Okay, it’s time to put you back in.”

I was ready.

Game fourteen of the 2003 season was against the Green Bay Packers. I would get the chance to face off against Brett Favre, one of the great quarterbacks of all time, in front of our home crowd. They ended up beating us, but it was clear that this was the beginning of a new era for me. I turned some balls loose, the kind you can throw only when you have complete confidence and trust in what you’re doing. No hesitation, no doubt, no fear of making a mistake. On that Sunday, I made progress as a starting quarterback in the league. Sitting on the bench had helped me develop a stiff upper lip. I was tougher now.

After that we traveled to Pittsburgh—our next-to-last game of the season. The Steelers scored on their first three possessions. The game had barely begun, and already they were beating us 21–0. But then our offense started to click. We scored two touchdowns and a field goal, bringing the tally to 21–17. It was now the third quarter, and we had the ball with a chance to take the lead. Maybe this is our chance for a turnaround, I thought. This could be the spark!

I fumbled.

On the next possession I threw an interception.

Those two mistakes led to ten more points on the scoreboard for the Steelers. Later in the fourth quarter, I threw a pass underneath to LaDainian Tomlinson, but he was blocked by the official. As he came to the other side of the referee, he reached back for the ball and tipped it off his hand. Deshea Townsend intercepted it and ran it back. Touchdown.

Suddenly we were down sixteen points with four minutes left in the game. We’d had a chance at the lead, and then bang, bang, bang—three critical turnovers in a matter of a few minutes. By then the game was out of reach.

When I got to the sideline, I was more frustrated than I’d ever been. Marty came over and said, “You’re out.”

I don’t know how to describe what I felt in that moment. The fire inside had returned, and I wasn’t going down without a fight. “I am not leaving this game. I deserve to be in there. Don’t give up on me.”

We went at it for a while on the sideline. If you watch the footage of the game, you’ll see two people who want to win with two different ideas about how to make it happen. In the end, it was his decision—he was the head coach. He pulled me and I sat. Actually, pacing was more like it. I walked up and down the sideline, trying to keep my head from exploding.

We ended up losing 40–24. As the team headed to the locker room after the game, Marty and I went at it again in the hallway. We didn’t call each other names or tear each other down; we were just two passionate guys who each believed he was right. I didn’t feel like I deserved to get pulled, and he felt like he was doing what was best for the team—and for me.

“Listen,” Marty finally said. “You’re still our starter, and you’re going to start next week. But you need to realize how you win and how you lose in this league. You were playing well, and then all of a sudden you turned it over three times. I don’t care how the turnovers happened. The fact is, you turned the ball over three times. And when that happens, I’m pulling your a–– out of the game.”

The next game, our final game of the year, we played the Oakland Raiders at home. The wildfires in California had messed up our practice and game schedule earlier in the year, and it was good to be back at Qualcomm. I started the game, and we won 21–14.

When the smoke cleared for the season, our record was a dismal 4–12. What a waste of talent and expectations. The only good thing about it all was that because we had the worst record in the NFL, we now got the first pick in the draft—a draft that incidentally would end up having a big influence on my future as a Charger. But despite our record, the 2003 season hadn’t been a waste. I felt like I’d learned a lot from all of it—the losses, the disappointments, even the benching. My faith was also strengthened during this time, as was as my relationship with our team chaplain, Pastor Shawn Mitchell. He would pull me aside regularly to pray for me at our team facility, and he even prayed for me on the phone one time as I was driving down the highway. He was full of God’s Spirit and was always looking to pass on that grace and mercy to me.

I couldn’t wait to get back on the field in 2004.

However, there were now questions from the front office. “Is Drew the guy? He was benched two times. The team went 4–12. Maybe it’s time to go another direction.”

We were working under new management. John Butler, who had drafted me out of Purdue, had lost his nine-month battle with cancer in April 2003. The new general manager, A. J. Smith, hadn’t drafted me, and he certainly wasn’t convinced that my play deserved another season. He was determined to do whatever it took not to go 4–12 again. And despite the fact that he still had Flutie and me on the roster, it seemed as if he wanted to look on the outside to find the future of the franchise.

Going into that off-season, Cam Cameron asked me to come into his office. He closed the door and looked straight at me. “Drew, I’m just letting you know . . . I don’t think they would want me to tell you this, but I owe it to you: they are going to bring somebody in.”

“Another quarterback?”

He nodded. “It’s going to be a free agent or maybe a high draft pick. Now, I can promise you this: you will have the opportunity to compete. But you need to be prepared.”

I thanked him for telling me. “That’s all I want—just let me have a chance.”

“I’ll be honest with you. At the other side of the building, they don’t believe in you. Marty has confidence in you; I have confidence in you; Brian has confidence in you. But you have to be ready to compete for this job. Basically you’re going to have to win your job back.”

I was up for a fight. But I needed a plan to give me an edge on my competition.