Quiet Strength (17 page)

The only thing veterans still got were some seniority privileges: signing up for weightlifting times, selecting plane seats, and so forth. I made everyone share a room with another player, so veteran players no longer enjoyed single rooms. I’ve since shifted my thinking on this a bit. We can all learn and adapt even though our principles remain intact, right? Now I allow players to have single rooms on the night before games if they so choose. They’ve convinced me that sleeping patterns can be dramatically different, and too many guys were complaining that their sleep was being disrupted. I do still require roommates at camp, however.

After all the changes to the roster and the beginnings of change to the team’s attitude, we hit the ground running. We were facing the Green Bay Packers in the season opener on the first day of September 1996, in Tampa, and our guys were excited and ready to play. We felt like we were much better than previous Bucs teams mentally, physically, and emotionally, and we embraced the challenge of facing the team that had won our division the year before. I had given the team a talk at the end of the preseason to remind them of the players’ responsibilities and to point out that it might take some time to get the team turned around:

“Coaches can’t tell you everything—if they could, we would need fifty-three coaches. It has to come from you. We
will
get it—eventually. Probably not this year, but we’re going to get the details covered.” But we all believed that the effects of our efforts would be noticed immediately on the field against the Packers.

By halftime we were down 24–3 on our way to a 34–3 loss. Herm turned to me in the locker room and said, “This may be a
little
tougher than we thought.”

There was no doubt about that. After dropping the opener, we headed off to Detroit, where we lost. Then we went to Denver and lost again. The Denver game was one we should have won but for a mistake here and a mistake there. The following week I gave a speech at a United Way rally in Tampa, using the following notes:

“We won’t panic. There won’t be wholesale changes. [We will]
do what we do
because it’s good. Because it’s right. Also, we can’t and won’t let anything from the outside split us up.”

We hung in there as a unit and returned home to face the Seattle Seahawks. The announced crowd was just over thirty thousand, but there couldn’t have been twenty-five thousand in the stands. I kept a video of the beginning of that game, because it had a shot of the crowd at kickoff. That crowd certainly didn’t look “crowded” up there to me. We lost 17–13, squandering a big lead in the fourth quarter. As we walked off the field, a fan hung over the opening, yelling that we stank and that he was never coming back. I remember thinking that day that we really needed to show these people something positive, some progress. I knew it would happen—but when?

The following day I opened the team meeting by showing the game video and telling the team to have faith.

“There is going to be a time soon when fans won’t be able to get a ticket to come to these games. Just hang in there and do what we do, and it will take care of itself.”

We were at home again the following week against Detroit. (As further proof of what a small world it is, Wayne Fontes—the Southern Cal recruiting coordinator who had talked Marvin Powell and Gary Jeter and countless others into playing football for Rich McKay’s dad—manned the other sideline as Detroit’s head coach.) The Lions shut us out and won big. Another debacle. I was thankful that we had a bye the next week and a chance for the guys to get away from football for a while. At this point we were 0–5 with two close losses and three that weren’t so close. We all needed a little time to regroup.

During our bye week, Bryan and Joel Glazer took me to lunch. As Mr. Glazer’s sons, they were in day-to-day control of the team. I was certain they were going to offer suggestions or at least point out that the Buccaneers had been better than this in 1995. But instead of giving advice, they assured me that they were in it for the long haul. They understood that my plan might take time to implement, and they were willing to wait.

“Whatever it is you need to do, you have our complete support.”

This was a very special moment for me, and it remains a wonderful memory. I was so encouraged to have their backing at that low point in my first season with the Bucs.

I brought the coaches in for a meeting that week and gave them the same message, this time coming from me. “We’re going to get this turned around soon,” I told them. “You guys have been great, and the players are buying into what you’re teaching. We don’t have any wins to show for it yet, but we are playing better, and I can see little improvements, even if the rest of the world doesn’t. So hang in there. You have my complete support.”

I called Coach Noll and asked his advice. “Don’t change what you believe in,” he told me. “My first year we won our first game but then lost thirteen in a row. The next year we lost our first four games. Stick with what you want to do, even though it’s not always going to be easy.” Similarly, another experienced NFL coach, Dick Vermeil, called to tell me to stick with my plan. He said it looked to him like we were making progress.

Do what we do.

I never doubted we were heading in the right direction, but it was affirming and important to have the owners’ and my coaching peers’ encouragement. Today, whenever I notice other coaches who might need a word of encouragement, I always try to offer it.

We came off our bye week to face Minnesota. Chris Foerster and I had a pretty good idea about their talent and schemes, which probably gave the players a little more confidence. They needed it. After all, Minnesota had the best record in the NFL at 5–1, while we were 0–5. And all the while we were telling our guys that our plan was working. We tried to make sure that our Wednesday team meeting was upbeat.

“This is a perfect setup to get our first win,” I told them. “We’ve had a good week of practice, and we’re the healthiest we’ve been all season. They’re the best team in the NFL, but we’re getting better each week. Our plan is solid, but this won’t be a ‘game-plan game.’ It will be a passion game. Execution. Attitude. Protect the ball. Have a little swagger.”

We took the field and did all of those things. We trailed 7–0 at halftime. In the second half we scored three touchdowns, including an amazing play by Mike Alstott. Not only was he the battering ram we were expecting on that play, he pushed two guys backward from the five yard line and extended the ball gracefully into the end zone just as he was knocked out of bounds—touchdown. Once we had the lead, Warren Sapp sacked Warren Moon and caused a fumble, which our Chidi Ahanotu recovered. All of a sudden we realized,
We’re going to win.
I can still remember the excitement and relief we felt as the clock wound down and we wrapped up our victory, 24–13.

We gathered for a postgame prayer. We always prayed, as a lot of teams do, both before and after the game. This particular prayer still stands out—not for what was said, which I can’t remember, but because I hoped the guys now realized we were going to give thanks in all circumstances. We had already prayed together following our five losses. I wanted them to know that a great win would not change our core values. We would thank God both as gracious losers and as grateful winners.

Although we had a chance to get on a roll then, we didn’t. In fact, we began another slide as we dropped three more games in a row and fell to 1–8. One of the three, however, was the Packers again, this time up in Green Bay. We lost 13–7, but it was better than being crushed as we had during our first game against those guys. Green Bay was a playoff team, and we had significantly closed the gap. The plan was slowly working.

Do what we do.

Whatever it takes.

No excuses, no explanations.

I pointed to the evidence and made sure the team knew that we had improved, but I also let them know I expected more from them. I said I would continue to treat them as adults—the way I would want to be treated—but I reminded them that there was an alternative.

“A lot of people say I’ve got to make you afraid—afraid of being cut, afraid of me. I don’t believe that’s true.” I have always believed that if you tell people what needs to be done, they will do it—if they believe you and your motives for telling them. I knew these guys would see through manipulation but would respond to motivation.

I also told the team that, despite my soft-spoken approach, I would hold each of them accountable.

“There are three possible options to correct this and get where we need to be. One solution is for me to change, to decide I’m wrong, to change my vision for this team. That one is not going to happen. Another option is for you to change—put in more time, go harder, pay more attention to details. As a final option, we’ll simply have to go find other guys. Your choice.”

Dave Moore, one of our tight ends, later told me that he had expected me to blow up at the team that night. “I was always waiting for you to blow up in practice, at halftime, in a Monday game-film review,” he said. “With all the near misses that were resulting from guys just not paying attention to the details, I figured at some point you were going to lose it. But you never did. I don’t know how you did it, but I think that’s why we finally got the message.”

Dave forgot one incident, however.

I felt good about laying out those options for our team. I had let them know where I stood, and now I was ready to move on, turning my attention to our game the following week against the Raiders. But the next time we met at the facility, I completely lost my composure.

It was Wednesday before our game against the Raiders, and I was angry. My anger had nothing to do with football or our losing streak, however. I was upset because two players had missed personal appearances. Errict Rhett didn’t miss his appearance completely but was thirty minutes late for an autograph session at a car dealership. Regan Upshaw, on the other hand, completely missed a visit to a fourth-grade class. Making matters worse, this was the second time Regan had missed a visit to that class. This appearance was to have been the makeup that the teacher rescheduled after Regan missed the first. On Wednesday morning I had received a letter from that fourth-grade teacher, and it was painful to read. She was understandably upset, and what made it worse was the fact that she had explained Regan’s first absence to the class as a misunderstanding. Now, reading about the class’s disappointment when he didn’t show up for the second time, I was beside myself.

I began the Wednesday morning team meeting by telling the guys that we were not going to talk football—at all. Instead, I informed them of the incidents involving Rhett and Upshaw. “I don’t care about the Raiders,” I told them, “and I’m not going to talk about the Raiders. We need to focus on
us,
on changing our own attitudes and accountability. Obviously your word isn’t important to you if it doesn’t involve the game of football. You don’t seem to think being accountable off the field is important. But as far as I’m concerned, we are never going to win consistently until you all get rid of that attitude. The quicker you figure it out, the better.”

I told the team that Errict and Regan were not the disease but that they were merely symptoms of a bigger problem. Too many of our guys had the same attitude—they were unwilling to give 100 percent if they didn’t personally think it was important.

“What you don’t understand is that champions know it’s all important,” I said. “You have to understand that all the little things your coaches are asking of you really do matter. Knowing I can count on you is just as important to me as your talent. You’ll always find excuses for not doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. But that’s exactly what creates a losing environment.”

In 1996, we needed to change that losing environment so we could start doing what we do.

That incident still stands as my biggest blowup in a meeting in eleven years as a head coach. My description of the meeting is far calmer and more coherent than the meeting itself probably was, by the way.

We beat the Raiders that week. We went on to win five of our last seven games, including a game in San Diego in which I believe we grew up as a team. Until then, the Buccaneers hadn’t won a game on the West Coast in about ten years. Previous teams had tried all sorts of gimmicks to change their luck. They had gone two days early, gone one day early, kept their watches set to East Coast time, whatever. Anything and everything they could think of. I told our guys that it wasn’t complicated. It’s a game at one o’clock in San Diego, the same time as a four o’clock game in Tampa. Just do what we do.

We fell behind 14–0 in the first quarter. However, this time our guys stayed the course and played together. For the first time, we encountered adversity and overcame it. We chipped away at the Chargers’ lead, played great defense, and won 25–17. John Lynch and I later agreed that that game in San Diego was where our run of success in Tampa began.

As we prepared for the season finale against Chicago, I distributed a handout to the players. I wanted to make sure we kept teaching and encouraging all season long. Here is what I handed them:

The first step toward creating an improved future is developing the ability to envision it. VISION will ignite the fire of passion that fuels our commitment to do WHATEVER IT TAKES to achieve excellence. Only VISION allows us to transform dreams of greatness into the reality of achievement through human action. VISION has no boundaries and knows no limits. Our VISION is what we become in life.