Quiet Strength (22 page)

“Hardy, your response to a situation is always critical, but it’s especially critical when you’re on the field as a Buc, because you’re one of our captains. I don’t know exactly what happened out on the field, but I do know what I told all of you just minutes before about how to conduct yourselves. If I can’t get the captains to respond appropriately and show the leadership I expect, how is anyone else going to respond?”

Hardy got the message. He apologized to the team and said he understood that in order to lead us in the right direction, he had to play with emotion but not lose his head. The next time he stepped onto the field, he went out as our leader and set the right tone for our team. I think it was important for the players to see this situation play out. Because I had been willing to send even Hardy from the field, they knew the rules applied equally to everyone. That day galvanized our growth as individuals and as a team.

The week of the Washington playoff game, I walked into the general manager’s office and found that Rich McKay already had company. When the man turned around, I realized it was Rich’s close friend Pat Haden, the former quarterback at Southern Cal. Rich and Pat had lived in the same house when Pat was in high school. I sat down in Rich’s office and asked, “Have I ever told you guys the story of how I chose to attend Minnesota over Southern Cal? As I recall, the quarterback lived with the McCay family. . . .”

The Redskins had beaten the Lions in the first round of the playoffs the week before we hosted them in our new stadium. We started miserably and trailed 3–0 at halftime. Our defense had been adequate, but our offense was misfiring. Before we headed out for the second half, I pointed out the obvious reasons for optimism.

“Guys, we’re kicking off to them. Our defense needs to give us a stop. Then we’ll get the ball back, score, and take the lead. Then we’ll be in good shape. We’ll keep playing our game, take control, and get the fans back into it. Take care of the ball. Don’t panic. Just play our game. We’ve got thirty minutes to play.”

Brian Mitchell ran back our kickoff one hundred yards for a touchdown. Trent then threw an interception, Washington kicked a field goal, and the score was 13–0. This was not the plan. Maybe I had given the wrong talk at halftime.

We gave the ball to the Redskins again, and as they were driving, our safety, John Lynch, stepped in front of their receiver and intercepted Brad Johnson’s pass. We then drove the length of the field for a Mike Alstott touchdown. We trailed 13–7 at the end of the third quarter. Fifteen minutes to play.

During the next few minutes, two fumbles aided our cause. Our defensive end Steve White forced Brad Johnson to fumble, and Warren Sapp recovered on Washington’s thirty-two yard line. As we were going in to score, Shaun King took the snap and fumbled on third down, but Warrick Dunn alertly grabbed the bouncing ball and ran for a first down. We went on to score a touchdown. Bucs 14, Redskins 13. Time was growing short.

I gathered the defense before they went back out on the field. “You’ve been waiting three years for this moment. The offense has handed you the lead—in the playoffs.
It’s up to you.
”

The Redskins couldn’t move far against our defense. With just over a minute to play, they had a chance to take the lead when they lined up for a fifty-two-yard field goal attempt. I found out later that our personnel director, Jerry Angelo, who had suffered through so many seasons of Bucs football and was watching from Rich McKay’s box, crawled under a countertop because he couldn’t bear to watch. “Tell me if he makes it,” he said.

No one had to tell him. The stadium erupted in hysteria as the snap was low and the holder, Brad Johnson, couldn’t handle it. The ball was never even kicked. We got the ball back on downs, and we ran out the clock using Herm Edwards’s claim to fame, the Victory formation. Bucs 14, Redskins 13. 0:00.

We were moving on to the NFC Championship Game. One game from the Super Bowl.

It’s difficult—no, impossible—to convey the excitement of that evening. It had been such a draining game and comeback, and then having to suffer through that field goal attempt—it was almost too much. To this day, that was the most excited I have ever been. After I did my postgame media interviews and headed back to the locker room, at least thirty minutes after the game had ended, my pulse was still racing.

Once again, Lauren honked all the way up Dale Mabry Highway. This time I rolled down my window on my own and joined in the celebration.

The news stories the next week focused on “The Greatest Show on Turf,” as the St. Louis Rams offense had been nicknamed. The Rams had been terrific on offense that year, whereas our offense had really struggled to move the ball and score against Washington. We believed our defense was playing well, but nobody wanted to talk about defense. It was merely a tale of two offenses.

I learned the art of storytelling from my mom. Each week when I prepare my message for the team, I try to include something the guys can relate to, some image they can visualize. As I thought about what to say before the St. Louis game, hurricanes and tornadoes immediately came to mind. That year the Atlantic basin had been through a record-setting summer with the number and force of its hurricanes. Everyone in Florida was well aware of hurricanes.

Wednesday rolled around, and we’d already read three mornings’ worth of newspaper articles about the mismatch. The Rams were heavy favorites, predicted to win by two touchdowns. At our team meeting I began my analogy.

“Guys, nature presents us with hurricanes and tornadoes. Hurricanes are powerful, massive storms. Meteorologists predict them, and we all track them coming in. This year they missed us in Tampa, but they didn’t miss others. Hurricanes are dangerous and big, but they are also predictable.

“I grew up in the Midwest. We didn’t have hurricanes there; we had tornadoes. Tornadoes arrive unexpectedly. They are unpredictable. They might come in the middle of the night or in the morning. And when they show up, it’s already too late to prepare for them. You just have to live with whatever destruction they cause.

“This week we have a chance to be a tornado. Everybody knows about the Rams; they’re a fantastic team, a hurricane. Everybody is predicting all the terrible things the Rams will do when they make landfall against the Bucs. But nobody sees the tornado coming. The Rams don’t realize what they’re getting into.

“You’re going to hear me talk all week to the media about how great the Rams offense is and what a challenge it will be for us. But I promise you this: we can stop these guys. They’re better on defense than anybody gives them credit for, and we’ll need to come up with ways to move the ball and score. But we’re not going up there just to play. We’re going up there to win. The world’s attention will be on the Rams, but the tornado is coming.”

Sure enough, the only thing people talked about for the rest of the week was the Rams offense—how they had scored almost fifty points per game at home and even scored thirty points per game on the road.

Our guys were confident, but I wouldn’t let them say anything to the media about us, only about the Rams.

In those days, the NFL required teams to arrive two days before a game. Once a team arrived, the head coach and selected players headed to a press conference. We headed to St. Louis on Friday, and Trent Dilfer, John Lynch, Warren Sapp, Hardy Nickerson, Paul Gruber, Mike Alstott, and I represented the team at the press conference.

I made the opening remarks, followed by the players. When it was John Lynch’s turn at the podium, a reporter asked if he agreed with Rams receiver Isaac Bruce about the Bucs’ use of so much zone coverage. Bruce had said we were either afraid or unable to play man-to-man coverage. John gave me a look—he wanted to say what he really thought.

My mind flashed back twenty-seven years as I gave John the same look Mr. Rocquemore had given me when he kept me from saying something rash to Coach Driscoll.

I mouthed one word. “Tornado.”

Next to me, Warren hissed, “Come on, Coach. Come on. Come on.”

“No, Warren,” I whispered. “Remember what we talked about. We’re the tornado. Unknown. Until it’s too late.”

Our guys held back the entire press conference, saying things such as, “We’re just thrilled to be here,” and “The Rams will provide quite a challenge.” I liked the way it was shaping up.

Game day finally arrived. Early in the game, our outside linebacker Derrick Brooks hit Rams receiver Torry Holt so hard that he was spitting blood and had to leave the game momentarily. All of a sudden, the Rams realized a tornado was upon them.

The Rams kicked a field goal in the first quarter, and we kicked one in the second. They added a safety before halftime when we snapped a ball over Shaun King’s head and out of the end zone. We kicked another field goal in the fourth quarter, putting us ahead 6–5. With less than five minutes to play, the Rams’ Ricky Proehl caught a thirty-yard touchdown pass from Kurt Warner. Now ahead by five, they tried a two-point conversion but failed. We tried to put together a final drive to win the game, but after a controversial replay ruling overturned a catch—the rule was changed the next year—we were unable to pick up a first down and lost the game, 11–6.

The NFC Championship Game brought out a wide range of emotions. We were proud of what we had accomplished, how far we had come since 1996. Still, it was bitterly disappointing to be so close to the Super Bowl and yet come up short. I couldn’t wait to start the next year, but I also wished we were the team heading to Atlanta for Super Bowl XXXIV.

It hadn’t been easy getting to the NFC Championship. I still believed we would get over that hurdle in the near future. As it turned out, I was wrong. It took me seven more years—and a move to a different city—to win a conference championship and get into the Super Bowl.

One of the most difficult challenges in football is for the loser of a big game to come back the following year and reach the same height. It’s difficult for winners as well. The pressure to repeat is intense. The losers of the last several Super Bowls have all struggled to get back to the big game the following year. Often they feel that they need to do something different. I have always preached to my coaches and players, “Do what we do.” It’s been our approach to the draft and free agency. The best solution for falling just short of the goal is to focus on the fundamentals but perform them better. Let’s face it: if your system or approach hadn’t been working, you wouldn’t have come so close. So maintain your approach, and improve on it. There’s a difference between making incremental improvements and making sweeping changes that take you away from your core values.

The master plan that Rich McKay and I operated under integrated both player selection and coaching styles. Using patience, we tried to build our core through the draft and teach our new players. Unless one of our players was a rare talent, we let them test free agency. I instilled the same philosophy into my coaching staff: be patient as you coach the players through their inevitable growing pains, and emphasize the fundamentals of sound tackling, protecting the football, and carrying out assignments. As long as a coach stuck to that philosophy, adding his own style, he was doing what I wanted.

That year, I attended some of the league events in Atlanta during Super Bowl week, just days after our loss in St. Louis. On Saturday, while an ice storm raged outside and paralyzed much of Atlanta, I had lunch with Rich McKay, Joel Glazer, and Bryan Glazer. This was the counterpoint to the lunch I had enjoyed with Joel and Bryan in 1996 when they offered me support to stick with my plan. I’d had a few days to reflect on things and watch the film of the game. Although I was still disappointed about not making the Super Bowl, I was feeling encouraged about the team and our prospects for the future.

The Glazers were not. They wanted to change a number of things offensively, starting with our offensive coordinator, Mike Shula. They wanted him fired. This was a problem for me. Mike was following our philosophy and doing a good job overall. After all, we had almost won the NFC Championship with a third-string rookie quarterback.

During the 1999 season, Mike had been forced to plan for three different quarterbacks, not one of whom was clearly the answer for the Bucs. Trent Dilfer had actually played better after being benched for a game, but then he had broken his clavicle and was out for the year. Eric Zeier had been injured before he could even get settled into the job. Shaun King had played well for us after Trent’s injury, and Mike had coached Shaun effectively through the season and into the playoffs. He’d put Shaun in a position where he wouldn’t make mistakes and where our defense could help us win. Shaun was young and held great promise, but it was only a guess how he might develop.

I believed that Mike was doing everything we needed him to do to give us our best chance to win. But the Glazers insisted that Mike had to go.

I was deeply concerned because I disagreed completely with their assessment. Two things weighed on my mind: First, I thought about the biblical teaching in 1 Peter 2:13 and 2:18—that we should obey the authority that is over us, even when we disagree. As the coach, I was under the authority of the owners. Second, I was concerned for the future of my other offensive coaches. All of their contracts had expired, including Mike’s. As far as I knew, none of them had any job security beyond that lunch.

As our meeting progressed, I reiterated that I thought we were on the right track and shouldn’t make any changes. The Glazers repeated that they still wanted Mike fired—to them, it was in the best interest of the team. At the end of the lunch, I reluctantly agreed to fire Mike.