Quiet Strength (31 page)

Unfortunately, of the many things I objected to in the skit, the only thing people focused on was that last statement. I began to hear comments that I was a “racist” and opposed to interracial dating, which isn’t true and entirely missed the point I had tried to make. I did believe that ABC was either very insensitive or deliberately stereotypical in using an African American player for that skit, but my comments had nothing to do with the actress. I knew for a fact that the network had not approached Peyton Manning about being in the skit, and I was sure they would not have asked Bret Favre or Tom Brady either. I was disappointed in ABC for coming up with the idea, and I was disappointed in TO for going along with it. I was surprised that more players, especially those who were African American, didn’t see anything wrong with it. Terrell had created the perception—even if it was in jest—that he would be willing to miss a kickoff to have sex with a stranger. The whole thing sent the wrong message about morality, responsibility, and NFL players to kids like Eric. But all of that got lost just because I mentioned race.

Some people did get what I was trying to say. Bill Belichick, head coach of the New England Patriots, was one of those people. He backed me, saying as I had that he’d be willing to take a pay cut if the NFL needed commercials like that to pay the bills.

The second media stir occurred when I tried to bring a little balance and levity to an incident involving Randy Moss of the Minnesota Vikings. Thankfully, this was a much smaller deal. After a touchdown during a playoff game at Lambeau Field, Moss pretended to moon the fans. His actions were clearly inappropriate, and I didn’t want to excuse them, but at the same time, I was somewhat amused because I knew what was behind Randy’s act. When asked about it, I said if there were ever a place we could count on for a mooning, it was at Lambeau. I had played there every season from 1992 to 2001, sometimes more than once, and I had learned that it was tradition there for a few Packers fans to drop their pants around their ankles and moon the visiting team’s bus as it left, regardless of the temperature. When Moss scored the winning touchdown, I knew what he was doing; he was beating those Packers fans to the punch.

I got plenty of mail from people who thought I showed a double standard in defending Moss after being so outspoken about protecting the image of our players in the ABC incident, and they were right. In retrospect, I should have been much more clear in stating that I was explaining, not condoning, what Randy Moss had done.

Those two incidents made me even more aware of the need to think through the ramifications of everything I say as a head coach. I’m still learning.

That was off the field. On the field, we had another fun year. We went 12–4 and won the AFC South Division for the second straight year. Our defense continued to improve, but our offense, especially our passing game, reached a level never seen before. Marvin Harrison had been playing at a Hall of Fame level as our right wide receiver for several years. Reggie Wayne, our first-round draft choice in 2001, was now growing comfortable in his role on the left side, and the year before, we had acquired Brandon Stokley to play in the slot. In 2004, those three players became the first set of teammates in NFL history to each reach a thousand yards receiving and ten touchdown catches in the same year.

Peyton Manning set an NFL record with forty-nine touchdown passes. That was a great accomplishment, and I was especially pleased that he set this record while throwing only ten interceptions. Our prophetic conversation in 2002 was coming true, and the transformation of our offensive mind-set was clear. Peyton had thrown twenty-three interceptions the year before I arrived and nineteen our first year together. In 2003 and 2004 he had thrown only ten each year, and his touchdown passes were now coming in record numbers. We were finally playing explosive football without committing turnovers.

My biggest learning experience that year, however, was from a game we lost. We played Kansas City on Halloween. We had beaten them in the playoffs the year before in a shootout, but this year they lit us up, 45–35. We had just lost two games in a row, something that hadn’t happened for a long time. I sensed that the guys were concerned, especially about the defense.

I was very direct at Monday’s team meeting. “Men, we’re not going to bring in any new players. We’re not going to add any new defensive schemes. In fact, we’re not going to change anything. We are the same group that went to the playoffs last year. We just have to do our jobs a little bit better, a little bit faster, a little bit sharper.”

I really didn’t think anything of it at the time—that’s just what I thought we needed to do—but Gary Brackett, one of our linebackers, said later that because of that reassurance, the players were able to relax and concentrate on improving rather than worry about whether they still had a job. I would use that talk again during a critical time down the road.

Bill Belichick, New England’s head coach, had supported me over the ABC flap, but of course he wasn’t much support to me on the field—we still didn’t break through and beat the Patriots. As sharp as we had played most of the year, we just couldn’t seem to duplicate that sharpness against New England. We lost the season opener to them in Foxboro, Massachusetts, 27–24. That was as disappointed as I’ve ever been after a game, and I let the players know I was upset. We fumbled twice (once at their one yard line) and threw an interception in the end zone. We gave up some big plays on defense but still had a chance to win at the end. We were driving in the last minute but gave up a sack with a missed blocking assignment. Then Mike missed his first field goal in over a year. We had lost to the Patriots again because they had done the ordinary things better than we had.

I knew we were going to have a good football team, but I had known New England would too. Over the rest of the season, we would have to win two more games than the Patriots to avoid coming back to Foxboro in the playoffs. It would be tough to do.

We played well the rest of the year, but we just couldn’t make up that ground on the Patriots. So in January, we found ourselves back in Foxboro, and the game followed the same maddening script. We fell behind early, allowed them to control the football, and lost 20–3. New England had a great football team, and they would go on to win another Super Bowl that year. Through these painful defeats, we never had the feeling that we
couldn’t
beat them; we simply had to play as well against them as we had played against other teams. Easier said than done.

Once again, I closed out the 2004 season in the visitors’ locker room in Foxboro, telling our players that we would regroup, work hard, and do what we do in 2005.

I hoped they wouldn’t lose faith, because I was certain that 2005 would be an unforgettable year.

Chapter Eighteen: An Unforgettable Season

And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.

—Romans 8:28

I DON’T HAVE THE STRENGTH or wisdom to get through a single day without guidance and grace from God. That became apparent once again as the naysayers were out in full force after the 2004 season. Our offense had been so explosive and had set so many records. People figured if we couldn’t win with that team, we might never win at all. They said the Colts’ “window of opportunity” was closing. I didn’t think so.

Some were saying the following year’s regular season was irrelevant for our team, that we would be defined only by what happened in the playoffs. I didn’t want that idea to sink into the team’s thinking. I believed just the opposite: if we did what we were supposed to do—in the off-season, in training camp, and in the regular season—the playoffs would take care of themselves. Eventually. Getting to the playoffs is really difficult. As always, we would have to show up ready to do our conditioning work in March, trudge through the heat of training camp in August, and play one play at a time all fall until we won enough games to get in. Then we would have to trust that we were finally going to play well enough to advance. That was the formula—no shortcuts.

Just like the lessons
death by inches
had taught us in 2004, I wanted the team to remember that one detail at a time builds the whole. Like my dad always said, the test would be easy if you did what you were supposed to do in class every day. Practice was where we did our job.

The trick would be keeping everyone believing in that formula. I had said these same things for three years, and we hadn’t yet reached the Super Bowl. I talked to several of the team leaders to make sure they were still on board and ready to continue selling our vision. We had become a good team by the way we had done things, and I wasn’t going to make any drastic changes.

The 2005 training camp started as uneventfully as our prior camps. I spoke to the team about family, as always, and then I talked about a Michael Jordan interview I’d seen on ESPN Classic. The interview was conducted just after the Bulls had been knocked out of the playoffs for the second year in a row by the Detroit Pistons. “Do you ever think you’ll make it to the NBA Finals?” the reporter asked. My players in the team meeting room chuckled. Of course, we all knew that Jordan would go on to win six NBA championships.

I wanted them to realize that there was a time when even Michael Jordan kept getting close but didn’t make the finals. When Jordan was asked about his team’s inability to beat the Pistons, he said they couldn’t worry about the Pistons. They had to keep improving their team until they could beat
anyone
—and that’s what they did. I wanted us to take this same approach. Even though we heard so much about coming up short against New England, I didn’t want us to focus our attention on them. I wanted to concentrate on
us
. That classic Jordan interview during the Bulls’ building years was laughable in 2005. I hoped there would be a time when the questions about the Colts would seem just as ridiculous.

After starting the season 5–0, Leslie Frazier, one of my assistant coaches, bought me a blank journal. He had been urging me to write a book, and he was convinced that 2005 was going to be a special season. In October, it sure looked that way. Bill Polian, our president, has a great eye for talent, and he had put together a tremendous team. Our high draft choices were all coming through for us. And some of our lower-round draft choices, such as linebacker Cato June and defensive end Robert Mathis, were starting to play like Pro Bowlers. Our only real question mark was in the middle of our defensive line. Just before the regular season began, Bill had signed Corey Simon, a former Pro Bowl tackle who had been locked in a contract dispute with the Philadelphia Eagles. Around the league, Corey’s signing was viewed as a coup that just might vault us into the Super Bowl. The way we played that first month, it was hard to argue with that. I still didn’t think I would ever write a book, but I figured it might be worth keeping a journal of the season anyway.

According to my journal, we were studying Acts 15 in our coaches’ Bible study at the time, and we’d been reading about Paul, who on more than one occasion suffered in a cold and damp jail cell. “Patience in waiting out God’s plan,” I wrote. “Do what you’re supposed to do while waiting.” I wondered if I could do it. I knew I couldn’t if I had to do it alone.

That week we beat the Rams on Monday Night Football, coming back from a 17-point deficit to win by 17. Quite a swing.

Three weeks later, we played the Patriots in Foxboro again. We were undefeated, and New England was not playing that well, but even so, the media made a big deal of the game. I kept preaching to our guys that we shouldn’t think about it being New England. We just needed to focus on the Colts. We needed to think about what it took for us to play well and not worry about anything else. Going into the game, I really believed we would finally play well up there. It was a night game, so I had some extra time during the day. I took my customary late-morning walk through Providence and the campus of Brown University. It was such a pretty fall day, I wished we were playing at 1 p.m. As I walked, I had a calm feeling inside; I was sure we were going to execute well.

We did just that. Peyton Manning and our receivers had a big game, as did running back Edgerrin James. We won, 40–21. Walking back to the locker room, I started to get concerned about how the media would react to this win. After beating the defending champs in their stadium, I was sure they would be ready to anoint us the new kings. Since we were just at the halfway point of the season, I wanted to make sure we didn’t fall into that trap.

I went in to talk to the guys, and as I had so many times before, I used a Bible verse to make my point. “Pride goes before destruction,” I told them. “We won big today, but let’s not forget how we did it. We worked hard. This was only one game, and now it’s over. We need to continue to do what we do.”

As we turned our eyes toward Houston next, I was concerned about our guys losing their focus. We were 8–0 and had finally beaten the Patriots, while the Texans were 1–7. Our guys were being told from every corner of the globe how amazing they were. As I was thinking about the illustration to best drive home my point to the team, my kids gave me the perfect idea—McDonald’s.

“The beauty of McDonald’s,” I said, “is that they are consistent. The reason my kids like McDonald’s is that they always know what they’re going to get. It’s not gourmet food, but the french fries they order in Indianapolis are just like the french fries they order in Tampa. Wherever they get McDonald’s fries, they know it will be the same. That’s what McDonald’s does. They don’t make french fries in New England more special than the ones they make in Houston. We have to do the same. We can’t view any game as more important than another. Just like McDonald’s, we need to keep making the same good fries.”