Quiet Strength (19 page)

We headed into the final game with a record of 7–8. If we won at Cincinnati, and if Arizona lost to San Diego, we’d be back in the playoffs—barely. We went on the road and finally put together a complete game, beating the Bengals 35–0. I was proud of our team.

We were now relying on the San Diego Chargers, who had only five wins that season, to get us into the playoffs by beating Arizona. We watched the beginning of the game at the airport on the overhead televisions. Some of the guys clustered around tiny handheld televisions. We hung on every play.

When our plane took off, San Diego was poised for a comeback win after being down 13–3 in the third quarter.

A short time into our flight, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Air Traffic Control knows whom I have onboard the aircraft this evening, and they wanted me to tell you congratulations on today’s game.” We all sat breathlessly. “They have also passed along the scores from the late afternoon games, including Arizona, who kicked a field goal on the last play to beat …”

I didn’t hear the rest, even though our plane was deathly quiet.

What distinguished the 1997 team from the 1998 team was not those two extra wins that put us into the playoffs. The 1997 team was simply a better steward of its opportunities. Every team has its own unique set of dispositions, gifts, talents, and opportunities. What they all have in common, however, is the ability to control what they do with those dispositions, gifts, and talents when the opportunities come along.

The 1997 team was younger, with less depth and game experience. The 1998 team filled in some of those holes and was a year more ingrained into our system. On paper, the 1998 team was the better team. But our 1997 team stretched itself and achieved its potential; the 1998 team was inconsistent and squandered chances. I still believe what I told the team the day after the finale against Cincinnati: “We have a good team, but we didn’t take advantage of the opportunities we were given all year long. That’s why we had to rely on someone else. We cannot do that again.” The same is also true for each of us as individuals.

That, to me, is where we find the best definition of success. We’re not all going to reach the Super Bowl or the top of the corporate ladder, but we each have a chance to walk away from something saying, “I did the ordinary things
as well as I could
. I performed to the full limits of my ability. I achieved success.” Under that definition, a 5–11 team might actually be more successful than a 14–2 team.

Someday I might coach another team that needs to win its final game and needs help from another team to get into the playoffs. That won’t be a problem for me as long as the team has played to the limits of its abilities and has fulfilled its potential. Our 1997 team played to—and beyond—its potential. Our 1998 team did not.

Excellence that feels it has to be proclaimed, by the mere fact of its proclamation admits the doubt of its existence.

—CleoMae Dungy

W
E
WERE
DISAPPOINTED
that we had missed the playoffs, but we soon found ourselves with an excellent scouting opportunity. In those days, the coaches from two of the teams that just missed the playoffs—one team from each conference—coached one of the all-star squads in the Senior Bowl—the college all-star game held each year in Mobile, Alabama. The Buccaneers were the
NFC
representative in 1998, so my assistants and I went to Mobile for the Senior Bowl just a few weeks after that flight back from Cincinnati. The coaches are with the players in meetings and on the practice field. This gave us significant opportunities to evaluate each player in a variety of settings. In contrast, coaches from the other clubs are relegated to scouting from the stands and interviewing the all-star players during the evenings at the hotel.

With this firsthand background information, we had an excellent draft. In the first round at number fifteen, we were faced with a choice between the best two defensive linemen in the draft, defensive end Jevon Kearse of the University of Florida and defensive tackle Anthony McFarland of Louisiana State. We already had a solid defensive line, but since our entire defensive philosophy was predicated on pressure from the front four, we wanted to add even more depth to that group.

Both defenders had unusual nicknames. Kearse was called “The Freak” in college because of his extraordinary physical abilities. McFarland had been nicknamed “Booger” as a small child by his mother because of his rambunctious behavior. After considerable debate, we selected McFarland. Even though he was a bit undersized for the position, my assistant coach Rod Marinelli and I were convinced he was a high-motor guy who would make up for any lack of size with his remarkable speed and hustling attitude. We also knew more about McFarland than about Kearse because we had coached him for a full week. Kearse was selected by the Tennessee Titans one pick behind us at sixteen, and they were thrilled to get him. They knew he was an excellent pass rusher from the right side, approaching a right-handed quarterback from his blind side.

In that draft, we took four players we had seen at the Senior Bowl. Booger McFarland, Tulane quarterback Shaun King, and Florida State safety Dexter Jackson had all played for our team; Martin Gramatica, a placekicker from Kansas State, had played for the other team. We caught some criticism for drafting Martin in the third round, which is pretty high for a kicker, but a year later, those critics got off our backs when the Raiders picked a kicker in the first round. That wasn’t the only time we picked a player before our critics believed he should have been drafted. However, I always keep two things in mind: First, selecting players is obviously an inexact science, as indicated by the number of “busts” through the years—players who did well in college but poorly in the pros. Second, it’s more important to get the player we need when we believe we need him than it is to be concerned about being “right.” Despite the criticism we received following the draft, all four players we selected paid immediate dividends for us that season.

Even though Booger McFarland was a great player for us and a critical part of our defense, I’m sure it was tempting for some analysts to play “what if” with our selection, especially when Kearse led the
AFC
in sacks his rookie year. But I had learned from Coach Noll that there’s no value for the coach in second-guessing the picks after the draft. Once a player joins our team, our priority is to
teach him,
not worry about the player we didn’t select. We do our homework before every draft. We evaluate our past choices and learn from our experiences. After the draft, we move on and do the best we can to teach whomever we have before us.

My mom and dad would agree with this approach.

By the time the 1999 season arrived, our guys were focused and determined to work toward meeting their potential as individuals and as a unit. The start of the season, however, didn’t exactly point toward greatness.

We opened at home against the New York Giants and beat them about as badly as you can beat a team without actually winning the game. Our defense held the Giants to 107 yards of total offense. We allowed them only one first-down conversion out of the fourteen third-down plays they ran. We held them to twenty-seven yards rushing on twenty-four attempts, an average of just 1.1 yards per carry. But with a fumble and an interception return, our offense gave up two touchdowns. So much for our basic tenets of focusing on the giveaway/takeaway margin and not giving up big plays.

That game was the first we played with instant-replay review. In this system, a coach can challenge an official’s call he believes to be incorrect. The referee then reviews the video of the play, looking at it from various camera angles. If, after review, the original call is upheld, the team whose coach challenged the call is charged with one time-out. In the last two minutes of each half, the coaches cannot challenge a call. Instead, the replay official in the press box determines whether a play should be reviewed.

I was not a fan of instant replay when it was introduced, and I still do not like it. I think officiating, as in other aspects of the game, should be based on real-time human perceptions. Officials have extensive training and perform to the best of their abilities. An official misses a call now and then, but that’s just part of playing the game. Using video and multiple camera angles to review only particular plays—not every play—gives an illusion of precision that is just that: an illusion.

I’m still not in favor of replay, but I do think the challenge system is probably the most effective, constructive means that currently exists to deal with questionable calls.

Because of my Christian witness, I don’t lash out or make a scene with the officials. But even if I did do that, I don’t think berating the officials would help much. In fact, it actually works
against
your team. If I’m harassing an official all day, when he has a chance to make a decision that is close and could go either way, is he suddenly going to give me the benefit of the doubt, just to get me off his back? I doubt it. Officials are only human. In addition, there is always something going on during a game, and focusing on something that has already happened—which you can’t change—is counterproductive. My dad’s lesson. There’s no time during a game to look back; the play clock is running.

Anyway, in the game against the Giants, I blew two opportunities to challenge, probably because I hadn’t allowed myself to become well-versed in the replay review system. The first opportunity occurred in the first quarter, when Trent Dilfer was sacked and fumbled the ball, which the Giants recovered and ran in for a touchdown. However, Trent’s arm was moving forward when he was hit. I’m pretty sure that if I had challenged the call, it would have been ruled an incomplete pass, negating the touchdown. Following that, Trent threw an interception after he had stepped out of bounds. Again, I didn’t challenge, but I think if I had, their interception would have been negated. Then the Giants would not have kicked their ensuing field goal—the difference in the 17–14 final score.

The replay system bit us a third time that afternoon. With just over a minute to go, we were attempting to drive for either a tying field goal or a game-winning touchdown. Our wide receiver Karl Williams made a twenty-eight-yard reception out across the fifty yard line. However, the replay official decided to review the call, and the completion was overturned, which ended our opportunity to score. Someone from the league office called us the next day to tell us that, in fact, it
had
been a reception. But by then the damage was done; we were 0–1.

Following the game, I made some ill-advised comments to the media, criticizing the officiating and the replay system, and Commissioner Tagliabue fined me ten thousand dollars. I know I deserved the penalty for having spoken out of my frustration. When I saw the deduction from my paycheck, I could picture my dad’s smile and hear him saying, “Tony, I hope venting at least made you feel better at the time.” My dad never mentioned the incident to me, but I knew better, and he knew I knew better.

Our defense had more great efforts in the two weeks ahead. We held Philadelphia to five points and Denver to ten points. But then we went to Minnesota and Green Bay and lost both games before returning home to face Chicago. I was debating whether or not to bench Trent Dilfer in favor of our backup quarterback, Eric Zeier. I found myself drawing on the lessons I’d learned from Denny Green when he faced the decision of benching Rich Gannon for Sean Salisbury. I decided to stick with Trent for at least one more week. We beat the Bears 6–3 but did not score a touchdown.

We were now 3–3, and I decided to make the switch at quarterback, putting Zeier in to start at Detroit. When he injured his ribs, we debated whether we should go back to Trent the following week against New Orleans or use our second backup, Shaun King. Since Shaun was only halfway through his first season in the
NFL
, we decided on Trent.

We beat New Orleans. Trent had begun to settle down, playing much better and with more confidence. In fact, Trent directed us on a three-game winning streak before breaking his right clavicle against the Seahawks. He was out for the season. So in came the rookie, Shaun King, in the fourth quarter. His plays helped us to put away the Seahawks, 16–3. In the following weeks, Shaun led us to wins against Minnesota and Detroit as well, giving us a six-game winning streak and a 9–4 record.

Despite our adversity through the first thirteen games, I continued to preach to the team to simply
do what we do.
Play solid defense. Don’t turn the ball over. Force turnovers. Don’t commit penalties. Don’t worry about who is injured; just play with whom we’ve still got healthy. The players responded. They put us in first place in the
NFC
Central Division in December, a mark the Bucs hadn’t held at that time of year since 1981.

Shaun was outstanding along the way. He didn’t try to do anything spectacular; he just played solid football. He didn’t turn the ball over, and he led us to win after win. Watching him, I thought back to how far we’d come as a league in assessing talent without respect to skin color. When we had evaluated Shaun for the draft, our entire focus was on how well he could play within our scheme. Nobody on our staff thought twice about skin color—which was quite a shift from years ago. Shaun was the sixth quarterback selected in the 1999 draft. Four of the six, including Shaun, were African American.

I think we’ve finally reached a point in the league where people have the creativity and imagination to see what a player can become and then determine whether it’s the player or the team that should adjust. For instance, Vince Young had some obviously special talents when he was at the University of Texas. The Tennessee Titans appreciated those talents and drafted him. Then their head coach, Jeff Fisher, and their offensive coordinator, Norm Chow, clearly challenged themselves as they adjusted their offense to best utilize Young’s talents, even in the middle of the season. This was a significant accomplishment that benefited both the Titans and Vince Young. Shifts like these represent tremendous strides in professional football—strides toward treating people right and doing what is best for the game.