Play Like You Mean It: Passion, Laughs, and Leadership in the World's Most Beautiful Game (33 page)

Now, don’t get me wrong, there are no excuses. If Revis doesn’t play for us this season, we still have to win—and we still can win. But let’s be realistic: Revis is a bigger piece of the puzzle than a lot of other guys. He makes me a better coach. He makes our secondary coach, Dennis Thurman, a better coach. Heck, he makes our offensive coordinator, Brian Schottenheimer, a better coach. That’s reality. That’s what star players do in this league. They make the job of the coaches easier, and they make us better. But if you don’t have them, you better find a way—that’s the job of the coach. Again, there are no excuses.

So I make my point, and by around midnight, they finally get the thing agreed to. Both sides ended up happy. Tannenbaum put in some clauses to keep another holdout from happening, which I’m glad to hear, because I can’t take this shit again.

Anyway, after the deal is done, everybody gets together on Monday, September 6, in Tannenbaum’s office. It’s Mike, Mr. Johnson, the two agents (Schwartz and Feinsod), and me. After it all gets done, Schwartz pulls out this baseball with the Satchel Paige autograph and gives it to me. I blink. “But we didn’t get the long-term deal done.”

“That’s okay, Rex, you deserve it,” he says.

I guess you could say that was my commission for helping get the deal done. I guess that’s not bad, all told. But all I really want is for Revis to be good and for us to win. If that happens, I can buy all the baseballs I want myself.

L
et me start this off by saying that I love our general manager, Mike Tannenbaum. He is awesome for me because he is everything I’m not. You need that in an organization. You need people who complement you. Whatever I don’t do well, I need somebody to cover for me. When it comes to putting together a team, running the contracts and the salary cap, that’s where Tannenbaum comes in. He will kill you with paper. He has volumes and volumes of information right at his fingertips. I’m the guy who says, “Can you give me the
Reader’s Digest
version or just give me something in color? Laminate it and I’ll read it. Just make sure it’s on one page.” I’m not going to read a 500-page report. I can’t. Literally, I can’t. It would take me forever. Mike will go through everything, every word. He’s always saying, “Did you see that?” or “Oh yeah, I read that on page X.”

Trust me, I know I scare Tannenbaum sometimes. He’s very careful about what he says or what he does. Me, well, you have the picture by now. The difference is that sometimes when you know
everything, when you have read every possibility, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by the information. That happens in football a lot. We do all these printouts and readouts and tendency charts, and this and that. Sometimes we forget to just look at the situation and say, “Okay, I know what they’re going to do and here’s the play to run against it.”

Here’s a great example. In the third game of the 2009 season, we were playing Tennessee at home. We were 2-0 already; they were 0-2—and this is after they made the playoffs the year before and I was still in Baltimore. We beat their ass then, and we were about to beat their ass again now that I was with the Jets. The Titans had Kerry Collins at quarterback and he is a wily vet, but he’s also an old guy—and an old guy who doesn’t want to be hit. He’s strictly a pocket passer at this point in his career; not that he was ever all that mobile, but I knew in that game he was not taking off for a 40-yard run unless all 11 of our guys broke their legs simultaneously.

Anyway, we were leading 24-17 and it was fourth down. They needed 23 yards after a penalty and a sack moved them back. Fourth-and-23 is an eternity. You convert that play about once a decade. I can play just about any defense, and we had a good chance to stop that play no matter what. In that type of situation, most coaches play it safe. They might call some three-man pass rush and have eight guys sitting back, making sure nothing goes over their heads.

Me? I figured it was time to all-out blitz. Upstairs, Tannenbaum was watching this and he was looking at all the risk, how a big play could tie the game, and all of those factors. Tannenbaum is a smart football guy. He’s been around the game long enough to know what most people would do. To me, those coaches play it safe because that’s what everybody does. If they get beat, they can look at the GM and the owner and say, “How can I help that? I did what everybody else did.” They’re scared to do what they think might really be right, because they think they’ll be second-guessed and lose their jobs. That’s why all those people who second-guessed New England coach Bill Belichick later in the year for going on fourth-and-2 in his own territory against Indianapolis didn’t have a clue. Yeah, it didn’t
work, but are you seriously telling me that anybody could know his team better than Belichick? He’s the best out there. I have total respect for him. As I said before, I’m not kissing his rings and I’m not afraid of him, but I respect him.

Anyway, I knew what the best call was for my team in that situation, and that was an all-out blitz. Why? Here’s how I looked at it: If I left Collins back there, he was going to recognize the coverage and I knew he had a strong enough arm to stick a pass against a good secondary. He may be old, but he can throw the damn ball. The other part about it was that I knew the Titans’ protection schemes. I knew what they were doing the previous season and I knew what they were doing in the present one. So I knew that if I dialed up a certain blitz, we were going to get to Collins before he had a chance to let one of his receivers get far enough downfield to hurt us.

The other part of this was that I knew our chances of being called for a pass interference call were pretty high if I just let Collins throw the ball. In other words, I’d analyzed the entire situation and I knew it was time to call the blitz. Just as I expected, they can’t handle the blitz, Collins has to get rid of it too fast, and the ball falls incomplete. In fact, we did the same thing this year against Minnesota in Brett Favre’s first game (and one of his few games) playing with Randy Moss. I wasn’t afraid to blitz that guy, either, and he’s had a much better career than Collins. Favre’s one of the greatest of all time.

Anyway, we walked into the locker room, I talked to the team and the media, and I headed back to my office. Tannenbaum came in and looked at me for a minute, then said, “Rex, I just have to ask you: What were you thinking with that blitz at the end of the game?”

I just looked back at Tannenbaum, smiled, and said, “Oh, I figured out their protections.”

Tannenbaum didn’t quite get it. “What if they made an adjustment?”

“They wouldn’t.”

Tannenbaum was still curious. That’s his nature—he’s always thinking about what if this and what if that. That’s who he is and
that’s his job. So he pondered that a second and then asked, “What if we didn’t get there on time?”

Hey, I understand, some people get scared at those critical moments, wondering about the downside, about what happens if you fail. I get it. Me, I’m not worried. Like I told him the first two times, I had it down. So all I said was, “Mike, I knew what they were going to do.” I think that’s when Tannenbaum really started to understand my sense of confidence, that all my bravado wasn’t based on BS. I’m not just talk; I know what I’m doing.

That’s why when I say, “We’re going to win a Super Bowl,” it’s not just bluster. I really believe it. That’s why back in August 2010, when the ESPN guys came rolling through training camp up in Cortland, New York, I wrote on the side of their tour bus, “Soon To Be Champs.” I know we have the team and the right mix of talent and I still believe that firmly. I knew it in 2000 with Baltimore and I said it before that season. It’s just that I was a defensive line coach in his second year with the team back then and nobody really gave a damn what I had to say. I said the same thing in 2006 with the Ravens. We didn’t win it, but we lost to the team that did win it (Indianapolis) and we would have beat their ass if we had caught one of the two interceptions we had in our hands. It’s a shame, too, because that defense might have gone down as one of the greatest of all time if we had won it all. Instead, nobody will ever remember it.

In 2008, 2009, and 2010 I was with teams that lost in the AFC Championship Game. Does that bother me? In some ways, yes. But am I damn proud of that run? Hell yes. I don’t see it as a cluster of seasons where we failed to bring home the title. I see it as a terrific accomplishment, a springboard to a big run of success with the Jets. And eventually we’re going to win this thing.

I’ve always believed we could win every game. If you really believe it, then you shouldn’t be afraid to say it. I remember in 2009 sitting in the coaches’ meetings and talking about how the game was going to go. I’d say something like, “Oh, we’re going to kick their ass here and pound the crap out of them there” and Cam Cameron, our
offensive coordinator, would just look up with this big smile and say, “Rex, you’re beautiful.” Cameron is different from me. He’s a good guy and very smart, kind of like a professor, kind of proper—and a great play caller. I think I just got the juices flowing for him, saying stuff he’d probably never think of saying aloud to a big group, even if he thought it. I don’t know why, but I believe not just in myself but in everybody.

Some people think that’s putting undue pressure on yourself and all that jazz, that a coach should be some civil, polite guy in public who downplays expectations to keep everybody on an even keel. Well, here’s my thinking on that strategy: To hell with it.

I didn’t become a coach so that we could do our darndest to try to win a few ballgames and try to just be competitive every year so that we could have a chance because you know this is a tough league and all. I became a coach because I wanted to be great at this. I wanted to win championships. I wanted to help other people win championships. I wanted to be part of a group that could do something special. I get so freaking tired of coaches who try to downplay expectations. You know what they’re really trying to do? They’re trying to cover their ass in case what they say the first time doesn’t work out so that they have excuses. I came here to win titles, not just come in second place and feel like that was good enough.

It’s like when I say, “We’re going to kick their ass,” I mean we’re going to kick their ass. My best one last year was when we were playing Houston in the season opener. Everybody thought we weren’t ready, that we had no chance because they had such a great offense with Matt Schaub and Andre Johnson and all that crew. Everybody doubted us, but they didn’t have a clue. They didn’t realize we had saved a bunch of stuff in preseason, we hadn’t shown anything, and the Texans had no idea what was coming. On top of not showing anything, we were without two of our best players, Calvin Pace and Shaun Ellis, who were suspended at the time. But I knew what was going to happen. I knew what the Texans would do and what we were going to do to it.

We were getting ready to beat the shit out of one of the top two or three offenses in the NFL, so I told our team how it was going to go, how we were going to pummel the crap out of the team. “We’re going to show the whole NFL, the whole league is going to know after today what we’re going to be” was running through my head. “That secret is going to be out.” That was my first game as a head coach, my first opportunity, and I told the players how special this was going to be for all of us. I can’t even remember the exact words, but I said something along the lines of “Go to sleep tonight knowing we’re getting ready to kick the shit out of this team.” Guess what? We beat the crap out of the Texans on their home field. Right in the middle of their pretty Reliant Stadium with the cool retractable roof, we beat their ass. They didn’t score until the fourth quarter. Heck, they didn’t really score so much as we gave them one, a fumble their defense returned for a score. Their offense? Guano, nada, zip, not a point. Oh, it was beautiful, and the best part is how much that helped the players and their confidence. That’s one of the big reasons why we started 3-0: We were confident. We believed we really could do everything I talked about.

Look, I’m that way all the time; I have that confidence and I want the players to get a good night’s rest, going to bed with that same confidence, thinking that way. Really, I think you can will your way to victory sometimes if you have the right mind-set. I’ve told our guys, if the only people we have left in the building are me, the cook, Mike Tannenbaum, Woody Johnson, and maybe the janitor, I believe that we can go out and get it done. I want to hit that field with that mentality. I smile at the other coaches and the officials and I tell them all the time: “If you let us play, we will beat the crap out of this team, and I mean it. I absolutely mean it. I know I’ve got tough guys. I know my guys are better than your guys.”

Now, I’m not so dumb as to think we’ll never lose. You’re going to lose some games. But you have to be confident about what you’re doing and you have to believe. That’s what I think. I don’t think about failure. I believe the pressure you put on yourself is what
drives you to be better. That stuff drives you when everything else is going bad. Hey, we hit our rough spots last year—there was a reason we finished 9-7. But when you start to lose, you can’t sit around looking for excuses and trying to explain why you’re losing. Again, that’s that same old crap I hear from coaches who are trying to couch everything in noncommittal terms by saying, “We’re going to make progress, we’re on the right track, we’re not looking too far ahead.” Don’t give me that. I’m looking to win the Super Bowl, and I’ll tell you that’s what I expect. I want my guys thinking that, too. I want them amped up, pushing themselves as hard as they can. Are they going to do that if I’m saying stuff like “I think we have a chance, maybe, perhaps, if everything goes right”? No way.

Of course, when I’m saying what I say, it doesn’t come out pretty and polished. As Bart Scott mentioned, I get pretty f-bomb happy on occasion. That’s who I am, love it or leave it. If you notice, though, I’m not swearing at my players. Well, at least not in some “You stupid mother …” way of doing it. I swear in front of them, like I’m making a point. People can say what they want about me or the way I choose to talk to my players. I honestly could not care less. There are players and coaches in this league who have done far worse things than throw a few f-bombs here and there. It’s like I told
The New York Times Magazine:
“I never tortured or killed animals. I’m an animal lover! I used a few cusswords! At the end of the day, no matter what, I’ll walk out the door and say I always was who I am.”