Quiet Strength (30 page)

As the guys carried Mike off the field, I looked at Jamie, who was running alongside me. “Good call,” I told him. He flashed me his big, bright smile.

We opened the 2003 playoffs at home against Denver, who had beaten us just two weeks earlier. They had run against us at will in a game we had needed for a first-round bye. Instead, we lost 31–17. Now that we were in the playoffs, the media asked what we were going to do differently. “Nothing,” I told them. “We’re going to do what we always do, only do it better.”

And we did. We drilled the Broncos 41–10 in a game in which everything went right.

We then traveled to play the number two seed, Kansas City. It was a terrific time for me, returning to Kansas City and the good memories of coaching with the Chiefs. They hadn’t lost any home games during the regular season, and they had one of the loudest stadiums in the NFL. We stayed hot on offense, though, winning the game 38–31.

In two playoff games, we had scored ten touchdowns without a single punt. Now we were headed to New England for a rematch of the November game. The AFC Championship and a trip to the Super Bowl were on the line. Countless times that week, people pointed out that if we had only scored from the one yard line during the regular season game, we would be hosting the game in Indianapolis rather than playing in New England. I kept thinking about that kickoff to Bethel Johnson with twelve seconds to go in the first half.

The game started slowly for us. We had trouble moving the ball and turned it over a couple of times. The Patriots controlled the tempo and kept the ball away from us with a good offensive game plan. They took the lead and held it throughout the game. As bad as it was, though, we got the ball back in the last few minutes, down 21–14. We needed one good drive to tie the game. All year we had converted in these situations, and I was confident we could do it this time. But once again, the New England defense stopped us when it counted. An insurance field goal by Adam Vinatieri made the final score 24–14.

The New England Patriots rarely made mistakes, and they knew how to capitalize on the mistakes of their opponents. They were the epitome of what Coach Noll had always talked about: they did the ordinary things better than everyone else. And because of that, I knew we would continue to have our problems with them, just as everyone else did.

Coaching the Pro Bowl that year was completely different from coaching it in 1999. Four years earlier, the Tampa Bay staff was excited about getting to the championship game but fearful because we didn’t have the confidence of our owners. In 2003, we were down about losing the championship game, but we knew that everyone in the organization believed we were heading in the right direction. I was trusting that the Lord had our future in His hands, and I took comfort in these words of encouragement from Jeremiah 29:11: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the L
ORD
. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’”

While I knew very well from my own experience that nothing is guaranteed, I also knew we were a good team. The guys were really beginning to buy into the mission and strategies we had been teaching. About halfway through the 2003 season, I could see the light go on for Peyton. He was seeing the progress our defense was making and didn’t feel the need to take as many risks. Tom Moore and our quarterback coach Jim Caldwell had done such a good job preparing him that we were productive, with significantly fewer turnovers.

At some point during the 2003 season, Jim Irsay began having my dad fly with us to our away games. That was typical of the little things Jim does for all his employees, not just the head coach. So my dad was at the New England game, as he had been at just about every one of my games since I was twelve years old. For the sixth time, he saw my season end with a playoff loss. He was disappointed that we hadn’t played well enough to win, but he never changed his expression or demeanor. He told me not to get discouraged and that he knew we’d get to the Super Bowl if we continued to persevere.

Chapter Seventeen: Death by Inches

When you can do the common things of life in an uncommon way, you will command the attention of the world.

—George Washington Carver

I WAS EXCITED and believed that everything was moving in the right direction for the Colts. When the 2004 season rolled around, we felt as if we were on the cusp of taking that final step and making it to the Super Bowl. In the second round of the 2004 draft, we added another key piece to the puzzle with Bob Sanders, a safety from the University of Iowa. Right after the draft, however, that good feeling was temporarily interrupted when I received a phone call from my dad. He told me that although he felt great, a routine physical had revealed a problem with his blood work. Another test confirmed the doctor’s suspicions: leukemia.

I was in shock because my dad was in such great shape for his age. Every day he woke up at five-thirty, rode his bike about five miles to Bob Evans for breakfast, and then rode back home. Two days a week, he went to the YMCA to swim. I could hardly believe this vigorous man had a serious health problem.

My sister Lauren, the doctor, brought my dad to Indianapolis for treatment at the world-class oncology center at the Indiana University School of Medicine. He went through an extensive chemotherapy regimen over the next couple of months. I loved that time with him. He didn’t seem to be experiencing any of the side effects the doctors had warned us about. Just sitting together in his hospital room was wonderful.

We reminisced about fishing and hooks through the ear and Tigers games and Michigan and Michigan State games. I reminded him of the times when we had visited my aunt and uncle, staying up late to watch war movies and Westerns with them. Even though my dad had thought I should be in bed, my uncle Paul had always talked him into letting me stay up. My dad remembered playing catch and shooting baskets with me—all the quality moments that a father spends with his son. He especially wanted to know how our off-season workouts were going.

During my days with my dad, I thought a lot about the time I had spent with my own children. When I was growing up, my dad spent
quality
and
quantity
time with us. He always made sure he was around the house and at our games. I hadn’t always done that with my children. I had tried to shorten my work days, to give the players Sundays off during the season whenever possible, and to make sure everyone got home at a reasonable hour. But the time I had spent with my children was nowhere near the amount of time my dad had made for us. I knew I was spending as much time as I could with my kids, but compared to my dad, it just didn’t seem like I was doing enough. I was grateful for the times we had shared as a family but was disappointed in myself.

This was probably the first time I ever thought about purposely leaving coaching of my own accord. I had already made adjustments years ago—starting meetings later so I could take my children to school, never sleeping at the office, allowing families to be together in our offices—and short of leaving the profession, I didn’t think there were any other changes I could make. I began to give the idea some serious thought. Football is a vocation and an opportunity for ministry. But it’s not a life.

It helped a little knowing that Lauren and the kids would be moving to Indianapolis full-time that summer, even though we would still keep the house in Tampa. Tiara had finished high school, and after missing two years of driving my kids to school, I was eager to see them again on a daily basis.

In June we got some great news from my dad’s doctors. The leukemia was in remission, and my dad was going to be able to go home to my sister’s house. We were relieved and thrilled. My dad was excited because he wanted to be around when we made it to the Super Bowl. He had always claimed that a Super Bowl appearance was inevitable for us if we stayed the course and did what we did.

Less than a week later, the tide turned again when my sister called and said that we needed to come to the hospital immediately to visit my dad before he died. With his white-blood-cell count extremely low from the chemotherapy, his immune system had been vulnerable, and he had developed an infection. He died that night, June 8, only twenty-nine months after my mom had passed.

In the space of two months, we went from the fears of a leukemia diagnosis and the rigors of the treatment to the euphoria of his recovery to loss and grief.

A lot of family members came into town the next day, and I needed to attend to the last day of our off-season workouts. Actually I didn’t really need to be there—the assistants could have handled it. It was only a couple of hours. But then I thought about my dad and the things he had always taught me. More than anything else, my dad loved watching us practice. I knew he would have wanted me to be with my team.

I arrived at the facility. Jeff Saturday, a great player and even better person, was one of the few players who knew my dad had died. After practice, Jeff let the team know about my dad’s death before I explained why I was there with them that day.

“My dad always felt like practice was where you did your job. If a student learned during the week and studied hard, the test would be easy and take care of itself. It’s the same way with practice. He liked you guys, and he especially liked the way you practice. That’s why he always felt confident that we were going to do well.”

Most of the veterans knew my dad because he had been around so much. But that day, our rookies learned a little bit about why I am the way I am.

Under a clear, blue sky, a man sprints to catch a speeding train. He has fired a machine gun at his pursuers—Nazis—and thrown grenades at them, setting various other charges and traps for them as well. Now, he has almost caught up with the German transport train that he and his fellow prisoners of war have commandeered and are riding into Switzerland. He closes in on the train, running with his hand out . . . and is shot and killed with his hand just inches from his fellow prisoners and only feet away from the Swiss border and safety.

Death by inches.

I showed that movie clip in the first meeting of training camp in 2004. When the clip ended, I explained the theory of
death by inches,
which Frank Sinatra suffered at the end of
Von Ryan’s Express.
It was one of those movies I had watched as a boy late at night with my uncle Paul, my aunt Rosemarie, and my dad. I explained to the team that it wasn’t the big things that had tripped us up in previous years but rather a combination of small details. By focusing on those details—inches—we could reach our goal rather than coming up just short.

“We’re not going to reinvent the wheel. We’re going to do what we do; we’re just going to do it better. We’re not going to focus on improving last year’s 12–4 season, but we are going to look to improve and win our first game. And then we’ll get better and win our second game. We’re going to do it by doing the little things right.”

Every year, the topic of my first talk at training camp is family. I want each guy to understand that his family is his first priority.

“Deal with them, focus on them, and take care of any issues or problems related to them,” I said to the team in 2004. “If I ever learn that there was something with your family that needed to be addressed and you put team considerations before family without talking with me, there is going to be a problem. A big problem.”
Especially now,
I thought. After reflecting on all those memories with my dad, I realized that we just don’t have family forever. When you’re thinking about death, you get more focused on time—the time you have today—and how it seems to be screaming past.

As a head coach, I’m interviewed by the media a great deal, and I pride myself in answering questions honestly without becoming a distraction. As a result, I tend not to find myself in the midst of controversy. But in 2004, I did—more than once. I don’t usually think in terms of sound bites, but I’ve learned that I have to be more aware of the way they can be misused and the power they have to shape opinions.

The first incident occurred just after the Philadelphia Eagles played on Monday Night Football. At the time, ABC was opening those broadcasts with skits featuring star players. That week’s skit showed a white actress from
Desperate Housewives
standing alone in the locker room with Philadelphia Eagles receiver Terrell Owens, who is African American. Wearing only a towel, she provocatively asked Terrell to skip the game for her and, after several rebuffs, finally convinced him, dropping her towel and jumping into his arms. TO grinned and said something along the lines of, “The guys will understand.”

I didn’t get home that night until after the game had started, so I didn’t know anything about the skit until the next day. When I saw a tape of the opening, I couldn’t believe it. I was disgusted. Later I asked Eric, who was then twelve, if he had seen the beginning of the game. He told me he had, so we talked about it for a while. Eric had been in the locker room before enough games to know that something like that could never happen, and he thought the skit was “dumb.” I wondered, however, what other young kids might be thinking after watching that skit. I also wondered what Eric was
thinking
but not telling me.

During my next media session, I didn’t wait for anyone to ask about the broadcast. I brought it up and said I thought it was totally inappropriate. I said I was displeased with the sexual nature of the skit and its being shown on prime time just before a nationally televised, family-friendly football game. I said I thought it was a slam on NFL football players, and I was upset with ABC for using an African American player.