Quiet Strength (9 page)

On his way out the door, Leonard asked me to share a little football advice with Chuck Noll. Then he was gone. As Lauren and her mom and I continued to talk, I became a little more comfortable and started to relax. Lauren was so genuine. She wasn’t trying to impress me; nor was she impressed that I was an
NFL
coach. In fact, not only was she
not
impressed that I was a coach with the Steelers, my job was actually a mark against me in her book. Her brothers had played football, and she didn’t care for the way girls had chased them all throughout high school simply because they were athletes.

We talked about her teaching—she taught sixth grade—and her involvement at her church. Right away I knew there was a gentle, caring side to this girl.

After only about twenty minutes, Lauren stood to leave. She had to get to her class, and I needed to head for work. At the end of that first meeting, I already knew there was something different about her. In the past, whenever I had met a girl, I immediately began to think about how I was going to tell her that I wasn’t interested in getting serious. With Lauren, however, I was trying to figure out a way to see her again. All of a sudden, this whole thing that I had been pushing away seemed to be a really good idea. I told her we’d be leaving soon for training camp but that Chuck always gave us Sundays off; maybe we could do something on the weekends. She said that would be fine.

We went to breakfast and church together the next Sunday and had a really nice time. We talked about things we each liked to do, and I learned that Lauren liked tennis. I dropped her back at her house, and … here’s where Lauren’s story diverges from mine. Since I’m the one telling the story, you’ll hear my version first, and then, to be fair, I’ll also give you her version—the
wrong
version.

As I dropped her off, I said, “I’m headed back to training camp, and I’ll be gone for the week, but if you wouldn’t mind giving me your number,
I’ll call you, and maybe we can play tennis sometime
.”

She heard—and swears to this day that I said—“… give me your number, and
maybe I’ll call you,
and we can play tennis sometime.” I can only assume she was too nervous to have heard me correctly. Or maybe—and I’m sure this is not the case—I was too nervous to have articulated my request correctly.

So there we were at her doorstep. I was thinking this was going well, while it turns out that she was mad and put off by my attitude. Although she thought I might be one of those guys who had a lot of girlfriends, she grudgingly gave me her number. I did in fact call that week from the hall phone in the dorm at camp. After that, we started to see each other more often. We went out every Saturday night during camp, and we also attended church together every Sunday morning in Pittsburgh. Lauren had been raised Catholic but was now attending that Episcopal church pastored by John Guest. After we went to church, we’d often have breakfast together in Sewickley, then try to do something fun before I had to head back to camp. We even played some tennis, with each of us winning our share of games.

We often spent time just talking, especially about Dr. Guest’s sermons and the lessons we had each taken from them. We also discussed Christian philosophy at length, which helped me see the world from Lauren’s perspective. Lauren’s faith was clearly very important to her.

In spite of the fact that I had been an athlete and was still involved in football, Lauren was beginning to fall for me just as I was for her. In fact, she was actually becoming a football fan for the first time.

Although I felt an immediate connection with Lauren, I remained a little cautious. Dating her had not been the result of a spontaneous decision. In fact, I had thought and prayed about it a lot before I ever called her after our first meeting. As I said, I never wanted to get too involved with someone I couldn’t see myself marrying. She was so pretty and seemed to be everything I was looking for in a woman, but I wanted to be sure it wasn’t just physical attraction.

Once I returned from camp, we began to see each other a little more during the season. But even so, our times together were infrequent and precious. The more time we spent together, however, the more certain I was that she was the one. Like many other times in my life, there was no booming voice from God or one defining moment when I realized that I wanted to marry Lauren. Somehow, I just knew God had led me to the right person.

It really didn’t take me long to see that Dr. Guest had been right about the two of us. By the fall of that year, I was ready to propose, although I’ll admit that proposing to Lauren was not my finest hour. One night that November, just four months after we met, we were sitting on her parents’ couch, and I began talking in general terms about the kind of woman I wanted to marry. I said I was looking for a woman who loved the Lord and wanted to use biblical principles to raise a family, someone who was generous and caring, and so on.

Of course, I was describing Lauren and leading into my proposal. But I later learned that as I was saying all these things, I hadn’t made this clear at all, and Lauren assumed I was asking for advice about somebody else. Until this point, we had never referred to ourselves as dating, we were just “hanging out.” A lot. Finally, I said I thought she fit all of those qualities I’d been looking for in a godly woman and that I thought we should get married. Still sitting, I began fishing in my left front pocket for the ring I had purchased for her.

She said yes, despite my failure to be eloquent—or to even get down on one knee. I was very excited and looking forward to married life, although I’m not sure Lauren could truly envision everything she was getting into.

The initial rapture of married life lasted well into the first day. Well, maybe
well into
is stretching it a little. We had waited until June to get married because Lauren wanted to spend her wedding night outside of Pittsburgh. She had visions of getting married and boarding a flight that day, so we had to wait until school was out. Since I had played football in San Francisco, we decided to start our honeymoon there before flying to Hawaii a few days later. I had pushed for staying the first night in the Pittsburgh Hilton, but my arguments fell on deaf ears. We set the ceremony for 1 p.m. so we could catch a flight for the West Coast that afternoon.

We planned a very small wedding because between Lauren’s teaching colleagues and Steelers coaches, players, and staff, we knew we’d never be able to cut the guest list without hurting someone’s feelings. We were married by John Guest in a lovely, intimate ceremony in Lauren’s church. Donnie Shell was my best man.

We left for San Francisco at 5 p.m., but since no direct flights were available, we arrived very late in the evening. We were exhausted from the long day and long flights even before we touched down. I had arranged to borrow a car from Paul Hofer, a former 49ers teammate. Paul and his wife met us at the airport and sent us on our way—in their convertible.

Lauren and I were beyond exhausted by this time, as it was now approaching midnight. I stopped at a convenience store on the way to the hotel, and things might have been fine had I not broken the car key off in the door. We found a pay phone and called Paul so he could bring us a spare key. By now it was late. Very late.

Barely functioning, we arrived at the hotel at 1 a.m., fifteen hours—with the time change—after our wedding ceremony had begun. Completely wiped out, we both tried valiantly to hang in there, finally stepping off the elevator on the eleventh floor. We looked at each other and smiled; we had survived the trip.

At that moment, the power in the hotel went out. Someone had cut a cable outside the building, and we were plunged into darkness. We felt our way down the hallway, finally finding our room. It had been a very long journey to this point, and I’ve often said that it’s all about the journey.

Not on June 19, 1982, it wasn’t.

Two days later, however, we were sitting blissfully on the beach in Hawaii, excited once again about our marriage and our life together under God’s watchful care. Any talk of “If we had just stayed the night at the
Pittsburgh Hilton
…” or “Even
borrowing
a car instead of renting one wouldn’t have been a problem if someone knew how to
work a car key
…” seemed like distant memories.

To this day, I tell Ted Petersen that if he hadn’t gotten sick, I’d still be single—and probably dateless.

Whoever wants to be a leader among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first among you must become your slave.

—Matthew 20:26-27

I
T
WAS
1984, and a new kid on the block and would-be competitor to the
NFL
, the United States Football League, had just been formed. Our defensive coordinator, Woody Widenhofer, left the Steelers to become the head coach of the USFL’s Oklahoma Outlaws. Woody was our defensive staff’s second loss in two years. George Perles, our assistant head coach, had gone to the Michigan State Spartans as their new head coach in ’82.

Although I was only twenty-eight at the time and recognized I was awfully young, I also knew I was the coach who knew our defense the best. I hoped I was next in line for the Steelers’ defensive coordinator position. A few days after Woody left, we were in New Orleans for the
NFL
Scouting Combine, an event where guys who will be in that year’s draft gather for workouts while
NFL
scouts watch. Chuck Noll asked if I wanted to go with him to Preservation Hall. I had no idea what or where that was, but I figured he must be getting ready to talk to me about becoming the defensive coordinator.

We met after dinner in the hotel lobby and walked out into the cool Crescent City evening. Chuck always was a fascinating conversationalist. He spoke of the 1974 Super Bowl the Steelers had been part of in New Orleans, and then he talked about a number of other topics, all unrelated to football. We arrived at Preservation Hall, a little hole in the wall with great New Orleans jazz. We kept talking while listening to a guy play the piano for about forty-five minutes, and then Chuck got up to leave.

“Wasn’t that great?” he remarked. I agreed, and we headed out into the chilly night air once again. Chuck began talking about jazz and its origins and how New Orleans jazz was distinctive. I can’t say that I learned a whole lot about jazz that night. The whole time we were together, I was trying to figure out if I should say something about the defensive coordinator position or just let the conversation play out, figuring he’d get to it soon enough.

He never did, though, and as we returned to the hotel, I realized that I must not be Chuck’s choice for the position. When I got home to Pittsburgh, I informed Lauren, who wasn’t as ready as I was to accept this decision. She was convinced that I should at least talk with Chuck and ask him why he seemed headed in a different direction. After going back and forth with her for about four days, I finally did just that.

“Coach, have you given any thought to what you’re going to do with the defensive coordinator position?”

He looked startled. “Of course, Tony. Nobody knows as much about our defense as you do. That’s always been my thought process since Woody left. You’re our defensive coordinator.”

I blew out a breath and gave a rueful laugh, a mixture of relief and exasperation evident on my face.

“Were you ever going to
tell
me that?”

“Tony, you’re our defensive coordinator.”

That was just the way Chuck was. Like when I went in at quarterback in 1977—I was the next man in line, even though I didn’t know it. Things just kept moving along as planned—at least in his mind.

The off-season of 1984 also brought us our first child, Tiara. We were in a position financially to allow Lauren to give up teaching and become a full-time mom. Up to this point, Lauren had always been firm in her resolve to keep teaching for a while before having children. But now, only two and a half years after the wedding, we found ourselves with a baby daughter and a single income. God apparently had a different schedule for us than we had thought.

Almost immediately Lauren and Tiara began to develop the same closeness I had seen Lauren share with her own mom. Being our first child and a girl, Tiara received the royal treatment—from us, from both sets of grandparents, and from everyone at our church. And not only did she receive attention, she also received
clothes.
I never realized just how much moms enjoy dressing up their little girls until Tiara came along. She was really a joy, and she got me thinking about the responsibilities of being a father. Up until this point, I had played a lot of golf in the off-season with Bill Nunn, one of the Steelers scouts. But after Tiara was born, I began to play fewer and fewer rounds, just feeling the need to be home as much as I could. Today, I hardly play golf at all.

Tiara was the sole recipient of our parental attention until 1987, when Jamie was born. He cut into her territory a little, but she didn’t seem to mind. Jamie, of course, set off those thoughts in my mind that I’m sure every father of a boy must have.
Will he follow in my footsteps? Will I get to play ball with him like my dad did with me? Will he enjoy going to my office as much as I liked going with my father?

I was very fortunate to be working for Chuck at this point. We had settled nicely into our coaching routine and never spent needless time at work. He was very family oriented, and I never worried that coaching football and raising a family might clash.

Looking back, I can see it was no accident that I felt led to choose a $2,200 signing bonus to play an unfamiliar position with the Steelers rather than take whatever the Bills or Alouettes had offered. In Pittsburgh I met Lauren, was surrounded by guys who were serious about their faith, won a Super Bowl, and started my coaching career. However, in spite of all these good things, God eventually kicked me out of the Pittsburgh nest.

In the spring of 1987, we drafted a very good defensive class—Rod Woodson, Delton Hall, Thomas Everett, Hardy Nickerson, and Greg Lloyd. Those guys all played some in 1987, and we anticipated that they would play even more in 1988. However, as we headed into the 1988 season, we lost some significant leadership. Both Donnie Shell and John Stallworth retired, and Mike Merriweather, the player we had counted on to be the cornerstone of our defense, became embroiled in a contract dispute and sat out the entire season. That was a big loss that we hadn’t anticipated, especially in light of the fact that we had let some other veteran leaders go to allow for the development of the 1987 draft class.