Coming Back Stronger (10 page)

The Saints booked a visit for me in early March, and I committed to going there first. As soon as the Dolphins heard about it, they called and asked me to fly to Miami before that. I told them I was a man of my word and I’d make the trip to Miami after my visit to New Orleans. On the night before I left for New Orleans, Miami called again. They said they wanted to fly in and have breakfast in Birmingham before I visited the Saints.

Obviously New Orleans was not thrilled with that, but I wanted to get as much time as I could with each team. Here was an opportunity to sit and talk with Miami right on my doorstep, so why not? Brittany and I drove to a little pancake house close to the Five Points area of Birmingham. Nick Saban, the head coach, and Randy Mueller, the general manager, met us there.

Nick was up-front with me. He told me straight out that he was interested in having me play for the Dolphins. His personality is not real warm, and you struggle to ever get a smile out of him. He’s a hard-nosed, stoic kind of guy, and he did most of the talking at the breakfast, as I recall. He wasn’t trying to sell me on his team—he just explained things. “We have a great owner, a great staff, a great team, and a great organization behind us. We also have great facilities.” He then focused on Brittany. “And we have great communities and great places to raise a family. I have a house on the Intracoastal Waterway and a boat. When you visit, we’ll get you both out on the water and show you around.” Like any good recruiter, he directed those statements right at my wife. If you can win over the woman in the player’s life, you’ve won the recruiting battle.

Nothing really eventful happened at that breakfast other than getting the chance to meet both men in person. We talked. We ate. It was primarily an opportunity for them to get in front of me and let me think about Miami as I talked with New Orleans. I think that was part of the game. After breakfast Brittany and I left for the airport and headed to New Orleans.

I remember flying into New Orleans that day. It’s a flight I love now, soaring over the bayou and the swamp, with the beautiful cypress trees and the waterways below. But that day I stared dismally out the window. It was crummy weather—rainy and drizzly—and as we got under the thick clouds, I caught my first glimpse of the area. Most of the trees looked like they’d been chopped off at the top, beheaded by Katrina.

Oh, boy, I thought. This is going to be interesting.

As soon as we landed, we were in a limo on our way to the team facility. Mickey and Sean seemed to be making sure Brittany and I were constantly talking so there was as little looking out the window as possible. I also recall that the limo had the darkest tint on the windows I had ever seen. We could barely see out. I’m pretty sure that was the point—to prevent us from being scared off by all the devastation.

For dinner that night we went to Emeril’s restaurant. That’s one thing about New Orleans: no matter how bleak things seem, you can always count on a great meal and good people. We sat at the chef’s table, which was actually in the kitchen. Sean and his wife, Beth, were there, along with Mickey and Melanie, now his wife. We were joined by some other members of the coaching staff, including quarterbacks coach Pete Carmichael, who was the quality control coach in San Diego the entire time I was there. I had a great relationship with Pete. He was one of the people I knew believed in me.

Part of their philosophy was to treat Brittany and me like family. The discussion at dinner didn’t turn to free agency or the contract—we just enjoyed the evening and got to know each other. They promised to show us some neighborhoods they thought would be conducive to raising a family. Brittany fell in love with Beth and Mel.

Brittany and I spent the night at the Loews Hotel downtown. Some people from the community had sent flowers and gift baskets to welcome us. That night Brittany pulled me into the bathroom and ran the shower while we talked. She was convinced there could be listening devices in the room, and she wanted to make sure the sound of the water would drown out what we said. Okay, so maybe we’d been watching too many spy movies lately. The truth is, we were welcomed there with open arms.

The next day I met with Sean to discuss the offense. He and the crew had put together a highlight video with some of my best plays from the past couple of years. We talked about the specifics of the offense and how I saw myself fitting in. Everything he said to me seemed to communicate one central message: We want you here. We believe in you, and we are as confident in your ability to come back and lead this team to a championship as you are.

“I’m going to take everything you like and everything you’re good at, and we’re going to install it,” Sean said. “We’re going to put it in our offense. We’re going to develop this thing together. I want to put you in the best position to lead this offense by executing what you are comfortable with and have confidence running. I’ll have the final say, but you’re going to have a lot of input.”

A lot of coaches would come in and tell you to listen up while they spelled out the offensive scheme—a “my way or the highway” approach. But Sean was different. He wanted me to be part of the process; he valued my input. Nobody had ever given me that opportunity before. No coach had ever expressed so much belief in me—really a blind faith at this point. This was the first time we had shaken hands with each other. I was blown away.

Meanwhile, Brittany was being entertained by Doug Marrone, the offensive coordinator, although I don’t know who was entertaining whom because I’m sure Brittany was doing most of the talking. They ate peanut butter pretzels and talked while watching film. It was right up Brittany’s alley—very relaxed and informal. Doug’s wife, Helen, would end up being one of Brittany’s closest friends in the Saints family.

Later, as we drove around to look at neighborhoods, they tried to help me overcome my misconception that the entire city was uninhabitable. The coaches all lived in different areas, and we drove to a development called English Turn and then to Uptown. We immediately fell in love with the Uptown area. There was a big, beautiful park and lots of historic homes with wraparound porches, plus Loyola and Tulane universities and the world-renowned St. Charles Avenue. After the devastation we had seen on the flight in, I was surprised to find these areas in such good shape.

Then we drove to the North Shore, where Sean Payton’s home was being built. As beautiful as it was, I knew we couldn’t live in that area—the bridge across Lake Pontchartrain is twenty-four miles long! I was sure I would fall asleep making the forty-five-minute drive back and forth to the facility every day. But still, I was starting to think this might not be such a bad place to live after all.

It was on the way back I was about to see a different side of New Orleans.

Brittany and I were in the car with Sean having a great conversation. We got off the bridge, and he took an exit into New Orleans proper. I had no idea where we were, but he seemed confident that he did. We were headed back to the facility, where I would be talking with Tom Benson, the owner, as well as Mickey Loomis. Then they were taking us to the airport to catch our flight to Miami. By that point we’d seen everything in New Orleans, it seemed, except the hurricane damage.

Sean was driving and talking, looking at street signs, and it seemed to be taking quite a while to get back. It wasn’t a big deal because we had some time to spare. I relaxed and just took in the scenery. But gradually that scenery started taking a turn for the worse. We drove into neighborhoods where the houses were off their foundations. There were boats in yards and cars halfway into living rooms. It was unbelievable. We’d seen images like these on the news months earlier, but no amount of TV can prepare you for the reality of seeing it with your own eyes.

I looked back at Brittany, and she was just as sobered as I was. (She had gone from almost falling asleep to wearing a look of pure shock.) Both of us glanced at Sean, who was trying to play it cool. We didn’t realize it at the time, but he had no idea where we were. We were making our way through Metairie and Lakeview, two areas that were hit really hard by Katrina. Later I took friends to this area to see the devastation and the progress—or the lack thereof. There’s no way words can describe the scope of the wreckage we saw that day.

Sean finally pulled out his phone and called Mickey Loomis. He tried to be discreet, but we heard him ask Mickey where we were and how to get back to the facility. He was really embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m new here too. I’ve only been in town a month and a half.”

We wound our way through those neighborhoods for about forty-five minutes. At first we were just taking it all in—there was so much to process. We saw the giant X’s spray-painted on doors where the police and National Guard had checked homes for bodies, noting the number of survivors—and victims—they had found. Yards were cluttered with debris, broken windows, and overturned cars. Some houses were gone altogether, with nothing left but a slab of concrete. The people who had lived in those homes were now scattered to the wind.

There’s something you learn quickly about New Orleans when you visit: people there have a clear sense of home. Many families have lived in New Orleans for countless generations. They will never leave, and they don’t want to go anywhere else. They love life. They love living here. But a huge part of the population had been lost. Displaced.

There was a moment when we were driving, trying to find our way back to the facility, when I felt myself going into information overload. During the first part of the visit, I was focused exclusively on meeting Sean and the other coaches, talking to the owner and the general manager, discussing the offense. I had thought about where we might live and about the future of the club. All that was swirling in my brain when suddenly I was hit with a dose of reality. All that devastation really put things in perspective for me. By the time we reached the facility, I honestly felt like I needed to lie down.

I quickly met with Mickey and Mr. Benson, and then it was off to the airport. We were an hour behind schedule already, and I could sense that Mickey wanted to do everything in his power to prevent me from getting on that plane. You see, typically on a recruiting visit, the last stop is where a player signs. Mickey figured if I got on that plane, I was never coming back. But I had given my word that I would make the trip to Miami before I made any decisions. I needed perspective, but more than anything, I needed time to let what I had seen in New Orleans sink in. It was heavy stuff, and I needed to find a way to compartmentalize it for a while so I could give my attention to the opportunity in Miami.

The Dolphins picked us up in owner Wayne Huizenga’s customized 747. It was huge and impressive. They had flown in several coaches and their wives for the flight back to Miami. We immediately started talking team and offensive philosophy and all the other pertinent details of Dolphins football.

Wayne Huizenga, Nick Saban, the other coaches, and their wives took us to dinner that night, and we had a very nice time. At the outset, our visit looked a lot like what we’d received in New Orleans. However, that was about to change. When I woke up the next morning, the first thing planned was an appointment with the Dolphins team doctor at his office. There they required me to go through extensive physicals on my shoulder. They hadn’t prepared me for this, and my agent had no idea it was coming either. But I had nothing to hide, so I agreed to let them examine me all they wanted.

I saw a neurologist to determine if I had any nerve damage. He stuck a bunch of big needles in my arm and tried to make sure that my nerve endings were firing properly and that I was going to get all the feeling back from the top of my shoulder down to my fingertips. I was only two months out of surgery at this point, and I wondered what Dr. Andrews would say about this. I was fairly certain he wouldn’t like all the prodding and poking on my still-sensitive shoulder, and I was concerned this could potentially set us back from the progress we’d made.

Then they did an MRI with contrast, where I was injected with a solution that shows more detail than a normal MRI would. It was a two-hour process—and quite painful. After the injection, which caused my arm to swell, I had to lie in the MRI tube. I’m not claustrophobic, but after a while you start wondering if you’ll ever make it out of there.

I literally spent six hours with various medical staff, trying to convince them that I was going to come back okay. Most of my time in Miami was consumed by people jerking, poking, and prodding me in different ways. I felt like I was at a cattle show—or, at the very least, at the draft combine again. And all through the process, from the moment I stepped on the plane until we drove back to the airport, I got the feeling that the Dolphins were looking at me with a sense of doubt. Was I supposed to be selling myself to them? It sure felt like it.

Sure, they had everything in place in Miami. They had top-notch coaches. They looked like they were headed in the right direction as an organization. South Florida was a gorgeous place to live, a wonderful place to raise a family. There were so many pluses to the equation, but I couldn’t shake the sense that they doubted me. It almost felt like I’d be stepping into the same situation I had just exited in San Diego.

The responses to my rehab highlight reel seemed to illustrate the striking difference between the two organizations. I had a DVD Dr. Andrews had made of the actual surgery and a DVD that offered a detailed look at all I’d been doing in my rehab and how I was improving. I gave them to both teams when we met. At the time I was three weeks ahead of schedule and proud of the accomplishments I’d made so far. I wanted them to look me in the eye and see how serious I was about making a complete comeback. I wanted to show them I was on my way to coming back stronger.

In New Orleans I got a nod, a pat on the back, and the feeling That’s what we like to hear. They communicated warmth, encouragement, and confidence.

In Miami they took the DVD and shrugged. Okay, we’ll see. I felt like I had a hole I needed to dig myself out of right from the beginning. The vibe I was getting from them was doubt and mistrust. You should feel lucky we’re considering you.

Brittany and I returned to Birmingham utterly exhausted. We had been up late in New Orleans and in Miami. Plus it had been an emotionally taxing few days. But as tired as we were, that first night back we stayed up and talked, just like we had the night of our first date. We had a lot of the same reactions about what we’d seen. If leaving New Orleans had been information and emotion overload, leaving Miami was pure frustration. I was so disappointed. I had been hoping for so much more from Miami. But as Brittany and I reflected on all that had happened in the past week, we had to admit there was something special about New Orleans. At one point we sat on the bed and just stared at each other. The revelation seemed to hit us at the same time. We couldn’t quite explain it, but it was almost like New Orleans was calling to us. We prayed together that night as we do every night, and we asked God to continue to show us what direction we should go and allow us to sense his purpose.

Miami had seemed to be such an obvious choice. We hadn’t been expecting this, and we certainly weren’t looking for it. But we couldn’t ignore the irresistible feeling—a sense of spiritual calling, even—that God wanted us in New Orleans. Maybe it was because we could approach the city from a different angle than perhaps anybody else. Where some people might look at the city and see disaster, we saw opportunity. Where some people might be deterred by the devastation, we were drawn to it. We saw the adversity as a chance to build something special from the ground up. Before the hurricane, New Orleans had had its fair share of problems, just like every major city does. Up to that point most of those problems had been ignored, accepted as the norm, or patched with duct tape for the time being. After Katrina, the city now had a clean slate, an opportunity to start over and rebuild the right way. This was a chance to fill in the voids that had been missing for some time now, in everything from politics to crime to the education system to infrastructure. What if God wanted us in New Orleans for such a time as this?

Am I being called to New Orleans? Pastors and missionaries might get a calling from God to do something . . . but football players? Do they get that kind of tug from the Almighty?

I wasn’t sure, but I was about to find out where I wasn’t being called.