Quiet Strength (18 page)

Our vision had to be one of excellence, of playing the best that we could play every time we hit the field, whether it was practice, regular season, or the Super Bowl.

“This game won’t matter in the standings, and we won’t make the playoffs,” I said. “But I want you to play as if it were a playoff game. Use this vision to imagine that this game means everything in our season. Show me how you would perform if it did.”

We dominated the Bears from start to finish. With the win over Chicago, we finished 6–10, dead last in our division. But we had made great strides and really improved. The Bucs players dumped Gatorade on me after that game. Gary Shelton of the
St. Petersburg Times
wrote an article asking why anyone would throw Gatorade on a 6–10 coach. But he followed up by saying that this year had felt different from past ten-loss seasons in Tampa.

It felt different for us, too. We finally felt as if we had begun to change the mentality around One Buc and were headed in the right direction.

Whatever it takes.

No excuses, no explanations.

Do what we do.

Chapter Ten: Filling the Corners

Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

WE REALLY BELIEVED, as we headed into the 1997 off-season, that we were close to reaching the level of success we had been striving to achieve. Even though our 1996 record was 6–10, we had finished the season strong and felt good about our defense. And our offense had shown an ability to control the ball and pound it ahead with our running game. However, we were in dire need of offensive playmakers. We still had trouble making big, momentum-changing plays.

Heading into the 1997 draft, we held two first-round picks—San Diego had traded the second one to us from the 1996 draft. With our two picks, we were focused on getting a receiver with great speed and a running back who “could hit home runs.” We believed this combination would give us some offensive threats to stretch opposing defenses.

During the off-season, heading toward the draft, Derrick Brooks became a regular visitor to my office. Derrick was the outside linebacker drafted by the Bucs in 1995. Each day, his message was the same: the Bucs needed to draft his college teammate Warrick Dunn, the running back from Florida State. Over and over again, Derrick came by with that same advice.

At the end of February, the assistant coaches and I headed to the NFL Scouting Combine, which had moved from New Orleans to Indianapolis, to meet some of the top college seniors, including Warrick Dunn. I came away from our initial meeting highly impressed. I was around him for only about twenty minutes, but I left with the feeling that this guy could be something really special in the league. Coach Noll had always said to err on the side of production over looks, and Warrick certainly put that philosophy to the test. At only five-foot-nine and 180 pounds, Warrick was small for Florida State, let alone the pros. I double-checked my impressions with Bobby Bowden, FSU’s head coach since 1976. Coach Bowden told me that despite his size, Warrick was the best player he’d
ever
coached at Florida State. Coming from Coach Bowden, that was quite a statement.

As we deliberated the pick, I continued to think about my training under Coach Noll.

“Watch the film, not the stopwatch,” he used to say. After all, the point is to select athletes to play football. Some guys test well, either with their foot speed, leaping ability, strength, or other measurable physical traits. But some guys just play well. If given a choice, I’d rather select the guy who did both, of course. But I didn’t want to discount a great college player simply because he had suspect physical traits, especially if the guy played high-level competition well. Warrick fit that profile. He was small, but he had been highly successful at FSU, playing in the tough Atlantic Coast Conference.

Conventional wisdom said small running backs could not hold up in the NFL, but I was inclined to follow Coach Noll’s advice and go with production over size. Rich McKay, Jerry Angelo, and Tim Ruskell all agreed with this approach. The year prior to my arrival, the Bucs had selected Warren Sapp and Derrick Brooks. Both players had some physical question marks, but both had performed exceptionally well in college and were off to a good start in the NFL. Rich was focused primarily on not “missing” with our picks as some former Bucs teams had done. He believed we could minimize our risk by focusing on a player’s production against top competition.

Warrick Dunn had made many big plays for the Seminoles, and we desperately needed such a playmaker. In addition, Warrick was the kind of guy who would do other things that might not always be noticed by the fans. He picked up blitzes without fear, even if it meant blocking much bigger players. He had soft hands and caught the ball well coming out of the backfield. And if his quarterback threw an interception, he always hustled to get into the play and make the tackle.

We didn’t know whether Warrick could hold up physically for an entire season as the every-down running back, but
he
believed he could. In the meantime, we were sure he could be a play-making running back. We believed big things would happen if we gave Warrick “touches”—chances to get the ball through rushing attempts, pass receptions, and punt and kickoff returns. We all agreed we wanted to draft Warrick Dunn.

Our question then became
where
we would have to select him. Did we need to get him with our first pick at number eight, or could we get him with our second pick? Or, because of his size, could we trade down from our second pick and still get him even later in the first round? When the draft began, we found ourselves in a multi-party trade, with picks flying around everywhere. In the first round, we moved down from eight to twelve, but we also acquired the sixteenth pick.

As for receivers, we were looking at three from the state of Florida: Ike Hilliard and Reidel Anthony from the University of Florida and Yatil Green from Miami. We also liked Rae Carruth of Colorado. All had positive and negative qualities. Hilliard ran excellent routes and had solid hands but didn’t have Anthony’s speed. Carruth had neither Anthony’s speed nor Hilliard’s hands but was a nice mix of the two. Green had size and some great tools but didn’t seem as polished. After considerable debate, we entered the draft with our focus on Dunn first and then one of the receivers. Hilliard was my favorite, but it wasn’t a clear-cut decision for any of us.

The Giants made that decision for us, taking Hilliard at the seventh pick. We still had three receivers we liked on the board, so we decided to shoot for Dunn with our first pick, with Tiki Barber of the University of Virginia as our fallback if Dunn was gone.

Warrick Dunn was still available at twelve, so we immediately sent the pick to our representative at the draft in New York. We were all excited about getting Warrick. Then we saw Yatil Green go to the Dophins at fifteen, so we decided to take Reidel Anthony at sixteen. We were thrilled with our first round, and in subsequent rounds we got some players who became solid starters over the next few years. One of these was our third-round pick, Ronde Barber, Tiki Barber’s twin. I still have my draft notes, which show that we had some questions about Ronde’s tackling, which turned out to be unfounded, and note that our primary concern was that this would mark the “first time the twins have been split.” Both players obviously adjusted just fine during their careers in Tampa and New York despite the separation. As coaches, we all felt good about the 1997 draft.

From the time our newly drafted players first took the field at minicamp, we were excited about the possibilities. It was still hard to see in the preseason what would happen—our offense was still sputtering—but we felt we had significantly improved over 1996.

To this day, that 1997 season remains my favorite in football. I remember every game from that season off the top of my head, in order, almost play-by-play. The 1997 season was everything I had wanted for 1996 on my most optimistic of days. We played well, and the community became energized. We rode a wave of excitement and renewal that crested in a playoff appearance. People waited outside our locker room to call out to us and encourage us. The prior year, only our families had been there.

The entire environment that year was special. I found that while life drags on when you’re losing, it marches on when you’re winning. I wanted the season to slow down so I could soak it up and enjoy it as long as possible.

Not only was 1997 special for our team, it was a good year for my family as well. Lauren and I were really having fun discovering the Tampa Bay area. Like most of the staff, we rented a home in 1996 because we weren’t sure what was going to happen with the old stadium. Now we were told that we could expect a new stadium and that the team would be staying in Tampa, and everyone felt good about putting their roots down in the community. Lauren and I even began to build a home.

In addition to being a great mom to our kids and helping them to develop as students, Lauren found plenty of opportunities to volunteer within the Tampa community. She especially enjoyed reading to kids at local elementary schools. Tiara, now twelve, and Jamie, ten, were adjusting well and making new friends. Eric had just started kindergarten, so Lauren was able to get more involved with the Buccaneers Women’s Organization. All in all, our family had really found a home in Tampa.

We opened the season at home against the San Francisco 49ers—Steve Young, Jerry Rice, and company. The stadium was full but not jammed. Al McGuire, the late Marquette basketball coach, said he always used to check the corners of the arena for empty seats to see if a game was sold out. That has become a habit of mine during player introductions. On that day in the old Tampa Stadium, we had a good crowd, but the corners were still slightly empty.

Steve Young left the game early with a concussion. Jerry Rice was injured on a hit by Warren Sapp. Warrick Dunn made a great run to put us in position for the go-ahead score. What a difference a year made. In 1996, we had opened at home against an upper-echelon team and had gotten pounded. A year later we opened against another top-tier team and won 13–6. I could feel confidence permeating our locker room.

Just like the year before, we followed our season opener with two road games. These were both against NFC Central foes in places where the Bucs had historically had trouble winning. We shut down Barry Sanders in Detroit as Warrick Dunn exploded onto the turf in the Pontiac Silverdome and was named the NFC’s Offensive Player of the Week.

That game also marked the first game in which I was assisted by my brother-in-law, Loren Harris, my wife’s twin. Loren’s job was to handle my headset cord. Coaches’ headsets hadn’t yet gone wireless, and someone had to manage the slack in the cord as a coach moved up and down the sideline.

If my sons Jamie and Eric had finished their schoolwork for the week, I would let them assist me as well. They were usually pretty low-key about being the coach’s sons—except for one particular game when the television cameras followed Jamie a lot. In fact, during the broadcast, John Madden even circled him on the Telestrator for viewers. The next day at school, I think Jamie made the most of being a television celebrity.

At the game in Detroit, Loren was standing close behind me, holding the cord. When we scored, I felt a tug. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Loren was trying hard to restrain himself from cheering. I had nodded when we scored, but I was already moving on to what was next, and Loren needed to keep up. But I kept feeling the cord pulling my headset.

Running off the field at halftime with a 17–3 lead, I looked at Loren. He was trembling. “Are you all right?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Tony. I’ve got to let it out some!” I laughed and thought,
Just like his twin
. I told Loren it was okay for him to express his feelings during the game . . . as long as he didn’t yank my headset off.

The following week, we played in the Metrodome in Minneapolis. Heading into the fourth quarter, we led the Vikings 21–6. On third down with seven yards to go, we gave the ball to Warrick on a draw play. All we needed to do was run down the clock, but that didn’t stop Warrick from doing something spectacular. He made about four guys miss tackling him on a fifty-two yard run to the end zone. We were 3–0.

As I walked the seventy-five yards from the visitors’ side of the field to the locker room, I thought about what I was going to say to the team. The players would be excited—with good reason. But I didn’t want them to lose sight of the consistent, workmanlike habits that had gotten the team to that successful point.

We prayed, as we always did after a game, and then I began. “Gentlemen, great job. But this was a business trip, and winning the game was simply what you were supposed to do. When you talk to the press, I want you to act like you expected this to happen.” Suddenly, a phrase popped into my head, one I have continued to use ever since: “We’ll celebrate on the plane. But when it lands, we’ve got to focus on next week.”

On the flight home, the whole team felt great. The Bucs had always struggled to win the big, marquee games, but now we had just won three big games in a row. We had beaten two division opponents on the road, and we had beaten possibly the best team in the NFC, the San Francisco 49ers, at home. What a great start to the season.

We played the Dolphins at home the following week, with the game nationally televised on Sunday Night Football. This time the “corners” of the stadium were completely full. I checked.