Quiet Strength (24 page)

We headed to Green Bay for the season finale. Since I had come to Tampa, we had never won at Lambeau Field. And we still carried the never-winning-in-cold-weather jinx. That day, the temperature was a numbing fifteen degrees with a wind chill of fifteen below. Definitely sub-forty. With a win, we would have our second division title and a first-round bye in the playoffs.

The score was tied, 14–14, late in the game. Brett Favre was driving the Packers toward the win. Then our linebacker Jamie Duncan intercepted a Favre pass. Shaun King moved us down to the 22 yard line to set up Martin Gramatica for the game-winning field goal. Martin had not missed a big kick for us in two years; he missed this one just wide to the right. We lost the coin toss to start overtime and never got the ball. Green Bay kicked a field goal to win, 17–14. Our opening playoff game would be in Philadelphia.

We played poorly against the Eagles, losing 21–3 to end our season. But for the third time in four years, and the fourth in the Bucs’ entire history, we had won ten or more games.

We had seen a number of positive results on offense and had set some team records, but I felt that Les’s coaching philosophy did not quite mesh with mine. He is an excellent coach and a good friend, but thinking long-term, I decided we were better off making a change.

Had I known what lay ahead, I would not have fired Les and named Clyde Christensen as our third offensive coordinator in three years.

If you saw Clyde Christensen coming down a hallway, you’d never guess he had been a quarterback at the University of North Carolina. He’s built more like a fullback. Clyde and I met at a coaching clinic and became friends through the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. When I was hired by the Bucs, Clyde left his role as offensive co-coordinator at Clemson to join me. It was Clyde’s friendship with Mark Merrill that led to my involvement with Family First and All Pro Dad.

Clyde and I are both passionate about helping men become better fathers. Like me, Clyde is very close to his parents, a California minister and his wife. Like me, he has worked diligently to keep his children grounded and to spend meaningful time with them. Unlike me, Clyde’s birth mother was a fourteen-year-old girl who put him up for adoption—insisting that he be adopted into a Christian home. Clyde’s firsthand sensitivity to adoption has fueled his energetic support of Family First and All Pro Dad, as well as A Woman’s Place, a Tampa crisis pregnancy counseling center.

Just before the 2000 season, an unexpected part of God’s plan unfolded on our team. Joe Marciano, our special teams coach, came to me and told me he wanted to adopt a child.

“I’ve thought it through, and I think I can make it work even though I’m going to be a single dad. I’ll get help during the day, but if I can bring him here in the afternoons and then go home with him in the evenings, we’ll be okay.”

We talked it through for a bit. Joe knew I would make allowances for anyone’s family issues, and I had always followed the lead of Denny Green and Chuck Noll when it came to scheduling. At the same time, football is a demanding profession, so even a family-friendly schedule requires a significant amount of time away from home.

On a typical Monday, we can be at the office from eight in the morning until ten at night, reviewing our film as well as film on our next opponent. Tuesday is our game-plan day, and it often goes just as late. Wednesday is our first practice day. We start around eight and stay until we finish reviewing the practice tape, which is usually about nine at night. On Thursdays we refine the plan and then try to be out by 8 p.m. Friday is a short dress rehearsal, and we’re usually finished at 1 p.m. On Saturday morning, we have a “walk-through”—a slow-motion practice without full pads. Then we either fly out for an away game or go home and relax before checking into our team hotel that night for a home game. Sunday is a long day of pregame meetings and meals, the game itself, and return travel.

I knew we would have to be creative in thinking about ways to make this work for Joe and the Buccaneers. We decided that since Joe was the special teams coach, he didn’t have to meet with the other coaches but could meet with me separately to review his plans for the kicking game on a schedule that worked with his childcare. He could probably even do a lot of his work at home. I hoped we could make it work.

Joe then began the process of adoption, and eighteen months later, he brought home his new son, Joseph.

One of the most interested parties in all this was my wife, Lauren. She wanted to help Joe all she could, but she also was interested for another reason—she wanted more kids around. Lauren was a twin and came from a close-knit, gregarious family. The Harrises were all very outgoing, and their household was always lively. By contrast, as Lauren had been known to say, “You never quite knew what the Dungys were thinking.” We were a very quiet family.

When Joe adopted Joseph, Lauren and I had three children: Tiara, sixteen; Jamie, thirteen; and Eric, ten. But Lauren hoped for more. She wanted to adopt, as her parents had. They had taken in a number of foster kids over the years and had adopted two of them. Now in their eighties, my in-laws have a daughter in high school and a son in middle school.

Lauren and I had taken in foster children when we were first married, and I was at least somewhat interested. After all, God had blessed us with material resources that would allow us to take care of more children than our three. And Lauren really was cut out to be a mother.

At the same time, I’m not always quick to make a decision. I like to think things through and carefully weigh all the options whenever I can. Adding children to our family struck me as the kind of decision that was worth taking some time to contemplate. The fact that the process took eighteen months for Joe to complete gave me some comfort. Even if Lauren and I decided to adopt, I knew nothing would happen immediately.

Having worked with the foster-care system in Pittsburgh, I knew the statistics. Well over half a million children were in foster care in the United States, and countless more awaited adoption both in this country and around the world. We had helped some of those kids for a short period of time—overnight, a week, a couple of months. But Lauren wanted to help kids in a more permanent way, and she also wanted the joy of having a new baby in our home. I knew we could make all the difference in the world to at least one child. But I needed to learn more, and I wanted time to think and pray through our decision.

We made an appointment to visit the same adoption agency Joe had used. Our purpose was to gather more information so we could better evaluate our decision. During the meeting, the woman asked us a number of questions, and then we went through ours. As more of a formality than anything else at the close of the meeting, we asked how long we could expect this process to take. The answer shocked me.

“If you’re looking to adopt an African American or biracial child, you can have one immediately.”

I was floored. My mind raced. My time to think things through had just been tossed out the window. “We . . . I . . . we thought it took like a year and a half.”

“It does if you want to adopt a white baby or want to adopt internationally. However, the need is so great for domestic minority children that we are pretty much always in need of adoptive parents.”

At that point, I knew my answer was clear. I had looked to God for clear signs when making career decisions, but this was probably the clearest sign I had ever received. I guess He had just been holding back His clearest sign for something critical like children who needed a home. That way, He could be sure I got it right.

Adopting a child—immediately—was quite a transition to contemplate. I was concerned with my ability to do my job and be a good father, not only to teenagers but now to an infant as well. Would I have the energy to do both now that I was in my forties? And what about our kids? Our three children were comfortably settled in their routines. Tiara was a good student and athlete, and she was enjoying high school. Jamie was growing tall and lean, and he was extremely sensitive, a lot like Lauren. Eric was most like me when I was growing up—always looking for a game. They were all good kids, and we wanted to make sure we didn’t disrupt their lifestyles.

We all talked and prayed together about the impact adoption would have on our family. Everyone was in favor initially—except me. I needed time to think it through. Lauren finally moved me from my indecision when she said, “It’s just like you always say to the team: ‘If it’s important enough to you, we’ll get it done.’” There was no way I could dispute that.

A couple of months later, in August 2000, we adopted Jordan. He was in the hospital for a few days after birth before we got to bring him home. “Just running a few more tests,” we were told by the doctors and nurses.

We assumed this was normal procedure when adopting a newborn, although we were a bit concerned that the birth mother might be changing her mind. The agency told us not to worry and that all the tests had turned out fine.

We thought it a was little odd, however, that Jordan didn’t cry when he got his first set of shots. Then, one afternoon when he was about five months old, I was home alone with him—probably engrossed in a football game, I’m afraid—when he fell off the bed. And didn’t cry.

We took him to a pediatric neurologist in Tampa and started asking more questions. We learned then that unlike most babies, Jordan hadn’t cried in the hospital after birth when he was given eye drops. The neurologist suggested we take him to the University of Florida for more definitive tests. The doctors in Gainesville gave us an answer: Jordan was diagnosed with congenital insensitivity to pain. Jordan is missing a gene, it turns out, and therefore doesn’t feel pain the way other people do. Some experts think he might not feel any pain at all.

Through Jordan, I realized that God allows us to feel pain for a reason: to protect us. God uses many things to show us what to avoid, and painful consequences often teach us lessons quickly. For example, like most kids, Jordan loves cookies. Warm cookies certainly aren’t bad for you, at least in moderation. But they
are
harmful if they’re
still in the oven
. Jordan would reach right in to pull out the piping hot cookie sheet with his bare hands. Then he would begin to eat the cookies without even realizing he was burning his hands and mouth in the process. Even a trip to the emergency room didn’t help him understand that he was injuring himself.

I think at one time or another every one of our children has gone running through the house at full tilt. Looking backward at a sibling in hot pursuit or waiting for a pass, they inevitably slam into a wall with the side of their head. They’ve all done it—once—and then, because of the pain, they’re careful not to let it happen again. Jordan, on the other hand, does this kind of thing repeatedly and gets up smiling. Without the painful consequences, how is he to learn?

Lauren and I have had to teach him the consequences of right and wrong and dangerous activities in order to protect him. Pain isn’t available to him as a teaching tool. Before we had Jordan, I hadn’t thought much about the way God uses pain to protect us from further negative consequences down the road. With Jordan, this has become obvious. Pain prompts us to change behavior that is destructive to ourselves or to others. Pain can be a highly effective instructor.

Lauren has done a great job with Jordan, as he has learned to thrive and survive even without that sense of pain. Jordan also has another special trait. He has an uncanny ability to process phone numbers. Now six, Jordan can see a string of digits come up on our caller ID and
immediately
identify any regular caller. I’m never surprised, either, when it works the other way and one of my friends tells me he received an unexpected phone call from Jordan. Those numbers are in Jordan’s head.

In September 2001, we would bring home another child, Jade. Lauren felt that Jordan needed someone to play with—somehow I knew that was coming. When it came to adopting another child, we never gave Jordan’s medical condition a second thought. Jordan’s condition is difficult, but we realized it could just as easily have happened to one of our biological children. Plus, we believe God had a reason to send Jordan to us. We have a variety of resources that help us deal with his needs, especially Lauren’s patience and nurturing spirit.

We view Jordan, our son, as a special blessing. We’re grateful for our opportunity to impact and shape his young life. In the process, Jordan personally illustrates for us some of the wonders of God and His plan for us. Watching the impact of that single missing gene reminds me how intricately each of us has been designed and created. I am continually amazed at the wonder of God’s most complex creation—people. The line between what we consider normal and what we consider special is so fine. So many varied, delicate pieces contribute to the balance and beauty of the whole picture.

Just another part of life’s journey.

Chapter Fourteen: Walking the Plank

It’s always easier to do things the wrong way, but it’s always best to do them the right way.

—CleoMae Dungy

I HEARD RUMORS for the first time at the end of the 2000 season that the Glazers might be looking for a new head coach. Other people probably heard them earlier—Lauren says I’m usually the last one to pick up on things. I had two years left on my contract, but my assistant coaches were entering their last year. My agent, Ray Anderson, who knew more about the rumors than I did, felt we needed to approach the Glazers about an extension. I was against the idea. I believed I should coach out to the end of my contract if I expected to be paid fairly at the end of the day.