Quiet Strength (28 page)

“Did you guys hear that? What was that sound?” The group stopped talking and listened. There was no sound other than laughter. “That’s it—the laughing! Who is that?”

Clyde Christensen, who had come with me from Tampa, spoke up. “Those are Tony’s boys, Jamie and Eric.” My boys didn’t have school that day and were visiting me at work. They were doing the same thing they had often done in Tampa—hanging out in my office, playing video games, and watching television—and I loved it. I especially loved it when I realized that families had not exactly been welcome in the Colts building, at least during the last few years.

When Clyde told me this story later, I made it a point to let everyone on the team and staff know that their families were always welcome in our area of the building. “Be respectful of other people’s spaces,” I said, “but don’t view this building as off-limits.” The coaches who came with me from Tampa assured everyone that kids would now be a pretty common sight, both at practice and on the sidelines during games.

The second memorable moment was our win in the Vet over the Eagles in November. We had always struggled against Philadelphia when I was with Tampa—not scoring touchdowns and getting knocked out of the playoffs. That day we scored five touchdowns against a great defense on our way to a 35–13 win. Peyton threw for three touchdowns, and James Mungro ran for more than one hundred yards. As it turned out, it
was
possible to score touchdowns against the Eagles. I knew how tough Philadelphia was at home, and that was my first indication that our offense was going to do some extraordinary things over the next few years.

The third special moment didn’t involve the Colts at all.

Derrick Brooks called me from Tampa to relate a story he thought I’d appreciate. The Buccaneers were preparing to play their first game under their new coach, Jon Gruden. After pregame warm-ups, they were back in the locker room, and Jon addressed the team with his final points before kickoff. As the team got up to leave the locker room, a few guys hesitated. This would normally have been the time when the team prayed before heading out to the field. Jon obviously wouldn’t have known that; besides, he was in charge of game-day procedures now. Suddenly, Warren Sapp ordered everyone to come back. “We’re going to pray,” he said. “We’ve been doing this for six years, so somebody’s got to step up and pray.”

Derrick thought that would mean a lot to me. He was right.

We made it to the playoffs that year as a wildcard and had to travel to New York to face Herm Edwards’s team, the Jets. They had gone 9–7 during the regular season, and it was shaping up to be a relatively even game. As always, I believed that if we could take a close game into the fourth quarter, we could win, even away from home. I told the team I was not a betting man, but if I were, I would bet my house on us.

The Jets beat us 41–0. Another good reason I’m not a betting man.

For those of us who had come up from Tampa—Clyde Christensen, Jim Caldwell, Ricky Thomas, Alan Williams, and me—this was the fourth straight playoff loss without a single touchdown. The day after our loss, in our final team meeting of the season, I spoke to the players. Although some of the guys wouldn’t be with us when the next season rolled around, many of them would. So I treated the meeting as I always do, as if it were the first meeting of the following season.

“Be patient,” I told them. “Keep doing the ordinary things better than anyone else. Be uncommon. Do what we do.”

Following our playoff loss, I headed back down to Tampa to rejoin Lauren. When I took the job as head coach of the Colts, Lauren and I had agreed that it would not be the best time to move Tiara, who was finishing her junior year of high school. So for two years we had two homes: Lauren and the kids in Tampa while the kids were in school, and me in Indy. The family would fly up for games and during breaks. Even though we reunited most weekends during the season, the separation and constant travel had become a grind. So as soon as my immediate postseason responsibilities were over, I went to Tampa to be with them.

Lauren had loved Tampa from the moment we first arrived in 1996. But now, the Bucs’ popularity was becoming a little bit of a problem for her. In fact, the weeks leading up to the Bucs’ Super Bowl victory in 2003 were really the only time that living in Tampa was anything short of perfect for Lauren.

We were both torn because we wanted our old team to do well. Bill Parcells had decided not to accept the Glazers’ offer to coach the Bucs after I was fired, and a few weeks later the Bucs had hired Jon Gruden. I liked Jon, and many of my players were still on the team. What made it difficult for me, their former coach, was that Jon had them playing so well. They set a franchise record with twelve wins in the regular season and then won their playoff opener against San Francisco. And after the Colts had won 35–13 at Philly that year, I felt sure the Bucs could go and win there as well, especially since Jon had them playing with so much confidence. Once the Bucs beat the Eagles, I knew they would probably be able to handle the Oakland Raiders in the Super Bowl.

So the Bucs’ success was great—kind of. One year after I had been fired by Tampa Bay, my family and I were in Tampa for the Bucs’ magical three-week run through the playoffs. Super Bowl frenzy was everywhere—in the paper, on the radio, on television, in everyone’s conversation. The comment we kept hearing was, “Thank goodness Jon Gruden came along to finish the job for Tony Dungy.” That was painful to hear. Jon and the players were gracious in their comments toward me, and I appreciated that, but those three weeks were still difficult. I was excited for the team, and of course the players were ecstatic. But it still hurt, not being there with them.

Sometimes character lessons are hard to swallow, but I know that God used that period to stretch our faith and to help us grow and learn to trust Him more fully. Now I knew how Moses, the Old Testament prophet, must have felt. He had led the Israelites for forty years through the desert, but he wasn’t allowed into the Promised Land. He got to see it, but only from a distance. That “growing experience” couldn’t have been pleasant for him either.

A Super Bowl win with the Bucs would have been wonderful. I could have used that platform in a tremendous way. But I think my getting fired had an even greater impact. It’s easy to be gracious when you’re getting carried off the field in celebration. It’s more difficult when you’re asked to pack up your desk and your pass code doesn’t work anymore. I think people look more closely at our actions in the rough times, when the emotions are raw and our guard is down. That’s when our true character shows and we find out if our faith is real. If I’m going to call myself a Christian, I have to honor Jesus in the disappointments, too.

I believed then, and I believe now, that God is in control of everything. This was how He wanted it. I was certain there were things for me to learn and to accomplish for the Lord in Indianapolis. Otherwise we would have never left Tampa.

If we had stayed in Tampa, would the Bucs have gotten to the Super Bowl? Yes, I believe so, if we had stayed the course. But that’s just speculation. Under Jon, the Bucs got the job done.

Those three weeks were the toughest part of the transition process for Lauren and me. But through it all, we never doubted that God was using this experience to mold and teach us.

Chapter Sixteen: A Birthday Blessing

Talent is God-given; be thankful.

Praise is man-given; be humble.

Conceit is self-given; be careful.

—Dave Driscoll

MIKE VANDERJAGT, our kicker, contributed to a rocky beginning for our 2003 season.

Shortly into the off-season, Mike gave a wide-ranging interview that . . . well, let’s just say I wish he would have phrased some things differently. Coming off our 41–0 loss to the Jets, Mike appeared on a Canadian TV station. He mostly talked about how frustrated he was about our loss, but the comments that seemed to get the most notice were those aimed at Peyton Manning and me. Mike hinted that the leadership of the team was insufficient. He said the team needed “somebody who is going to get in people’s face and yell and scream” and that I was too “mild mannered” and even-keeled for us to be successful.

My first reaction was that he was just going to have to get used to it. This is the way I coach, and I believed then and believe now that it is the best way to win football games and lead people. I had grown up with this philosophy. My mom used to say that a good leader gets people to follow him because they want to, not because he makes them—a principle reinforced by Coach Noll. He always told me that players want to be good and that the coach’s job is to teach them and give them the tools they need to improve. I never have been the type to “get in people’s face,” and I never will be.

My second reaction to Mike’s comments was to release or trade him. What he had said was completely unacceptable. We were a team, and neither he nor anyone else could put himself above the group. I called Mike at his home in Toronto and told him I needed to see him as quickly as possible.

I have never liked cut days during training camp. Those are the days when we have to reduce our roster from eighty players down to sixty-five, and then finally to fifty-three. Cut days are my least favorite days in coaching. No matter how long you’ve been a coach, I don’t think you ever get used to it. Usually the guys you have to release have done nothing wrong—on the contrary, they have done everything you have asked and have gone to the limits of their ability. But in the end, they simply are not as talented or they don’t fit our schemes as well as someone else.

I actually make it worse on myself because I bring each player in to talk with me personally, just as Coach Perkins did with me. Sometimes I have a great deal to say; other times I keep it short. But it’s awkward and painful every time. I used to think that all head coaches did that, until I received a call from an agent who wanted to thank me for the way I had released his client. It was the player’s third time being cut, he told me, but the first time that a coach had ever spoken to him personally. That surprised me, but it also reinforced my resolve to continue doing it that way no matter how tough it was.

A philosophical tension always seems to exist between personnel departments and coaches. As they bring in new players, the personnel people are usually looking for that diamond in the rough. The reality is, however, when you’re releasing the eighty-fifth best guy on your roster in August and signing someone who isn’t on a roster anywhere, that replacement is likely to be very rough—and usually not a diamond.

More important, however, is the fact that I believe strongly in the idea of the team as a family. I can’t very well preach unity and tell the guys we’re all in this together and everyone’s important, then cut a guy because we
might
improve by one percent if we bring in someone else.

Again, it probably goes back to my playing days. I was never a star, and I know what it was like to be a bottom-of-the-roster guy. I will never cut a player just to keep the other guys on their toes, as some do.

I don’t generally like to make individual cuts either, unless unusual circumstances force me to. But there are times when a player needs to be removed from the team, and that time was now. I was steamed. And after our loss to the Jets, no one else was in a good mood, either. At our final team meeting, I had told the players that we had to stick together, that people were going to try to pick us apart and get us splintered in different directions. I didn’t think it would happen from within, but that’s exactly where it was now coming from. I was burning.

Mike Vanderjagt was finished with the Colts, and the sooner he got to Indianapolis for me to cut him, the better.

Mike still had to travel from Toronto to Indianapolis. Before he arrived, my son Jamie intervened. Jamie and Eric were often around the facility in those days, hanging out in my office or around the guys. While Eric usually kept to himself, Jamie was always looking to make new friends. He generally believed that anyone he met was a potential friend. If anyone even so much as smiled at Jamie, it was confirmation enough that he had added another friend to the ranks. Jamie seemed especially drawn to people who were down on their luck—like talkative kickers. Jamie had been reading the sports pages, and he came into my office to ask me about the situation.

“Why is everybody mad at Mike, Dad?”

“Because of what he said.”

“Dad, you can’t get rid of Mike. He’s my friend.”

“I can promise you this, Jamie,” I said, trying to reassure my concerned sixteen-year-old. “I won’t do anything just because of what other people are saying or because of what’s in the paper. I plan to bring him in here and talk to him. If I do decide to get rid of him, it will only be because the team needs it.”

Jamie seemed pacified, at least for the moment, but I knew he was still giving it a great deal of thought.

Mike took two days to get to Indianapolis from Toronto. If he had arrived the night I first called him, I’m sure I would have cut him or asked Bill Polian, our president, to trade him. The following day I still felt the same way. But on the third day, I was reading our daily Bible passage—a number of us, both coaches and players, were still reading through the Bible each year. It was Matthew 21:28-32, a parable Jesus told about a father and two sons. The father told the two sons to go work in the vineyard. The first son said he would not go but later changed his mind and went anyway. The second son said he would go, but then he didn’t. Jesus’ point is that the first son was obedient in spite of his words. It’s what is in our hearts that matters, even if our words say otherwise.