Quiet Strength (29 page)

I immediately realized that my situation was very similar to this parable. I had heard Mike’s words in the press and rushed to judgment without hearing his side of the story. Because he had done the very thing I had warned the team
not
to do during our last team meeting, I was still inclined to cut him. But I knew I needed to hear what was in his heart before I made my decision. I still didn’t think there was anything he could say to change my mind, but I knew I had to hear Mike’s side.

When Mike finally came in, he didn’t deny making those statements, and he did apologize. He said he had been frustrated, and he explained that the media had not reported what he had been
trying
to say. Things had not come out the way he had wanted them to.

We talked through his comments at length. I told him he had done damage to our team that would be difficult to undo, and I would have to think that through.

Then I asked him the most important question: “Do you still want to kick for the Colts?”

He immediately said that he did, more than anything in the world. He had no desire to go anywhere else. He believed we could be successful, and he wanted to be a part of that journey.

It’s amazing how many times my assigned daily Scripture reading has been something I needed to read, fitting exactly where I was and what I was going through at the time. That day, I decided that leading as Jesus would lead meant looking into Mike’s heart.

After talking with Mike, I went against the advice I was getting from most of the football experts and decided to keep him on our team.

Later that summer, I found myself penning my annual letters to Warren Sapp and Derrick Brooks.

This tradition had begun in 1996, when I wrote a short note to Warren about the things we were going to need from him if we wanted to win that year. Joe Greene, the cornerstone player of those great 1970s Steelers teams, had once told me about the way Coach Noll had challenged him to be a great player and a great leader. In 1996, I knew we needed Warren to play at an incredibly high level to set the bar for the rest of the team, so I wrote him a letter.

Warren Sapp is one of the most unique personalities I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting. Despite his reputation, he was always a joy to coach because he had a tremendous desire to win. He’s tough to figure out sometimes and can be quite volatile, but he’s genuine and—though he doesn’t always want you to know it—he’s pretty soft-hearted. He’s also incredibly intelligent. He can—and will—give educated opinions on everything from global warming to Middle East politics.

That first year, Warren responded well to my preseason letter, so I kept it up. My letters moved from talking about individual goals for Warren to season goals, encouraging him as a leader of the defense.

Four years later, Derrick—Warren’s roommate in training camp and on the road—found out about the letters. He insisted that I write to him as well.

When I left the Buccaneers, I faced a dilemma: should I stop writing to Warren and Derrick? They weren’t
my
players anymore. But my relationship with those two guys was not just about their play on the field—I knew they would continue to be outstanding athletes.

What I really wanted was for them to step up and take leadership roles. They needed to make sure everyone stayed together, followed the new coach, and continued to improve. As long as they played, I would be watching them continue to make me proud. I decided to keep writing to them.

And if my words helped Warren and Derrick have more productive seasons, I figured Jon Gruden and Monte Kiffin wouldn’t mind.

Despite the Vanderjagt incident, we started the regular 2003 season hot. At the end of September, we were 4–0 and looking for our fifth straight win. We were playing well on both sides of the ball, and Mike Vanderjagt was kicking well.

Our fifth game was a matchup straight out of a Hollywood script. On October 6, on Monday Night Football—and my forty-eighth birthday—we would play the defending Super Bowl champions and my old team, the Buccaneers. In Tampa, no less.

I tried to keep things as normal as possible that week. I remembered all too well a situation we had faced while I was at Tampa Bay, after we had traded with the Jets for Keyshawn Johnson. When we played the Jets the following year, Rich McKay and I let Key have a separate press conference before the normal media session. We figured that way he could address all the New York questions at once, then the distractions would die down and we could get back to normal. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. With all the attention focused on him, Key made some comments that really stirred things up in New York. I think it also gave our team the impression that there was something different about that game. Now, having learned that lesson, I was determined to keep the preparation for the Colts–Bucs game the same as it had been every other week. I didn’t allow any extra interview time, even with those Tampa reporters I had known for six years.

I prayed all week that it would be a smooth return to Tampa and that I wouldn’t get too emotional—high or low. The week went by fairly smoothly, but Monday night did turn out to be an incredibly emotional evening for me. Pregame was such a special experience as I visited with the Buccaneers coaches, players, and staff on the field. I was experiencing so many emotions and so many good memories, I’m afraid I wasn’t of much use to the Colts during pregame, as I spent most of my time trying not to cry.

We headed off the field and returned to the visitors’ locker room to await kickoff. Before that day, I had never been in that locker room, and I had never come onto the field through the visitors’ tunnel. I was a little anxious about the pregame introductions. In the NFL, each team introduces either its starting offense or defense, followed by the head coach. I usually don’t pay much attention to that introduction—that’s my time to look at the corners of the stadium—but this time I wasn’t sure how I would react. Jamie and Eric were with me on the field, and Lauren and Tiara were in the stands with friends. I wondered how the crowd would respond to me. I didn’t know what they thought of me anymore.

As we got closer to kickoff, I realized that the crowd’s reaction mattered a great deal to me. I knew I would get some boos—after all, I was now on the opposing sideline—but Tampa had been our home for six years, and the people of that community were an important part of our lives. I hoped that, in spite of my having left the Bucs, the people of our old community would be welcoming. I just didn’t know what to expect.

I was caught completely by surprise when the crowd erupted with applause as soon as my name was called. I was overwhelmed. The tears I had fought back earlier could no longer be quelled. I didn’t know it then, but this would not be the last time the fans of Tampa would rally around me.

The ovation was a very moving moment, but it was long gone by the time we returned to the locker room at halftime, trailing 21–0. We hadn’t played our game at all. The Buccaneers’ top-ranked defense had given up only eighty-six yards to us in the first half, while our sixth-ranked defense had been torched for 239 yards. I was extremely disappointed. Here we had a chance to show the country what we were all about, and so far we had responded by self-destructing. We had nobody to blame but ourselves.

We couldn’t have played any worse than we did in the first thirty minutes of the game, even though I had preached all week to our guys that we couldn’t afford to fall behind against Tampa Bay. I had explained over and over that if the Bucs defense knew we had to pass, their pass rush would just tee off. Their defense was too strong if we were playing from behind. At halftime, I explained that we needed to “do what we do” with passion and execution and see what happened.

The guys responded—initially. We came out and scored on our opening drive to make it 21–7. But the Bucs then drove the length of the field for a touchdown, and the third quarter ended with us still down by twenty-one.

We scored another touchdown to start the fourth quarter, but then, with just over five minutes left in the game, Bucs cornerback Ronde Barber picked off a pass from Peyton and ran it back for a Tampa Bay touchdown and a 35–14 lead.

I had been in this position many times with the Buccaneers defense, and it was never pretty for the opposing offense. I turned to Tom Moore before the kickoff. Our offense was set to go back onto the field, but I felt there was no point in getting anyone hurt now; playing on Monday night meant we had a short week to prepare for our next game. I thought we ought to take the first group off the field, especially since the Bucs defensive line would be coming full bore with a big lead. “Let’s get Peyton and the other starters out of there.”

“Tony, let’s just go one more drive and see what happens,” Tom counseled.

Brad Pyatt ran the kickoff back eighty-seven yards to Tampa’s twelve yard line, and we sent the first-team offense back out there. Four plays later, we scored. 35–21.

We tried an onside kick and recovered the ball. We scored again, stopped them, and scored a third time to tie the game and send it into overtime. We had scored three touchdowns in the last 3:43 of the game.

We won in overtime, 38–35, when Mike Vanderjagt kicked a field goal.

As I walked back to the locker room, it dawned on me. The Lord had allowed us to win, but only in a way in which
He
had to get the credit. No NFL team had ever come back from three touchdowns behind in the final four minutes, but we did it while playing poorly—on the road, on Monday Night Football—against the Super Bowl champions with the top defense in the NFL.

In Tampa, on my birthday.

It was nothing short of miraculous. Such a thing is almost impossible to imagine, but nothing is impossible for God to accomplish.

Back in the locker room, Lauren had a cake waiting, and the guys sang “Happy Birthday” to me.

John Lynch, Tampa Bay’s All-Pro strong safety, waited for me to come out of the locker room so he could give me a hug, even though by that time it was approaching 2 a.m.

That game gave us all a new perspective on faith and the way God works in the circumstances of our lives. It also reinforced what we already knew—that if we do what we do without panicking, we can accomplish great things. We would draw on that lesson in the future.

A few weeks later, we again traveled to Florida for a division game against the Jaguars.

We were preparing for kickoff under the gray skies, with a light, cool breeze blowing off the St. Johns River across the stadium. Suddenly, I was tapped on the shoulder by a security officer.

“Coach, I’m sorry, but your son can’t be on the sideline.”

I was startled, and it took me a moment to realize he was talking about Eric, who was eleven at the time and had been at my side for various games—when it wasn’t Jamie’s turn—for the last four seasons.

“No,” I said. “He’s going to stay with me for the game.”

The guard was firm. “Sorry, Coach, but he can’t be on the sideline. League rules.”

I was just as firm. As our debate continued, I heard through my headset that the guys were about to take the field.

“He’s been doing this since he was seven. He’ll be right here. With me.”

“Sorry, he’s going to have to go.”

This had gone on long enough. “He’s staying here with me—”

“Coach—”

I refused to allow the interruption. “—and if you remove him from this sideline, I’m taking my team to the locker room, where we’ll change and then leave on our buses. You can explain to Wayne [Weaver, the Jaguars’ owner] why he’s refunding everyone’s money.”

The guard blinked, and I finished my thought.

“You might want to double-check with your head coach before you do that, however.”

That was the last I heard of the issue. No one has brought it up since.

Of course, Eric is now as tall as I am, and I’m wondering when Jordan will be ready for a trip to Jacksonville.

Two other games were noteworthy for me that season. At the end of November, we hosted the New England Patriots. Just like the Tampa Bay game, we played poorly at first and had to claw our way back, scoring a touchdown twelve seconds before halftime to cut their lead to 17–10.

One of the decisions I always have to make is our kickoff strategy. When the opponent has a dangerous return man or when there is very little time left, teams often “squib” kick the ball to prevent a long return.

With twelve seconds to go in the half, I inexplicably decided to kick it deep. Bethel Johnson ran it back for a touchdown and a 24–10 halftime lead for New England. One of my dumbest decisions ever.

In the second half, we fell behind by 21 again but came back to tie it—Tampa all over again. This time, however, New England scored, and the game ended with us on their one yard line, unable to score the winning touchdown.

The other memorable game was our final game of the regular season against Houston. We needed a win for the division title, but we fell behind by two touchdowns in the fourth quarter. Then Peyton handed off to Edgerrin James for a touchdown to start the comeback.

With 3:50 remaining, our wide receiver Brandon Stokely made an acrobatic catch to tie the Texans. We ended up winning the game on the final play—a 43-yard field goal by Mike Vanderjagt.

With that kick, Mike cinched a home playoff game for the Colts and set an NFL record by making his 41st consecutive field goal.