Quiet Strength (38 page)

I couldn’t wait for him to get up on that podium and receive that trophy. I thought of all those things in those few seconds—and then came the Gatorade. Unlike in Tampa, when merely changing the mind-set in the organization warranted a Gatorade bath at 6–10, this was the first time the guys in Indianapolis had showered me with it. Although they never said it, the leaders in Indianapolis recognized that this was the kind of team we had: a team talented enough for their barometer of success to be the Super Bowl.

Stay the course.

Do what we do.

It had finally paid off in the final game. And Loren—along with Ricky Thomas—picked me up to carry me off the field, in true Harris fashion.

After the guys let me down from their shoulders, I thought about how disappointed Lovie must be. I knew he would be gracious, and when we hugged on the field, he was. I told him they had a great team and I was proud of how the week went. “You’ll get one of these very soon,” I whispered in his ear as he grabbed me in a hug. And I believe that.

The next thing I knew, I was doing a Disney World commercial, and then I made my way to the podium. I began to realize just how historic this moment really was. I thought of other African American coaches who might have done this had they gotten the chance. And I said a prayer thanking God for allowing me to have this experience of winning.

Getting to the podium was not easy; the place was a madhouse. Lauren had been sitting in the stands rather than in a suite, and although security told me they would be able to get her down to me, I wasn’t so sure. When I looked around, however, she was suddenly there. We went up to the podium together, and then Tiara joined us. As we watched the celebrations all around us, we just kept looking at each other and repeating, “We did it. We did it. We did it.”

I used to receive painful letters—not very often, thankfully—when I was the defensive coordinator of the Vikings and still opened my own mail. The letters may still come occasionally now, but if they do, they are intercepted before they ever hit my desk. They usually arrived with no return address and contained insensitive racist words of hate. As I held the Lombardi Trophy after winning the Super Bowl, I hoped the people who had written those letters were watching. I hoped their hearts had changed.

I didn’t want to be an icon. I wanted to provide hope. I wanted my experience to open people’s eyes to the opportunities available to all of us. Not necessarily just opportunities in football—although I’ll certainly keep looking for those—but any opportunity to knock down the walls that divide us. That’s how God wants it to be.

As we stood on the podium, I thought of my mom and my dad. Oh, how I wished they could have been there, celebrating in the rain with us. But I carried their memories in my heart. Memories of Bible stories and fishing and of their watching the only other Super Bowl I was in when I was a player for the Steelers in 1978. Miami, both times. Doesn’t God have a sense of timing?

I thought of Jamie, too—the rain on my face mixing with tears. I always tell grieving parents to cherish the good memories they have. I know that Jamie is in heaven, and I wouldn’t want to take him from there even if I could. What remains with me are the memories—warm and wonderful memories. At first they were too painful to think about, but I’ve come to realize that they’re a gift—a healing gift.

And so we press on. We press on with our memories, our hearts buoyed by a God who loves us and wants us to know Him deeply. We press on with our sense that life’s not always fair. And we press on with the knowledge—and assurance—that even though we can’t see all of God’s plan, He is there, at work and in charge, loving us. We press on with the conviction that even though we don’t deserve the gifts and blessings we’ve been given, He gives them anyway. We press on into an abundant life on earth, followed by an eternity with God.

Someday in the not too distant future—no time here on earth is all that distant when measured against eternity—I’ll be reminiscing with all my loved ones, talking of fishing or the Super Bowl or that stray dog that Jamie brought home or just how many children we ended up adopting, or getting fined for my outburst after the Giants game.

And my dad will probably ask me if I still think venting really helped.

Epilogue

Every time I think of you, I give thanks to my God.

—Philippians 1:3

I was pretty sure I didn’t know anyone in Italy. Lauren and I were walking through Rome in the summer of 2005 when I spotted a guy who looked awfully familiar. As I walked past him, he immediately recognized me.

“Coach Dungy! It’s me! Regan Upshaw.”

Of course it was. Regan was vacationing with his wife and children in Rome, just as we were. We made introductions all around. And then, before I could say anything else, Regan brought up our time together with the Buccaneers.

“Coach, I just want to thank you,” Regan said. “I remember how you were always talking about responsibility and doing things right and the importance of the off-the-field stuff. Every time you said those things, I always thought,
Dog, why are you on me about all this stuff that doesn’t matter?

“But those things you were telling us—those things are the reason I’m married today and why my kids are doing so well. Some of those things just made no sense to me at the time, but they make sense now.

“I can’t thank you enough for staying on me.”

The next time I would see Regan was at our hotel the night before the Super Bowl. Tarik Glenn, our Pro Bowl offensive tackle, had been Regan’s teammate at the University of California, and Regan had come to see him play. Once again, Regan thanked Lauren and me for the example we had been to him and then joined Tarik at our chapel service. I could really see a difference in Regan—ten years after missing those appearances at that fourth-grade class.

Lauren has a friend whose brother watched the Super Bowl from his home in Michigan. He does construction work and had been wrestling for some time with a feeling that he should do something to help in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

He listened to Jim Irsay speak during the trophy presentation about the Florida tornado victims of 2007 and the fact that the Colts shouldn’t—and wouldn’t—celebrate without reaching out to those who were hurting. Then he heard me talk about trying to do things the Lord’s way. He felt moved to act. He placed his house on the market and sold it in one day. He is now living in Biloxi, Mississippi, working full-time to rebuild that area, helping one family at a time.

I had the priviledge of speaking at the Tampa Bay Festival with Luis Palau a month after the Super Bowl. Even though I had been gone from the Buccaneers for five years, I was presented with a key to the city. It was a thrill to accept that key—again in the rain—but even more of a thrill to watch so many young people dedicate their lives to Christ at the festival.

When it was over, I headed back to Tampa International Airport to wait for my flight back to Indianapolis. I found myself in the middle of a big group of Colts fans, and everyone wanted to talk about the Super Bowl, get autographs, and take pictures. However, there was one woman who waited until we were ready to board the plane before she approached. She told me that she felt she had something of a connection with me.

“My best friend had a baby in Indianapolis recently, and your sister, Lauren, was her doctor.”

“My sister is really good,” I said.

“No, no—your sister is
tremendous,
” she said.

I nodded.

She continued, “When my friend’s baby was born, his esophagus was not attached to his stomach. It didn’t look like he was going to make it. Your sister not only treated him, she prayed with the family, gave them books on prayer, and spent a lot of extra time with them. The baby’s doing well now, and they are so grateful—not just for the medical attention but also for what she meant to them emotionally and spiritually through it all.”

At that moment, I was prouder of being Lauren’s brother than coach of the Colts.

That’s what this is all about. Touching lives. Building a legacy—not necessarily on the field but in those places that most people will never see. Trying to be faithful in the position God has given me. I love coaching football, and winning a Super Bowl was a goal I’ve had for a long time. But it has never been my purpose in life.

My purpose in life is simply to glorify God. We have to be careful that we don’t let the pursuit of our life’s goals, no matter how important they seem, cause us to lose sight of our
purpose
.

I coach football. But the good I can do to glorify God along the way is my real purpose. I want to help people see the path to eternal life through Christ, to enjoy an abundant life now, and to fulfill their God-given purposes here.

We are all role models to someone in this world, and we can all have an impact—for good.