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.
One of the employees in the Bucs ticket office said a man walked up to the ticket window shortly before kickoff and was informed that the game was sold out. His jaw dropped and he just stood there, incredulous. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been coming here for years and buying my ticket just before kickoff. It’s never been an issue!”
I thought back to my 1996 claim that someday a Bucs game would be sold out. Back then, it had seemed too much to hope for. Now that claim had come true.
Everything was perfect. We were playing against Dan Marino. The stadium was awash in our new team colors, pewter and red. We were on a roll. Due to injuries, we were missing two starters, defensive tackle Warren Sapp and linebacker Rufus Porter. But I told the team it didn’t matter that those guys weren’t playing. I said we would win if we played solid, fundamental defense. Do what we do.
Warren later told me that I really upset him when I told the defense he was insignificant. He had hoped I would tell the defense they needed to rise up and play above their heads.
“I didn’t say you were insignificant, Warren. I’m sorry you didn’t play. At the same time, I needed to get a message across. You know our defense is about assignments, being willing to let the other guy make the play while you do your job. I don’t want guys thinking in terms of making up for teammates who aren’t there. I need the next guy to step in knowing that we have confidence in him.”
Everybody played well. The offense carried us with 31 points, as Trent Dilfer and Mike Alstott had big games. I think the fans and some of the players were even more pumped up than they might have been because of Jimmy Johnson. Only a year earlier, he had chosen to coach at Miami rather than at Tampa Bay, in part because he thought he could get to a Super Bowl faster with Dan Marino and the Dolphins than he could with Trent Dilfer and the Buccaneers. With the Bucs’ victory, the stadium was rocking.
That game lit the fire of football in Tampa. It was the start of the enduring community support the Buccaneers are still accustomed to today. When I showed the players the tape of the stadium prior to kickoff, every seat was filled. I also showed them the kickoff of the poorly attended Seattle game in 1996 and pointed out what a difference they had made in only one year.
We were scheduled to play Arizona the following week. We were informed by the league that if we beat Arizona, the Fox television network wanted to move the next game, which was against Green Bay, from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. When setting the schedule, the league places the games of greatest interest—that is, the games between good teams—late Sunday afternoon or on Sunday Night Football or Monday Night Football.
In 1996, we had played every game on Sunday at 1 p.m. In 1997, we played during primetime. The Buccaneers had become a good team.
* * *
We beat Arizona to push our record to 5–0, a first for the Buccaneers since 1979 and the days of John McKay and Doug Williams. Next we traveled to Green Bay to play the Packers at Lambeau Field. Clyde Christensen, who then was our tight ends coach, called my room early Sunday morning. Chapel was always held on Saturday night, so we had some extra time on Sunday before the four o’clock kickoff. Clyde suggested we take a walk through Appleton, Wisconsin, where our team was staying, to enjoy the October scenery. I agreed and thus began a new tradition.
Clyde and I have been going out for game-day walks ever since. I welcome the exercise, but we do it more for the conversation. We’ve walked together all over the country and have never had a problem with fans. Usually we’re not recognized, but even when we are, the comments are either positive or only jokingly hostile. Along the way, Clyde and I get a chance to share topics that are on our minds. Usually we discuss where we are at that time, both literally and with respect to the team’s play. We also talk about what the Lord has been doing in our lives.
That day in Wisconsin, we marveled at being 5–0 and playing the Packers, who were 3–2 and the
refore two games behind us. We hoped they would be three games behind us by the end of the day. And, like those days out on the Michigan lakes with my dad, we had a chance to reflect on the wonders of creation on that beautiful Wisconsin morning.
Unfortunately, in the game that afternoon, we played more like the 1996 Bucs, which we thought we had left in the past, than like the 5–0 Bucs with the league’s best record. We fell behind, battled back in an attempt to escape with a win despite ourselves, but ultimately lost to the Packers, 21–16. The loss was a good reminder that we still weren’t where we wanted to be. It was an extremely disappointing realization.
Back in Tampa, we hosted Detroit and Minnesota, the two division rivals we had beaten on the road in consecutive weeks during our five-game winning streak. We lost both home games, scoring only fifteen points total in the two games. During that stretch, Michael Husted, our placekicker, missed several field goals.
Michael’s mother was battling cancer in the middle of that season—cancer that ultimately took her life. Michael was a very private person, and while the team knew about his mom, the press and the public were unaware of what he was dealing with. He was getting criticized for missing kicks, and I was getting criticized for not replacing him. It’s not unusual—fans seem to think players live in a vacuum, not subject to the same pressures and problems as the rest of us. They boo and yell their displeasure because a player’s not playing up to their expectations.
Michael never used his difficult personal problem as an excuse. He pushed ahead and held himself accountable for his performance. Kicking is a difficult task mentally at the best of times, and Michael really had his hands full during those days. Even though he was missing kicks he would ordinarily make, I decided I was not going to replace him. While this was hurting the team in the short run, I thought both Michael and the team would be better if we stuck with him. I was certain that we’d be better as a unit for standing beside one of our own members through a difficult time.
I told the team during a meeting, “Michael is going through some tough times on and off the field. But I don’t care how many kicks he misses along the way; he will remain our kicker. If he misses, we’ll need to rise up and get the ball back. But before it’s all said and done, he’s going to make some big kicks for us.”
Now that we had lost three games in a row, two of them at home, some of the naysayers understandably became more vocal. They had seen so many lean years in Tampa that as we headed back on the road at 5–3, they were certain we were the same old Bucs. Despite our fast start, they expected us to collapse over the second half of the season.
We traveled to play the Colts in Indianapolis. We were ahead in the third quarter until the Colts scored eleven points to tie the game. Early in the fourth quarter, Mike Alstott fumbled on our own eighteen yard line, and the Colts ran it in for a touchdown. We had already lost three straight games, and now we had given up eighteen straight points and were trailing in the fourth quarter on the road—in a deafening dome.
Trent Dilfer responded by marching us on a long drive for a touchdown to tie the score. Our defense held, and Karl Williams returned the Colts’ punt across the fifty yard line. We were able to move the ball closer with our offense. With eleven seconds left, Michael Husted kicked a thirty-six-yard field goal to win the game.
That was an exciting victory and a pivotal moment for our team. Our players started to relax, realizing that we really had changed. We weren’t the “same old Bucs.” We had faced adversity on the road, and we had done what we needed to do.
In the years since then, Michael has expressed his appreciation for my sticking with him during that time. I didn’t do anything special. I just treated him the way I would want to be treated. Even at the time, this made quite an impact on him and on the other players. Michael went on to kick well for the rest of the season.
Chapter Eleven: Defining Success
I would rather play well and lose than play poorly and win.
—Chuck Noll
WE DRILLED THE FALCONS, 31–10, in Atlanta the week after our victory against the Colts. Then we hosted the New England Patriots, who had lost to the Green Bay Packers in the Super Bowl the year before. We beat the Patriots 27–7. That game was a good measuring stick for us and boosted our confidence. Just as quickly as we had been counted out, we were now 8–3 and on a three-game winning streak.
We split the next two on the road. We lost at Chicago to a bad Bears team. But then we turned around and beat the New York Giants in the Meadowlands, 20–8. The Giants were en route to winning the NFC East.
Next came our rematch with the defending Super Bowl champions, the Green Bay Packers. We had talked at training camp about setting our sights on the top team in our division—which also happened to be the top team in the NFL—and this was our chance. Despite losing three straight games to Green Bay since my coaching staff had arrived in Tampa in 1996, we were optimistic that the way we were playing, plus playing the Packers in Tampa, would be the difference for us to win. But once again, though we kept the score close, we couldn’t make the plays to beat them.
With our record now 9–5, we headed back to the Meadowlands for the second time in three weeks, this time to play the New York Jets. Despite facing some adversity—both Trent Dilfer and Mike Alstott were hurt—we were determined to win this game, which would cement a playoff spot for us. At our team meeting the night before the game, I outlined our plan. We’d be aggressive—throwing passes to the receivers matched up against Otis Smith, whom we perceived to be the Jets’ weaker cornerback. We were ready to go out and clinch a playoff berth.
We went out and lost, 31–0. Otis Smith ran two interceptions back for touchdowns.
Guys were quiet on the flight home.
Then the pilot announced over the intercom that the Carolina Panthers had lost to the Packers, putting us into the playoffs. The guys were quietly murmuring, uncertain of whether we could start celebrating or should still be in mourning.
Before I could give it any thought, Brad Culpepper, our defensive tackle out of the University of Florida, picked up the microphone and announced over the PA: “Guys, we’re in the playoffs! We haven’t been to the playoffs in fifteen years, and we’re sure not gonna be sad about it!” I think Brad got it just right.
* * *
We finished the regular season against the Chicago Bears in Tampa. Despite the fact that we were already in the playoffs, we had a great deal riding on this game. If we won, we would host the first playoff game in Tampa, something that hadn’t happened in fifteen years. If we lost, we would have to travel.
A new stadium was being built for the Buccaneers. It was several hundred yards away from the old stadium and was scheduled to open for the 1998 season. I told the guys on the Wednesday before the Bears game that this was set up perfectly for us. We had a chance to host a playoff game for our fans and make the final game in our old stadium a playoff game. But first we had to focus on the week ahead.
We did focus, and we beat the Bears convincingly, 31–15. In the process, with ten wins, we tied the Buccaneer record for wins in the regular season.
Immediately after our game, we watched the Lions win their game, thereby becoming our opponent for the first round of the playoffs. That year, we had split our two games with the Lions, each of us winning on the road. At the home game in Tampa, in the middle of our three-game losing streak, Barry Sanders had become the first running back in NFL history to have two touchdown runs of more than eighty yards in the same game. He had scored all three of the Lions’ touchdowns, absolutely gashing us for big runs and gaining 215 yards on only 24 carries (the NFL record for rushing yardage in a game is 295). Now he was approaching two thousand yards for the season. In fact, Barry’s season total for that year is still the third highest season total in the history of the NFL. We had good reason to be concerned about playing the Lions again. But even so, our guys were excited. “Coach, that’s exactly who we want to play.”
The following d
ay, Monday, Brian and Joel Glazer walked into my office and said they were going over to the stadium to give doughnuts to the fans waiting in line for playoff tickets. They invited me to go with them, and we drove to the stadium, anticipating a short visit. I imagined a line about like what you’d see at a movie box office.
We were in for a surprise. The line stretched down the sidewalk, around the side of the stadium, out to the corner of Dale Mabry Highway, and then continued even farther around. There must have been five thousand people eagerly waiting for a chance to buy a ticket for the game.
That’s when the feeling hit me. Look what we’ve done.We’ve done exactly what we hoped to do when we came here—excite the community, win games, and create a team people are proud of and excited about. I walked around and mingled with the fans, thanking them for waiting all night to get a playoff ticket. It was remarkable.
* * *
On Tuesday mornings, I met with several of my fellow coaches for a Bible study. We were working our way through the Bible in a year, something we’ve continued to do ever since that 1997 season. I still have my notes from our meeting the week before we played Detroit. The Bible portion we looked at that day was fairly convicting for me in light of our excitement over making the playoffs. It was a good reminder of my priorities and my belief that we should maintain our schedule to protect those priorities, regardless of the situation.