Quiet Strength
* * *
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.
As the guys carried Mike off the field, I looked at Jamie, who was running alongside me. “Good call,” I told him. He flashed me his big, bright smile.
* * *
We opened the 2003 playoffs at home against Denver, who had beaten us just two weeks earlier. They had run against us at will in a game we had needed for a first-round bye. Instead, we lost 31–17. Now that we were in the playoffs, the media asked what we were going to do differently. “Nothing,” I told them. “We’re going to do what we always do, only do it better.”
And we did. We drilled the Broncos 41–10 in a game in which everything went right.
We then traveled to play the number two seed, Kansas City. It was a terrific time for me, returning to Kansas City and the good memories of coaching with the Chiefs. They hadn’t lost any home games during the regular season, and they had one of the loudest stadiums in the NFL. We stayed hot on offense, though, winning the game 38–31.
In two playoff games, we had scored ten touchdowns without a single punt. Now we were headed to New England for a rematch of the November game. The AFC Championship and a trip to the Super Bowl were on the line. Countless times that week, people pointed out that if we had only scored from the one yard line during the regular season game, we would be hosting the game in Indianapolis rather than playing in New England. I kept thinking about that kickoff to Bethel Johnson with twelve seconds to go in the first half.
The game started slowly for us. We had trouble moving the ball and turned it over a couple of times. The Patriots controlled the tempo and kept the ball away from us with a good offensive game plan. They took the lead and held it throughout the game. As bad as it was, though, we got the ball back in the last few minutes, down 21–14. We needed one good drive to tie the game. All year we had converted in these situations, and I was confident we could do it this time. But once again, the New England defense stopped us when it counted. An insurance field goal by Adam Vinatieri made the final score 24–14.
The New England Patriots rarely made mistakes, and they knew how to capitalize on the mistakes of their opponents. They were the epitome of what Coach Noll had always talked about: they did the ordinary things better than everyone else. And because of that, I knew we would continue to have our problems with them, just as everyone else did.
Coaching the Pro Bowl that year was completely different from coaching it in 1999. Four years earlier, the Tampa Bay staff was excited about getting to the championship game but fearful because we didn’t have the confidence of our owners. In 2003, we were down about losing the championship game, but we knew that everyone in the organization believed we were heading in the right direction. I was trusting that the Lord had our future in His hands, and I took comfort in these words of encouragement from Jeremiah 29:11: “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the LORD. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’”
While I knew very well from my own experience that nothing is guaranteed, I also knew we were a good team. The guys were really beginning to buy into the mission and strategies we had been teaching. About halfway through the 2003 season, I could see the light go on for Peyton. He was seeing the progress our defense was making and didn’t feel the need to take as many risks. Tom Moore and our quarterback coach Jim Caldwell had done such a good job preparing him that we were productive, with significantly fewer turnovers.
At some point during the 2003 season, Jim Irsay began having my dad fly with us to our away games. That was typical of the little things Jim does for all his employees, not just the head coach. So my dad was at the New England game, as he had been at just about every one of my games since I was twelve years old. For the sixth time, he saw my season end with a playoff loss. He was disappointed that we hadn’t played well enough to win, but he never changed his expression or demeanor. He told me not to get discouraged and that he knew we’d get to the Super Bowl if we continued to persevere.
Chapter Seventeen: Death by Inches
When you can do the common things of life in an uncommon way, you will command the attention of the world.
—George Washington Carver
I WAS EXCITED and believed that everything was moving in the right direction for the Colts. When the 2004 season rolled around, we felt as if we were on the cusp of taking that final step and making it to the Super Bowl. In the second round of the 2004 draft, we added another key piece to the puzzle with Bob Sanders, a safety from the University of Iowa. Right after the draft, however, that good feeling was temporarily interrupted when I received a phone call from my dad. He told me that although he felt great, a routine physical had revealed a problem with his blood work. Another test confirmed the doctor’s suspicions: leukemia.
I was in shock because my dad was in such great shape for his age. Every day he woke up at five-thirty, rode his bike about five miles to Bob Evans for breakfast, and then rode back home. Two days a week, he went to the YMCA to swim. I could hardly believe this vigorous man had a serious health problem.
My sister Lauren, the doctor, brought my dad to Indianapolis for treatment at the world-class oncology center at the Indiana University School of Medicine. He went through an extensive chemotherapy regimen over the next couple of months. I loved that time with him. He didn’t seem to be experiencing any of the side effects the doctors had warned us about. Just sitting together in his hospital room was wonderful.
We reminisced about fishing and hooks through the ear and Tigers games and Michigan and Michigan State games. I reminded him of the times when we had visited my aunt and uncle, staying up late to watch war movies and Westerns with them. Even though my dad had thought I should be in bed, my uncle Paul had always talked him into letting me stay up. My dad remembered playing catch and shooting baskets with me—all the quality moments that a father spends with his son. He especially wanted to know how our off-season workouts were going.
During my days with my dad, I thought a lot about the time I had spent with my own children. When I was growing up, my dad spent quality and quantity time with us. He always made sure he was around the house and at our games. I hadn’t always done that with my children. I had tried to shorten my work days, to give t
he players Sundays off during the season whenever possible, and to make sure everyone got home at a reasonable hour. But the time I had spent with my children was nowhere near the amount of time my dad had made for us. I knew I was spending as much time as I could with my kids, but compared to my dad, it just didn’t seem like I was doing enough. I was grateful for the times we had shared as a family but was disappointed in myself.
This was probably the first time I ever thought about purposely leaving coaching of my own accord. I had already made adjustments years ago—starting meetings later so I could take my children to school, never sleeping at the office, allowing families to be together in our offices—and short of leaving the profession, I didn’t think there were any other changes I could make. I began to give the idea some serious thought. Football is a vocation and an opportunity for ministry. But it’s not a life.
It helped a little knowing that Lauren and the kids would be moving to Indianapolis full-time that summer, even though we would still keep the house in Tampa. Tiara had finished high school, and after missing two years of driving my kids to school, I was eager to see them again on a daily basis.
In June we got some great news from my dad’s doctors. The leukemia was in remission, and my dad was going to be able to go home to my sister’s house. We were relieved and thrilled. My dad was excited because he wanted to be around when we made it to the Super Bowl. He had always claimed that a Super Bowl appearance was inevitable for us if we stayed the course and did what we did.
Less than a week later, the tide turned again when my sister called and said that we needed to come to the hospital immediately to visit my dad before he died. With his white-blood-cell count extremely low from the chemotherapy, his immune system had been vulnerable, and he had developed an infection. He died that night, June 8, only twenty-nine months after my mom had passed.