As usual, I played Little League baseball that spring and summer. We played twice a week, once on a weekday and once on Saturday. Since Dad couldn’t make the weekday games, it was always special for me knowing that he was in the stands on those Saturdays.
Unlike my mom, Dad didn’t holler during the games. Other than a comment such as “You played well,” he didn’t say much after the games either. Even though he’d acquired a ton of sports know-how over the years, he rarely offered advice unless his kids asked for it. During baseball season, we did often go into the backyard to play catch. Though I was primarily a catcher, I also spent time on the mound as a pitcher. If I wanted to work on my technique, he’d grab his glove and catch for me for as long as I wanted to throw.
I do remember a time after one of my sixth-grade basketball games, though, that he couldn’t help himself. He’d watched me have limited success against my opponent, a kid named Alex Iles, who went on to become a famous trombonist. Alex and I were about the same height but I was thicker, heavier, and stronger. “Bruce, you’re too nice out there,” Dad said. “You’ve got to be physical. You’re bigger than he is. Use your size advantage on him. Lean on him. Outwork him. Outhustle him.”
At first I didn’t know what he was talking about it. What do you mean, I’m too nice? How can that be?
But Dad’s words got my attention. I was pumped up for the next game. All right, I thought. I’ll show him. As soon as I got into the lineup, I played with intensity. I was physical. I hustled. I aimed to “impose my will.” Sure enough, I had a great game.
Dang, I thought. He was right.
Dad also encouraged me in football. He was helpful whenever I asked a question, yet always gave me space to enjoy the sport on my terms. Maybe that was because Dad had other priorities in mind for his kids. He definitely was intentional about the life lessons he wanted to pass on. By word and, especially, by example, Dad showed what being a Matthews was about.
I learned that one of the qualities of a Matthews is persistence—the ability to fight through obstacles. Dad still loves to tell the story about how, as a senior at Georgia Tech, he competed in the state Golden Gloves heavyweight finals at ten o’clock one night, then wrestled for the Southeastern Conference heavyweight title at ten the next morning. He won both championships.
Another favorite story comes from his NFL days. “We were playing the Chicago Bears in 1954,” he’ll say, “and I was at linebacker, covering Bill McColl, their big end. I was watching the quarterback, and McColl got inside me. I ran right into the goalpost. Wrapped my arms around it. I was out cold! But I stayed in the game, calling the defensive signals. In those days, we had a trainer nicknamed Anak the Faith Healer. I’d say, ‘I’m hurting.’ And he’d say, ‘Tape an aspirin to it.’ ”
By the time I entered eighth grade, I already knew plenty about Dad’s persistence. He was tough and he never quit. But the idea that this philosophy applied to every member of the family didn’t fully sink in until after I went out for basketball that year. I’d been playing on teams since grade school and had enjoyed it, but after three or four games that season I started to lose my enthusiasm. Maybe it was because I wasn’t contributing that much and was figuring out that basketball wasn’t really my game. Maybe it was the ultrashort gym shorts we all had to wear. Whatever the reason, I didn’t have the same passion for the sport.
I was standing in the kitchen one day with my dad when we started talking about the team. And out of my mouth came the words: “Yeah, maybe I won’t keep playing basketball.”
I meant to keep it casual. Really, I was just floating an idea. But as soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. I knew what was coming next. Dad’s head snapped around and his eyes flashed.
“Hey, you’re a Matthews. You start something, you finish it. You don’t quit.”
That was the end of the conversation. Dad hadn’t raised his voice and I’m sure he quickly forgot about it. But I never did. Though I already understood it, it was that moment in the kitchen when an important part of the Matthews family code was fully branded into my consciousness.
You’re a Matthews. You start something, you finish it. You don’t quit.
Needless to say, I finished the basketball season.
That philosophy stayed with me during my nineteen years as an NFL player and is what I believe as a husband and father. I credit this to my dad. He didn’t just preach it, he talked and lived the Matthews code, and he made sure his children understood what it meant.
I can’t count the number of times during my football career when I felt pushed to the limit and wanted a break. Oh, my gosh, I’d think, I am dying. I am so tired out here. Then that stubborn, competitive, never-give-up Matthews trait would kick in. But hey, if I’m tired, those guys on defense must be in even worse shape than I am. So bring it on. My attitude as a player was, “You may get the best of me now, but if you give me enough time, I’m going to find a way to beat you. This is a marathon, not a sprint.” I was sure I could outlast the other guy.
That approach applied just as much when I was at home. For instance, I had a simple rule for my kids: No going to PG-13 movies until you’re actually thirteen. As you can imagine, it wasn’t a popular decree. So many times, I heard about friends whose parents allowed them to go to R-rated movies while my kids couldn’t even see a PG-13. There were times when I thought, Ah, maybe it’s all right. Why do I even bother with this? What really is the big deal? It’s not like I enjoyed seeing my kids unhappy or feeling left out.
But in the next instant, I’d remember that just like a football game, parenting is a marathon not a sprint. I’d set that standard because I didn’t want to expose my children too soon to certain language and images. I wasn’t going to give up on my beliefs just because it was easier in the short term. I needed to persevere and stay the course.
To be honest, I prefer taking the easy path. Yet somehow over the years I’ve been able—most of the time—to push through my fatigue and doubts and do what needs to be done. I may not actually hear Dad’s voice in my head when I feel tempted to give up or give in, but to this day, my foundation is based on those words he delivered back in our kitchen when I was thirteen years old.
You’re a Matthews. You start something, you finish it. You don’t quit.
There were other elements to what I now call the Matthews code that Dad impressed on me and my siblings. I remember weekend nights when just he and I would sit in our family room in Arcadia. It had a floor-to-ceiling glass panel with a view of the backyard pool. The evening would begin with us watching television together. Then Dad would start telling stories. Somehow, the night always seemed to end with a lesson or life point.
If the topic was sports, Dad would say how important it was to volunteer to do what needed doing, to always be the first guy in line. He talked about hustle. He encouraged me to do what the coach told me to do. “Your coach may not have the best strategy,” Dad would say, “but if you and the rest of the players are all on the same page, you’ll have a great opportunity to succeed.” Dad’s words always left me feeling encouraged.
The biggest lesson of all had to do with integrity and doing the right thing.
“If you look a guy in the eye, shake his hand, and tell him you’re going to do something,” Dad would say, “or if you say, ‘You can count on me,’ make sure you follow through. Nothing’s more important than your integrity.” He explained that it applied in marriage, in the workplace, or wherever I happened to be.
I understood what he meant. My commitments didn’t need to depend on a signed contract. Once I gave my word, that was it.
I’ve talked about that with my kids. So many student-athletes today will commit to a college, for example, then change their mind a few weeks or even days later. I didn’t want to see that with my family. “Look,” I told them, “once you say you’re going to do something, then you’re committed. So think long and hard about your decisions. You’ve got to carry yourself with integrity.”
Not that I’ve always demonstrated great integrity myself . . .
When I started college, Dad encouraged me to pursue an engineering degree. I’d always been good at math and science, but I knew it would be a stretch to combine football and engineering study. That first semester was a challenge. So, before one physics test, I decided I needed a little extra help. I wrote down some equations and answers on a piece of Scotch tape and stuck it to the inside of my down vest.
It was ridiculous. I knew it was wrong when I did it. But somehow I allowed myself to believe it was all right, that I was taking on a heavy load and deserved a break.
The irony is that during the test, I never looked at the tape. I’d attached the tape too low inside my vest—it would have been obvious if I’d tried to read what I’d written there. Even if I could have read it without being seen, I felt so guilty about it that I don’t know that I would have anyway.
Oh well, I thought as I prepared to hand in my test. I didn’t need those answers anyway. No harm done.
Or so I thought.
My vest must have flipped open a little too far. The professor at the front of the room pointed at me and said, “Come here.” When I got up to him, he said, “What have you got inside your jacket there?”
I’d been caught and there was nothing I could say. I got a D on the test and in the class, and was fortunate it wasn’t an F. The whole incident was just embarrassing—and a great reminder to me that no matter how appealing it might be to put my integrity on hold, it would only lead to trouble.
After all the conversations with my dad growing up, I haven’t really needed to talk about those issues with him anymore. I already know what he’ll say and I know in my heart what I need to do. Not that the temptation to compromise my integrity has gone away. Every year when I sit down to do my income taxes, the enticement is there. I almost have to laugh when the idea of fudging some figures pops into my head. This is stupid, I’ll think. Why are you even thinking about it? Just do it the right way and move on.
The same thing happens when I get into an argument with my wife. A voice in my head will say, “All right. This is it. I’ve had it. I’m tired of being the one who has to apologize. This time I’m taking a stand. If somebody needs to apologize, it’s going to be her.”
I’ll stew that way for a few minutes. Then I’ll finally come to my senses. This is stupid. Neither of us is going anywhere. We’re not giving up on this relationship. Now I’m just miserable. I’m getting nothing out of holding on to my anger. Just go apologize so you can work this thing out.
It’s amazing how often we struggle with what we want to do versus what we know we ought to do. I’m grateful that because of my father, I always have an example of which one to choose.
4
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FAMILY COMES FIRST
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The most important thing in life is knowing the most important things in life.
DAVID F. JAKIELO
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ONE OF MY DAD’S MANY talents is the ability to see past relatively insignificant issues and get to the core of a problem. As a businessman, he believed in the 80/20 rule: 80 percent of a company’s sales come from 20 percent of its customers. He applied it more broadly too, saying that too many people spend 80 percent of their time on 20 percent of their problems. His advice to colleagues at work and to us kids at home was the same: “You need to focus on the areas that are most productive.”
I’m sure that approach was one of the reasons Dad was promoted in 1975 to president of the entire Bell & Howell company. The board of directors had learned what kind of businessman Dad was, and decided he was the guy to lead them to a brighter future.
I had just finished eighth grade in Arcadia. And when Dad announced that we were going to give Kenilworth another try, I was all in. I knew it was a great opportunity for him. I was more mature than before and feeling great. Mom was doing better too. She even flew out and picked a house for us in our former neighborhood—if you took a path through our old backyard in Kenilworth you could get to the backyard of our new house. Bruz was starting his sophomore year at the University of Southern California, and Kristy was working and had moved to her own apartment, so they’d be staying in California. I knew I’d miss them, but I’d still have Mom, Brad, and Ray around. I hadn’t had any depression issues since the last move, so I figured this time around I was good to go.
Illinois’ New Trier East was a four-year high school, so I went out for freshman football full of optimism. We had a great team. We fell short in our first game because we lost track of downs as we were driving for what should have been the winning score, but we recovered from that setback to win every contest the rest of the season.
Since Bruz was a linebacker, I figured that was where I belonged, too. But I discovered it wasn’t the right fit for me. I didn’t have the speed for it. I also had the wrong mentality. A linebacker wants to avoid contact and shed blockers until he finds and tackles the guy with the ball. I had the habit of moving toward contact.
This difference reminds me of a play during my fourth season with the Oilers. We were hosting the Buffalo Bills in the Astrodome in our last game of the season. I was lined up against Bruce Smith, the Bills’ Hall of Fame defensive end, and simply the best player I ever battled on the line. On this play, Smith beat me so fast that the rest of our linemen were still backing up into pass-protect mode when Bruce hit our quarterback, Warren Moon, and forced a fumble. I saw the ball on the ground and picked it up. I probably could have run for a first down, but I was so angry about getting beat that I wanted to inflict pain on somebody. I went right at the Bills’ nose tackle, Fred Smerlas, and gave him an easy tackle. That pretty much summed up my approach on the field—I always wanted to hit somebody.
I played some linebacker for New Trier East during practices, but I’m not sure I ever did in a game. My main contribution instead was as an offensive tackle. Though I’d played a bit on the offensive line for the Kenilworth Rebels during our previous time in Illinois, this was my first significant exposure to it. I discovered that I enjoyed it. I liked that there was a plan, that I knew on every play what I was supposed to do. Instead of reacting, I was initiating. I also liked that success wasn’t based just on raw talent, but that so much of it revolved around technique and fundamentals. I knew that the more I mastered those, the better I would be as a player. Offensive lineman wasn’t the most glamorous position in football, but there was an order to it that appealed to me.
That freshman season was also when I picked up a skill that would become one of my defining contributions as a college and NFL player. One of the assistant coaches, a man we called “Coach K,” was a short guy with a mustache and wire-rimmed glasses. Coach K had a crusty demeanor and was what you’d call old school. Only later did I find out that underneath, he was soft as a teddy bear. At the end of one of our first practices, he called out, “Who here can long snap? Who’s interested in learning?”
I had never done long-snapping, which is the role of a center who hikes the ball about fifteen yards to the punter or seven to eight yards to the holder for a field goal or extra-point kick. But those lessons from my dad about volunteering had sunk in. I found myself saying, “Yeah, I’d like to try it.”
It turned out I was a natural. Some guys have trouble with the snap, either bouncing the ball to the punter or snapping it over his head, but I was pretty consistent with putting it in the right spot. The idea is to get the ball there accurately and as fast as possible. It’s a wrist shot, explosive and short, like a catcher throwing to second base. My baseball background could be the reason I caught on so quickly.
I wonder if I’d have been as eager to volunteer if I’d known what was to come. I became our team’s long-snapper for the rest of my high school career. In college, I snapped for field goals my last three years and on punts in practices. Then in the NFL, while the res
t of the guys on offense got a breather during kicks, I snapped and sprinted downfield on punt coverage for my first fifteen years and snapped on field goals for all nineteen years of my career. Those last few years, Kevin Long, my teammate on the Titans and fellow offensive lineman, was the punt team long-snapper. Kevin and I both ended our professional playing days the same year, 2001.
In today’s NFL, long-snappers are specialists. Nobody plays both on offense and as a long-snapper. I guess you could say that Kevin and I were dinosaurs, the last of a dying breed. But I enjoyed long-snapping and took a lot of pride in it. It freed up another roster spot for someone who could contribute elsewhere. To me, long-snapping was just another way to help the team win.
Since moving back to Illinois, Dad was busier than ever as head of the company, but I found an unexpected way to bond with him that year. In the past, I’d always gone out for basketball once football season ended. As the time for the start of basketball practices approached, I thought back to my lack of enthusiasm for the sport from the year before. Dad remembered it too.
“Bruce, what are you going to do now?” he asked. “Are you going to play basketball?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m not completely sold on that.”
My dad got a gleam in his eye. “Why don’t you wrestle?”
Dad, of course, was a three-time college conference champion in wrestling. He was unbeaten all four years he wrestled at Georgia Tech.
Inside the NFL’s First Family Page 4