The whole team must have been fed up with losing, because we won the rest of our league games and again swept through the playoffs to reach the CIF Coastal Section finals. Our opponent in the title game was Compton, a school we’d squeaked by in a playoff game the season before, 6–3. Our defense was great in that championship contest, but I had a couple of plays I wish I could take back. The first was in the first half. I was blocking for a punt return and when I looked up, the ball was coming down, right to me. Returning a punt is a lineman’s dream. I was about to catch it and planned to take it to the house. Instead, someone bumped me just before the ball arrived. The ball bounced off my shoulder and Compton recovered the fumble.
The game was tied 7–7 in the third quarter, when we were stopped on our twenty-yard line and had to punt. That’s when I made my second big mistake. Maybe I was too hyped up. Whatever the reason, for the only time up to that moment, or in all the years since, I snapped the ball over our punter’s head. Kerry Burns corralled the ball in our end zone, tried to run it out, and got tackled on the one-yard line. Compton scored a touchdown seconds later to take the lead. We did tie the score at fourteen, and it was still tied at the end of regulation, but they scored a touchdown in overtime. When we couldn’t do the same on our possession, Compton took the championship.
That bad snap stuck with me for a long time, as did so many of the setbacks I endured in high school. I was hurt and angry over failing to stay on the varsity football team, and not even getting a chance at joining the JV baseball team. I was disappointed with the way my wrestling career ended and with my errors in my final high school football game, especially when we came so close to winning.
With the help of my dad’s advice, I did learn to use my shortcomings and mistakes as motivation to do better. I was able to channel some of my anger and frustration into improving my performance. But each of those disappointments stung for a long time. It was a humbling period.
If I’d spent a little more time looking around and thinking about what my family was going through, I might have realized that for each of us, the journey through life is often humbling. After all, my dad had just given up his job as company president. He continued to commute between Illinois and California for the rest of that school year, before taking a new position as an executive at Aerojet General. My mom improved again after we moved to California, but she still had her struggles with depression. Brad and Ray were fighting the challenges that come with intellectual disabilities. My disappointments and frustrations didn’t compare to theirs.
I’ve since learned that when our pride or ego starts inflating, life has a way of reminding us that we’re not in charge and things do not always go our way. Those harder times may be filled with setbacks and roadblocks, but the process of overcoming and clearing them builds our character and makes us more effective at whatever we’re trying to achieve.
When I was sent down to the sophomore football team, I developed much more quickly as a lineman because I had the opportunity to play every down. I was so disappointed then, but I see now that it was the best thing for me. Likewise, my difficulties in baseball began to sour me on the idea of becoming a big leaguer and helped point me in the direction of football, the sport I was ultimately best suited for. My defeat in my last wrestling match and even in my final high school football game were reminders that I shouldn’t get too cocky or ever think that I have everything under control. Those were tough lessons, but I benefited from each one.
Despite my athletic setbacks and shyness with girls, I enjoyed high school overall. I had a lot of fun hanging out with Sam and another friend, Dan Nickovich. Going into my senior year, though, I realized I needed to start looking to the future. I figured I had a chance to play college football somewhere. During that final season, I began thinking I might even get a scholarship to play. Though Bruz was in his rookie year with the Browns at the time, the NFL wasn’t at all on my radar. I did not see myself in that class.
Though it was nothing like the recruiting process that kids go through today, I did start receiving letters of interest from West Coast colleges in the summer before my senior year. After football season, I was named to the All-Pacific League and All-CIF teams. In January I made official visits to Arizona State, California, and UCLA. It looked like I might become a Cal Bear, but I still held hope of hearing from one more school—the University of Southern California.
In those days USC was a national powerhouse. The Trojans, led by legendary coach John Robinson, had been voted the nation’s top team the season before by United Press International. They were so well regarded that they could swoop in late in the recruiting process and pick up almost whomever they wanted for their program. That’s what I hoped would happen to me.
I’d received a letter from USC back in November, but no offer. Then Coach Robinson came to our home for a visit in January. He was one of those people who, when he spoke, you sat up and listened. I already had great respect for Coach Robinson after meeting him at Bruz’s senior-year banquet. He was obviously a highly successful coach. He told stories that were funny and entertaining but also had a life message. I still held Coach Robinson in high regard more than two decades later when I sat next to him at an NFL Hall of Fame event. I was forty years old but felt as nervous and in awe of him as when I was eighteen. When he asked me to call him John, I said, “Coach, I can’t call you John. You’re always going to be Coach to me.”
After Coach Robinson’s visit to our home, it was obvious that the USC football staff was at least interested in me. I wondered if they were recruiting me mostly because I was the brother of Clay Matthews. I wanted to go there, but I was also afraid of not being able to meet USC standards. If I did get an offer, I hoped I could make the travel team or maybe get into some games for mop-up duty. My dad seemed to be aiming higher. “Do you want to play with the best?” he said. “Do you want to find out where you really stand with this thing? Then go to USC.”
I was invited to the USC campus for a visit in late January and, when they offered me a scholarship while I was there, I accepted on the spot. I’d been humbled more than once during my high school years. I knew I wasn’t at the top of the USC coaches’ list. None of that mattered. I was pumped up. I would follow in my brother’s footsteps by wearing the cardinal and gold and watching Traveler, the USC mascot, gallop around the Coliseum after every touchdown.
I was officially a Trojan.
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A BOY AMONG MEN
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Masculinity is not something given to you, but something you gain. And you gain it by winning small battles with honor.
NORMAN MAILER
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THE SUMMER AFTER MY HIGH school graduation, I played in the Rose Bowl in California’s high school Shrine All-Star game. Our team won 35–15 with the help of a pretty decent quarterback named John Elway.
If I thought I was in good company in that game, I was star-struck when I started practicing with the regulars at USC. I’d actually scouted them several times during their spring practices on the USC campus. I tried to blend into the crowd as I watched. I realized right away that the linemen were bigger, stronger, and way ahead of me in terms of technique—not surprising, considering their success the year before.
USC’s starting offensive line in 1979 would be Anthony Munoz and Keith Van Horne at tackle, Brad Budde and Roy Foster at guard, and Chris Foote at center. Munoz, six foot seven and 280 pounds, would be taken third overall in the NFL draft that followed the season. Budde would win the Rotary Lombardi Award as the nation’s outstanding college lineman or linebacker and be drafted eleventh overall. Van Horne and Foster were also eventual first-round picks. All five would be highly successful professionals. As a high school kid watching these massive dudes demonstrate their skills on the practice-field grass that spring, you could say I was a bit intimidated.
Four m
onths later, I stood on that same grass myself. I felt I had a lot to prove. I’d read accounts of the USC recruiting class and noticed I was always far down on the list of heralded prospects. I figured many of my new teammates knew me only as Clay Matthews’ little brother.
The freshmen started training in August a few days before the rest of the team. We were put through conditioning tests that began with a forty-yard dash. My time was six seconds flat. To put that in perspective, all the elite guys were finishing under five seconds, some well under that. Clearly, I would not be among the team’s swiftest members. They had us run the forty a second time, and I again recorded a time of exactly six seconds. At least I was consistent.
Those tests were followed by eight gassers—more forty-yard sprints with a half-minute rest between each one. I huffed and chugged my way through them, slowing down more each time. I knew I was impressing no one. Oh, my gosh, I thought, the coaches are probably saying, “What have we done by taking this kid?”
I turned eighteen during preseason training. Munoz and Budde were already married—I felt like a boy among grown men. I was not prepared for the intensity of the practices. I knew college ball would be a step up for me, but the dedication and professionalism these guys displayed quickly got my attention. I realized I had to meet the standard or I’d be left behind.
I didn’t help my cause on the day before our first game. We were in Lubbock to play Texas Tech. I was excited to have made the travel squad since the National Collegiate Athletic Association limited how many players could go to away games. Unfortunately, I developed an earache just before we were scheduled to leave for practice at the stadium. I lay down for what I thought would be a minute on my hotel bed. When I awoke, my roommate and the team bus were gone. Panicked, I caught a ride from someone and hurried down the ramp to the locker room as players began to emerge. I thought I’d made it unnoticed until I ran into Hudson Houck, our offensive line coach. He chewed me out good. There was nothing I could say.
A week later, I was messing around in the training room, lost track of the time, and was late for an offensive line meeting. Once again, Hudson Houck let me know my behavior was unacceptable. Getting on the wrong side of my position coach was the last thing I wanted to do. Man, I thought, I am blowing this thing.
Our team was so good that year that I did get to play often, usually in the fourth quarter because we were so far ahead. Going into our last conference game, we were undefeated. The lone blemish was a 21–21 tie against Stanford. Anthony Munoz suffered a knee injury in our first game and was replaced by freshman Don Mosebar, another future first-round NFL draft choice. Then Don had a knee injury of his own in practice on the Tuesday before our finale against UCLA. When Coach Houck informed me I’d be starting that Saturday, I was both thrilled and scared.
Wow. UCLA at the Coliseum. I’ve grown up watching my brother’s games there. I’m just a kid. I don’t belong out there.
I was keyed up when I called my dad that night. I expected him to be surprised and excited about me starting. Instead, he talked like he expected it. “You’re going to do great,” he said. “I know it.” His matter-of-fact words calmed me down and gave me confidence that I was ready for the responsibility.
I played well enough against UCLA and we won, 49–14. It meant we’d square off against top-ranked Ohio State in the Rose Bowl on New Year’s Day. Before the game, I noticed one of my heroes, USC alumnus and NFL Hall-of-Famer O. J. Simpson, at midfield. I walked over and introduced myself. I was thrilled to meet him. O. J. was very friendly and in the years since always chatted with me when we ran into each other. I’ve been shocked by all his issues over the last couple of decades.
Anthony Munoz, one of the classiest guys I’ve ever met, had rehabbed during the season and was healthy enough to start the Rose Bowl. I spelled him for a couple series and was on the field for our first touchdown, a fifty-three-yard pass from Paul McDonald to Kevin Williams in the second quarter. Yet we trailed 16–10 in the game’s final minutes. That’s when all those studs on our offensive line and running back Charles White, the Heisman Trophy winner that year, went to work. I had one of the best views in the stadium as my teammates marched down the field on one rushing play after another. From a yard out with less than a minute left, Charles leaped over everyone to score the winning touchdown. It was quite a finish to my first season of college football.
Between my conversations with Coach Houck over my tardiness and the fiasco over being caught cheating on that physics test, you could say my first college semester was less than perfect. But I began getting my act together during second semester, both on the field and off. I thought about switching from industrial engineering to an easier college major, but decided to stay with engineering. Though I could have been a stronger student and didn’t fully apply myself until my senior year, I did start doing a better job in class.
I also stepped up my effort in football. Munoz, Budde, and Foote were all graduating, so there were openings on the offensive line. Those spring practices were tough—full contact and balls out. But even though I was tired, sore, and beat up, I told myself, “You can work through this. You’ve got to keep bringing it.” The hard work paid off. I won a starting guard spot for the fall.
Going into my sophomore year, it felt like I had momentum, that most of my life was moving in a positive direction. The lone exception was in the romance department. I think I’d asked two girls out in my life, both at the end of my senior year of high school, and neither one had said yes. I remained shy as ever around the girls and mostly hung out with my football buddies. I was like a race car that kept stalling at the starting line.
There was a girl I’d noticed freshman year who ate in the same campus dining hall as I did. She was blonde, very pretty, and always seemed to be joking with her friends. She looked like she’d be fun to get to know. But to walk up and actually talk to her? I was not ready for that.
Then, during spring semester of my freshman year, I was walking through a parking lot near my dorm. A car came around the corner and the driver braked to avoid hitting me. I looked to see who had almost hit me—it was the same girl I’d noticed before. She waved.
I looked behind me—no one there.
Oh gosh, is she waving at me?
That made me nervous, so I got out of there as fast as I could. Only later did I learn what the girl—Carrie Kitchen—thought as I hurried away, hands in my pockets: Geez, you could at least wave back since I’m just trying not to run you over. What a jerk. Fine, Mr. Big-Time Football Player, don’t wave at me. I don’t care.
Fast-forward to the night before classes began in September of my sophomore year. My memory is that I was walking down USC’s “Fraternity Row” on Sunday with my teammate Kevin Roddy. Suddenly, two attractive girls came up and began talking with us. One was the blonde girl from the parking lot. I learned her name was Carrie. I’ll call the other girl “Lisa.” To my surprise, the girls stayed for a while and kept chatting. This is pretty cool, I thought. I wonder why they’re hanging out with us. Later, one of my buddies asked me about them: “What do you think? Are you interested?”
“Sure,” I said. “They’re both great!”
My wife tells a slightly different version of the story. Her memory is that a few days before that Sunday night, one of my buddies told Lisa that I wanted to go out with Lisa. Carrie, being a good friend, joined Lisa on a search for me that Sunday to try to get us together. Maybe I’ve got it wrong and my wife is right—it wouldn’t be the first time. Or maybe someone asked one of my friends before that Sunday if I was interested in Lisa and he decided to answer for me—that wouldn’t surprise me either.
Whatever the case, on the next Saturday night, Carrie and Lisa parked themselves near the front of a crowded campus pizza hangout after our home victory over South Carolina. They were looking for me so Carrie could again try to get me to bond with Lisa. What they didn’t know, however, is that I was already there, sitting in a booth in the back. At one poin
t the crowd parted and I spotted the two of them. “Hey,” I said to teammate Rob Hedquist while pointing to Carrie—my courage might have been fortified by a bit of alcohol at this point—“Go ask that girl to come sit over here.”
Rob did just that. He knew Carrie, and though it took a bit of convincing, he got Carrie to come to our booth filled with football players. She didn’t know who had asked for her until a couple of players got up so she could sit next to me. Holy smokes, she thought. Is Bruce the one I’m supposed to meet?
When I saw Carrie, I started getting nervous again, just like in the parking lot. But before either of us had time to back out, Carrie had been escorted to her seat and we were both wedged in by my friends. Ready or not, we had to start talking.
At one point, Lisa came to the back and saw what was happening. Carrie felt terrible and tried to get my buddies to make room for Lisa too. “No, that’s okay,” Lisa said. “I’m going to get going.” Meanwhile, my friends stayed right where they were. Carrie and I talked until closing that night. Then I walked her home.
I really enjoyed talking with Carrie. I was hooked. I got a friend to ask Carrie if she’d say yes if I asked her out—I guess having a third party involved made it seem like I’d feel less rejected if she said no. Fortunately, the word that came back was positive (Lisa convinced Carrie to accept the date). I’ll let Carrie tell the next part of the story.
Inside the NFL’s First Family Page 7