“Okay, that makes sense,” I said. Where was the instruction manual for parenting anyway? Fortunately, Carrie filled in where I lacked. She was and is an awesome mom.
A year and a half later, Carrie was expecting again. I wasn’t quite as nervous as with the first pregnancy, but I was anxious in another way. In October 1986, I began having trouble with nagging sciatic nerve pain. It wasn’t bad enough to make me miss practice or games, but I could barely handle sitting down for more than thirty seconds at a time.
I hoped the pain would disappear after the season ended, but that didn’t happen. Then one night I tried doing a light workout. It left me hunched over—I couldn’t stand straight.
Our baby was due in late February 1987, but on February 4 Carrie went into labor. I wasn’t much help at the hospital—I was lying on the floor trying to relieve my back pain. Even without my assistance, Kevin James soon joined the Matthews family. My back issues threatened to put a damper on the day for me. In fact, when we left the hospital, I was the one in the wheelchair holding our new baby while Carrie steered us, instead of the other way around.
But nothing could take away from the blessings God was giving me. At home, it was such a joy just to be with Carrie and Steven and watch Kevin as he wriggled, cried, laughed, and slept in his crib. I had a wonderful, expanding family and I was growing closer to Jesus. These were the relationships that mattered. This was what would last for eternity.
That empty feeling? The Lord was filling it up, not with my achievements on the football field, but with family and peace and love. And that was just fine with me.
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WITH ALL YOUR HEART
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So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.
1 CORINTHIANS 10:31
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JUST AS MY FAITH GRADUALLY grew stronger during the mid-to-late eighties, so did the quality of the teams I played on in the NFL. After that 2–14 performance my rookie year, the Oilers finished 3–13 in 1984. It was hardly a great leap forward, but we added an important piece to the puzzle before the season: quarterback Warren Moon.
In 1978, Warren came out of the University of Washington and went undrafted by the NFL. He joined Edmonton in the Canadian Football League, where he led the Eskimos to five consecutive Grey Cup victories and was named the league’s Most Outstanding Player in 1983. With his talents finally recognized, Warren decided to switch to the NFL. Houston won a bidding war for his rights and signed him for the next season.
Warren didn’t exactly blow the league away during his first three years with us, but you could tell right away he had the ability. He worked hard, was always professional, and threw the tightest spiral I’d ever seen. When he released the ball, his index finger made a little popping noise. I heard that sound a lot over the ten years Warren played for the Oilers. He retired in 2000 after additional stints in Minnesota, Seattle, and Kansas City. If you combined his CFL and NFL statistics, Warren Moon had more pass attempts, pass completions, passing yards, and touchdowns than anyone when he left the game. He’s in the Hall of Fame in both leagues.
But when Warren joined the Oilers, he had to adjust to the NFL and get to know his new team. I had some adjustments to make myself. During our 1984 minicamp, the Oilers asked me to move from right guard to center. I still remembered my dad’s advice to follow what the coaches thought best. If it would help the team, I was all for it. Then the Oilers made a midseason trade for Raiders’ center Jim Romano. Once Jim was ready to start for us, in week ten against Pittsburgh, they moved me back to right guard.
We’d drafted Nebraska’s Dean Steinkuhler with the second overall pick before the season. Dean was our starting right tackle and a real stud. Houston had put a big emphasis on having a quality offensive line, but our new and improved lineup with Romano didn’t last long. In that Steelers’ game, Steinkuhler’s knee got torn up. He missed the rest of the season and all of the next year. Although Dean had a good career, playing seven seasons, he was never the same after that injury.
With Dean out, the coaches asked me to move to my third position in 1984, right tackle. I learned a new set of pass-block assignments and started the last six games. Other than allowing a sack to the Jets’ Mark Gastineau, who was on his way to an NFL record twenty-two that season, I played pretty well.
In 1985, we raised our stock a bit more, going from three wins to five. I started all sixteen games at right tackle and was named as an alternate to the Pro Bowl. Our record was the same the next year. Harvey Salem, our left tackle, wanted out of Houston and was traded to the Lions at the beginning of the 1986 season. You can guess what that meant for me—another position switch. I started every game at left tackle. Except for the day in Cleveland when Bruz beat me for a sack, I think I had a good season.
In four years, I’d started at four different positions on the offensive line. I’m not sure that anybody’s done that before or since in the modern NFL.
The 1987 NFL season highlighted a lingering dispute between league players and owners. The players had gone on strike in 1982, before eventually signing a collective bargaining agreement without achieving any of their primary goals. That agreement expired in summer 1987. Now, the players again were talking strike. The big issues were the idea of tying player salaries to league revenue and player freedom. At the time, if a player felt the team holding his rights wasn’t offering him a fair contract, he could either sign anyway, hold out for more money, or retire. Players had no avenue for taking their services to another team.
To me and a lot of my teammates, it felt like a one-sided system in favor of the owners. And, that summer, it affected me directly.
The four-year contract I’d signed with Houston as a rookie had expired after the 1986 season. The Oilers’ new offer seemed far too low to me. I felt I’d done everything the organization asked of me, and performed well despite almost unprecedented position changes. It was true that I hadn’t yet been named to a Pro Bowl, but I believed I would have if the team had left me at one position. I thought I should be paid at that level. The Oilers disagreed.
My negotiations with the team moved in a direction I hadn’t anticipated or wanted. On the advice of my agent, I held out for a better deal. I didn’t report to training camp. I missed the preseason. Then I found myself at home in California, watching the Oilers host the Los Angeles Rams on television in our season opener. Are you kidding me? I thought. They’re playing without me. The Oilers won too. That humbled me. Looking back today, it’s almost funny. I guess I had a pretty high opinion of myself then.
I wasn’t the only player trying to fight for better pay or other changes. After the second week of the season, the members of the NFL Players Association went on strike. The league responded by canceling the third week of the season and hiring replacement players: guys who had been cut from teams previously, had retired, or had otherwise played the game but weren’t good enough for the real NFL. For the next three weeks, those replacements—along with some NFL players who disagreed with the strike—played games that the league counted.
Meanwhile, I sued the league. My lawsuit said that the NFL and Oilers, in violation of antitrust law, had conspired to prevent me from negotiating or signing with other league teams. I argued that since the collective bargaining agreement had expired and I didn’t have a contract, I should be declared a free agent. I felt it was the only option I had left.
During the strike, NFL owners showed no sign of compromise. After week six, the Players Association caved in, ending the strike without winning any concessions. About a week later, the Oilers traded for Raiders tackle Bruce Davis, an obvious sign they were preparing to move on without me. The next day, the courts ruled against me in my lawsuit, saying that I was not a free agent.
The Oilers organization and NFL owners had triumphed on all fronts. That night, I took a red-e
ye flight to Houston, arriving about five thirty in the morning. I took a cab to the general manager’s office. With my figurative tail between my legs, I said I would accept the team’s last contract offer and sign a contract.
Though we lost those battles, the owners probably hurt themselves in the long run with their tough stance. Two years later, the NFL Players Association disbanded, so players could pursue their battles in court. That led to the NFL losing antitrust protections and to the system of limited free agency and greater financial benefits that players have today. As you might expect, my sympathy was with the players on this one. They’re the ones that fans pay money to watch and that risk debilitating injury every time they step on the field. In my opinion, they deserve a significant share of all the revenue the league takes in.
When I reported to the team in November 1987, I was bitter, angry, and stressed about the way my situation had turned out. Right after I signed my contract, I went to our practice facility. No one knew I was coming. The rest of the guys had just walked onto the practice field. I dressed quickly and joined them.
I’d been working out but I was not in game shape. The coaches put me on the so-called “show” team with the backup players who imitated our upcoming opponent—that week, the 49ers—and prepared our starters for the weekend game. I was still fuming over everything as I faced off against our top defensive players.
One of those guys was defensive tackle Ray Childress. I’d had a few minor skirmishes with Ray before. It can happen when two guys are going hard against each other, even in practice and even if they’re on the same team. But that wasn’t my role in that moment. I was supposed to be demonstrating the 49er formations to help our guys get ready to play. Instead, however, I just wanted to hit people.
Not surprisingly, Ray didn’t appreciate my “enthusiasm.” Pretty soon we were shoving each other. Then we were grabbing each other’s face masks, trying to raise the other guy’s neck into an uncomfortable position. Then guys on both sides of the ball moved in to break us up.
I don’t blame Ray for reacting how he did—I’d have done the same if it had been the other way around. But a strange thing happened in that moment. That brief fight was a release of all the tension and anxiety that had built up inside me. This is cool, I thought. I’m back where I belong. The longer the practice went, the better I felt. It was refreshing to be tired physically and unburdened mentally at the end of it.
I was reminded that day how much I enjoyed just being with the guys and playing football. The business side of the NFL was a necessary evil, but I didn’t have to let it infect my passion for playing. Football was a game, one I’d always loved. It was time to get back to seeing it that way.
I also began reflecting more on what my faith meant in all of this. The Bible verse that seemed relevant was Colossians 3:23: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.” This wasn’t just about football. I’d been blessed with a certain ability and the opportunity to use it. I was tired of trying to figure out what I deserved to be paid and what people in the Houston organization and NFL thought of me. Forget all this, I thought. I’m going to play harder than ever. I’m going all out, full speed.
The events of that year and the perspective they gave me combined to make me more determined than ever to take my game to another level. For all I knew, every upcoming play could be my last. I would not take my career for granted. I wouldn’t say I was reckless, but from that point on I played with fierce intensity on every down.
If NFL teams thought I was a good player before, they hadn’t seen anything yet.
11
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BROTHERS IN ARMS
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As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.
PROVERBS 27:17
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MY ATTITUDE WAS NOT THE only change for the 1987 season. When I’d reported to our minicamp in May, I’d met our new quarterbacks coach, June Jones. He and head coach Jerry Glanville were installing a new offense they called “Red Gun,” which contained elements of the Run-and-Shoot system they’d introduced as coaches at Portland State University. It meant lining up at times with four wideouts, a pass-first approach that flooded the field with small but speedy receivers. The new style was interesting, but it’s easy for an offense to look great on paper and in practice. I wanted to see how it worked in real games.
Once I rejoined the team, I got my answer: Red Gun was a success. We moved up and down the field far more easily than I’d ever experienced in Houston. Our record was 5–2 when I rejoined the Oilers. We already had as many wins as we’d notched in any season since I’d been in the NFL. Not surprisingly, the team was more confident. Instead of “I hope we win today,” the attitude was, “We’re going to win this one.”
Part of this change was because of the new offense and how it capitalized on Warren Moon’s ability to read defenses and make accurate passes. Part of it was the talent the organization had assembled. But another important factor was that so many of us had grown up together in the NFL. There was a sense of familiarity, camaraderie, and trust that doesn’t always exist in professional sports. We enjoyed playing together on the field and being together off it.
For me, the biggest example of that camaraderie was my best friend and new roommate on road trips, Mike Munchak. I’d first seen “Munch” playing for Penn State back in the Fiesta Bowl my junior year at USC, but since we were both offensive linemen we didn’t actually meet or cross paths on the field. I was barely aware of him. Then he was chosen eighth overall by the Oilers in the 1982 NFL draft. I remembered his name after that.
Once Houston drafted me the next year, I couldn’t forget his name if I tried. Over and over, people kept saying, “Mike Munchak, he’s such a great player” and “You have to meet him.” But I didn’t meet him. The league didn’t have a big offseason program like it does now, so there was no opportunity then. He wasn’t at the Oilers minicamp because he was on his honeymoon. Then I missed the first twelve days of training camp because of my holdout. Once I did arrive, the rest of the players had that beaten down, walking-dead look. They were just trying to get through the practices. No one was talking to anybody.
It wasn’t until a charity event after our preseason game against the Cowboys that I actually had the chance to talk with my heralded teammate. I discovered we both had similar interests, including TV shows: Magnum, P.I.; Simon & Simon ; and Knots Landing. We were similar in other ways, too; we were both quiet and both passionate about doing well. It also helped that Carrie and Mike’s wife, Marci, hit it off. We started spending more time with the Munchaks and getting to know them.
Munch and I argued about everything. California was better than Pennsylvania. Penn State was better than USC. The Lakers were better than the Celtics. If he took one position, I took the other. We entertained ourselves that way. We also “entertained” after some of our games. We might go to a place where a band was playing. If I’d had a beer or two, Munch would whisper to someone in the band, “Hey, my buddy can sing a little Elvis.” Soon, I’d be up with the band doing my impression of Elvis Presley singing “Heartbreak Hotel.” My strategy as a performer was to hit it hard and fast, then get off the stage before the crowd realized what had happened. I’m not sure what the rest of the audience thought, but Munch always got a kick out of it.
As a player, Munch had strengths different from mine. I was probably the better athlete and faster runner. He was stronger. At six foot three and 281 pounds, he was shorter and thicker, with huge arms. My goal when I worked out with Munch was to outdo him lifting weights, but I never came close. His game was brute power. When Munch hit someone in the open field, that guy went flying.
A left guard, Munch made the Pro Bowl in both 1984 and 1985. It was a well-deserved honor and I was happy for him, but it made me want to do the same even more. In 1986 I played alongside Mu
nch at left tackle until he got hurt. He dealt with injuries and played with pain that season and through much of his career, yet I never heard him complain. His approach inspired me to persevere through my own relatively minor aches and pains.
Munch inspired me in other ways. I was impressed with the way he carried himself. He wasn’t one to brag or fill the air with empty words. When he talked, he cut to the chase. After his first daughter, Alex, was born in 1986, he was all about his family off the field. Extended family was important to him as well. Every year, Munch and his family planned a bus trip from his hometown of Scranton, Pennsylvania, to one of our away games in Pittsburgh or Cleveland. Maybe two hundred Munchak family members and friends would show up to watch us play. I wanted to be like that—to say something worth hearing when I opened my mouth and to reflect that kind of family commitment.
Most significant of all, Munch and I grew in our faith together. He started coming to the team Bible studies. We bounced questions and thoughts about God off each other.
I needed that sounding board. I’d begun meeting one-on-one with Greg Headington on our off day, Tuesday. I asked a lot of questions about the Bible. Greg asked me probing questions about my beliefs and life that had a way of getting to the core of whatever we were discussing. It wasn’t easy for me. Like most guys, I’d grown up believing that real men don’t talk about their feelings and if they have a problem, they fix it themselves. Opening up, being vulnerable, trusting other guys—that wasn’t me. Greg challenged me on that pretty quickly.
Inside the NFL’s First Family Page 10