Inside the NFL’s First Family

by Bruce Matthews

  “God wants us to step out in faith,” he said. “He wants us to talk about our doubts or whatever we need help with, get out of our comfort zone, and serve Him. I try to put myself in at least one uncomfortable spot every day.”

  What, are you crazy? I thought. I don’t want any discomfort in my life. I soon learned, however, that God doesn’t want us to focus on our comfort or our shortcomings. This really hit home when I read the story about Moses resisting God’s command to lead the Hebrews out of Egypt, because he was “slow of speech and tongue.” I can relate to how Moses felt. I’m much more comfortable behind the scenes and almost always feel anxious about getting up and speaking to a crowd. But God said, “Who gave man his mouth? Is it not I, the Lord? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say” (Exodus 4:10–12). We aren’t supposed to be comfortable in this life. We are supposed to trust and serve God wherever He leads us.

  Just talking about those challenges and discoveries with Munch was a way of stretching past my comfort zone. It was great to share my spiritual journey with a fellow believer and friend.

  Munch’s presence in those early years in the NFL, and in many years to follow, was important to me. I’m not sure he’s aware of how much it meant. Every man needs male friends, guys he can share problems with who don’t judge, yet are willing to speak up when he’s going down the wrong path. The Bible says, “One who has unreliable friends soon comes to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother” (Proverbs 18:24). More than anyone in my life, that friend was Mike Munchak.

  Even though the Oilers were more confident in 1987, we still stumbled late in the season, losing three times in November. Going into our second-to-last game of the season, our record was 7–6. We had to defeat both the Steelers and Cincinnati Bengals, two teams we’d struggled against, to make the playoffs for the first time in my career. Fortunately, both games were in the Astrodome.

  The Pittsburgh contest was a battle. Even though the Steelers had outgained us in yardage, we were up by a point in the fourth quarter, 17–16. Then Warren hit Drew Hill with a thirty-yard touchdown pass, Hill’s second long score of the game. We had the victory, 24–16.

  The following week, Jerry Glanville had T-shirts made for the team. They featured an armadillo—I’m still not entirely sure what that signified—and the slogan, “Let’s Get Paid.” We needed just one more triumph against the Bengals. We scored three touchdowns in the first half, two by rookie Alonzo Highsmith, his only scores of the season. We were shut out in the second half. But those three early touchdowns were just enough. Our defense came through and we held on to win 21–17. I wore my T-shirt proudly after that.

  Those two victories showed the emerging character of our team. It was great to know we were finally in the playoffs. I felt as if we’d made a statement: “The Oilers have arrived.” Even though we were new to the postseason, I was optimistic. I believed we could get on a roll and go all the way to the Super Bowl.

  We hosted the Seattle Seahawks in the American Football Conference wild card game on January 3, 1988. As usual, I went onto the field before most of the players to practice with the field goal and punt units. The Astrodome was a fun place to play. The fans were enthusiastic and loud—once they got going, the noise bounced off the walls and roof inside the dome and could be a major distraction for the visiting team. On this day, I saw that fans were already arriving and that all the A-list people were there, including NBC announcers Marv Albert and Joe Namath.

  This is for real, I thought. The atmosphere was electric.

  Seattle scored first after we threw an interception on the opening drive. We responded with thirteen consecutive points. Both Munch and I were having strong games. During one play, Munch ripped the jersey off outspoken and controversial rookie linebacker Brian Bosworth. The “Boz” returned to the game later wearing a different number.

  We were up, 20–13, going into the fourth quarter and were outgaining the Seahawks, but we couldn’t put them away. Our kicker, Tony Zendejas, booted a ball that hit the uprights and bounced back on a fifty-two-yard field goal attempt. Then Tony missed another kick from twenty-nine yards. With 1:47 left to play, Seattle got the ball and drove eighty yards. Steve Largent caught a twelve-yard touchdown pass with twenty-six seconds left in the game. My first NFL playoff game was going to overtime.

  I was confident we’d find a way to score and win the game—our offensive line was consistently pushing back their defense. The Seahawks won the coin flip and got the ball first, but we forced them to punt. Just as I predicted, we drove into their territory. Eight minutes into the extra period, Tony lined up for another field goal attempt, this one from forty-two yards away. I snapped the ball, holder Jeff Gossett caught and positioned it, and Tony’s kick was true. I had my first playoff victory.

  Our next playoff opponent was Denver in Mile High Stadium. I believed we matched up well with the Broncos, but a terrible start doomed us. In hindsight, the opening game plan designed by our coaches might have been too risky.

  Jerry Glanville was just as colorful as our old coach, Bum Phillips, but in different ways. Glanville was known for leaving tickets for Elvis at the Oilers’ box office—even though Elvis had been dead for a decade—and for firing up opposing teams and coaches with some of his comments. He once taunted a Bengals punter and had long-running feuds with Bengals coach Sam Wyche and Steelers coach Chuck Noll.

  Against the Broncos, Glanville cemented his reputation as a gambler. Our defense stopped Denver on its opening drive and we took over in a tough spot, on our five-yard line. Our first play lost a yard. Our next one was a trick play called “Stagger Lee,” after an old country blues song about gamblers. Unfortunately, the trick was on us. Running back Mike Rozier lined up wide left behind three blockers. We were so backed up that Rozier was in the end zone when Warren threw him a lateral. The play should have worked—Denver had only two defenders in position to stop Rozier. But Mike couldn’t handle the ball, the Broncos recovered, and they scored a touchdown soon after. On our next drive, an interception led to another Denver touchdown.

  We couldn’t overcome that miserable beginning. We trailed 24–3 at halftime and even though we finished with more total yards than the Broncos, they beat us, 34–10.

  Losing that game hurt. Our year was suddenly over. But at the same time, it felt like a beginning. We had a strong and talented core of guys who were just coming into their prime. With the season on the line in the final two regular-season games and again in the playoffs, we’d provided a glimpse of the team we could be—tough, physical, relentless. I knew we’d be back in the playoffs and that the rest of the NFL would have to reckon with us.

  I was proud of my team. These guys were my brothers in arms, teammates I was ready to go to war with. I couldn’t wait for the next season to begin.

  12

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  DEFEATS AND DELIGHTS

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  You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence.

  PSALM 16:11

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  IF I’D KNOWN IN 1988 all the ups and downs the next six years would bring both professionally and personally, I wonder if I would have approached my circumstances differently. I’m sure it’s best that I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have believed I was ready to face them. I was about to experience some of the deepest disappointments and greatest joys of my life.

  That spring brought one of the joys. Carrie was pregnant with our third baby and, though we would have been happy either way, after two boys we were ready for a daughter. Marilyn Elizabeth was born April 14, just two days after the Munchaks’ second child, Julie. Marilyn was our “Cocoa Puff” baby—instead of being blond and fair like Carrie and our first two boys, she had dark hair, brown eyes, and a dark complexion like me. My wife says we can thank my contract holdout nine months earlier for our first girl.

 
I was also thankful for the Oilers’ performance in 1988. We finished 10–6, reaching double figures in wins for the first time in my pro career. In addition, I played on Monday Night Football for the first time. It was exciting to be on the nationally televised broadcast and it was satisfying to beat Bruz’s Browns in that game, 24–17. In later years, though, the thrill of playing on Monday night began to wear off. I always enjoyed being in a featured game, but I didn’t care for the disruption in my schedule. It meant an extra day to prepare for our opponent that week and one less day to prepare the next week. I appreciated having my routine.

  We beat the Browns again in the first round of the 1988 playoffs, 24–23. The next round at Buffalo was a different story, however. Someone rolled my ankle during a play in the second quarter. It swelled up so much that I felt like I was playing with a peg leg. Even worse, we couldn’t seem to make the plays we needed to against a strong Bills defense. We managed only one field goal over the first three quarters and got beat 17–10.

  I was disappointed to miss the opportunity to keep playing but pleased to be honored after the season. I was chosen for the first of my fourteen consecutive Pro Bowls and named to the first of my seven All-Pro first teams. That took a bit of the sting out of losing.

  The next season was memorable for a pair of games against the Steelers. The first was a November matchup in the Astrodome. We had an excellent punter, Greg Montgomery, who would become an All-Pro in 1993. Greg had already tweaked his hamstring sometime before that day. Normally, during pregame warmups, I snapped the ball to him for twenty to twenty-five practice kicks. But on this day, Greg walked off the field after just two kicks. His hamstring was hurting.

  Uh-oh. Guess who the team’s backup punter was?

  I’d always seen myself as an all-around athlete. Going back to high school, I’d enjoyed working out with the kickers and punters and asking questions about their technique. I kicked with them occasionally and became a decent punter. On the Oilers, I challenged other guys to a game I called “Punt Master,” which was a one-on-one field position battle to see who was the best punter.

  There’s a big difference, though, between messing around on the practice field and punting in front of thousands of people in an NFL game. I couldn’t imagine doing it against the Steelers. I already had my hands taped and knee braces on. What if I whiffed? Yet, as Greg headed for the locker room, I heard the special teams coach say, “All right, Bruce, get back there and try a few. You’ve got to be ready to go.”

  I was never so nervous in my life.

  Fortunately, Greg felt good enough or got taped up enough to go for it in the game. He managed fine and we beat the Steelers easily that day. You won’t find many linemen standing back there in punt formation in the NFL—I’ve never seen it—but the world almost got to witness it that afternoon in the Astrodome. I’m kind of grateful it didn’t happen.

  I felt less grateful after our final game against Pittsburgh that year. We’d finished the season with a 9–7 record and again qualified for a wild card playoff game. We were seven-point favorites and had a seven-point lead in the fourth quarter, but the Steelers scored to send the game into overtime and won on a fifty-yard field goal by Gary Anderson. Once again, we’d let an opportunity slide past.

  As disappointed as I was about the loss, our owner, Bud Adams, must have been even more upset. He fired Jerry Glanville. Jerry was a good coach, but his confrontational style and conflicts with opposing coaches weren’t always helpful. The Bengals had embarrassed us, 61–7, in the second-to-last game of the season. They were driven by their hatred of Glanville. You don’t want to be the guy who’s saying or doing things that give the other team extra motivation.

  Our new coach for my eighth year in the NFL was Jack Pardee from the University of Houston. He brought with him the offensive style we’d partially utilized in the past and that was perfect for Warren Moon—the Run and Shoot. It meant we nearly always lined up with just one running back and four wide receivers and nearly always threw the ball.

  As an offensive lineman, there’s nothing like running the ball at a defense that knows what’s coming and still can’t stop you. I had that experience at USC and loved it. It was the opposite of the Run and Shoot, as we were one-dimensional with our passing. The challenge was that the defensive linemen we had to block knew we’d be passing nearly every down, so they could charge at us from the snap to try to take down the quarterback.

  Yet the new offense worked, which was the bottom line. Any offense is fun if it allows you to move downfield, score, and win. Warren started recording crazy passing numbers. Late in the season, we played in Kansas City’s Arrowhead Stadium. It was raining and freezing, but Warren was on fire. He threw for three touchdowns and 527 yards, still the second-highest yardage total in NFL history.

  In the next game, however—a loss to Cincinnati—Warren dislocated his thumb on his throwing hand. He was out for the year. We finished the regular season with a 9–7 record and 405 points, second in the league. Warren was named the Associated Press NFL Offensive Player of the Year. Once again, we qualified for a wild card playoff. And once again, we fell short. Without our top quarterback, the Bengals beat us convincingly, 41–14.

  More highs followed by a disappointing low. It had become a disturbing pattern.

  In 1991, after four years at right guard, I again changed positions. Bob Young, our offensive line coach, had moved me to center for the final regular-season game and playoff loss the year before. He felt it gave us a better chance to win. He decided to make the move permanent for the new season. I was anxious about the switch but also fired up since the coaches thought I could handle it and that it would improve the team.

  At center, I had more responsibilities. I read the defense as I walked up to the line of scrimmage before a play and, depending on what I saw, gave a signal to our running back. If it was a nickel defense, for example—five defensive backs intended to counter a passing offense—I might make a fist, the signal for our running back to block any defenders who break through our protection where our quarterback was going. If the defense shifted or if I’d read it incorrectly, I might change the running back’s assignment with another signal, such as an open hand.

  Even after I was in my stance, my right hand on the ball, I might yell out more directions. For example, “Lenny!” meant that the left guard and I would throw a combination block on the defender across the line from us. In many ways, center was a complicated position to master, but after playing so many years I’d seen just about every imaginable defense and usually had a good idea as to what our opponent was up to.

  I guess the coaches were right about the change, since our offense was prolific again in 1991. Warren was healthy all year and we went 11–5, winning the NFL’s Central Division title for the first time. This time I was sure we’d go far in the playoffs.

  Our first postseason game was another wild card matchup against the Jets. Our offense struggled to score, but fortunately our defense saved us. Bubba McDowell intercepted two passes inside our five-yard line. We held on to beat the Jets, 17–10, and advanced to play at Denver, the AFC West Division champions. Though the Broncos had taken us out four years earlier, I felt very confident this time. We were a stronger team than before and had blown the Broncos out in October.

  My confidence appeared justified in the first half. We scored touchdowns on our first three possessions and could have had a fourth if not for an interception. Denver responded with its own touchdown late in the second quarter, but we still led 21–13 at halftime. We were moving the ball easily and for the most part, our defense was containing John Elway and the Broncos.

  Our offense slowed down in the second half, but we still led 24–16 in the fourth quarter. Then Denver got a touchdown to cut our lead to a single point. We had a first down on Denver’s thirty-four-yard line with 3:13 left to play, but a couple of penalties pushed us back. Greg Montgomery made his first punt of the day and it was a beauty. We downed the ball on the two
-yard line. Denver had no time-outs and had to go ninety-eight yards in two minutes, seven seconds. We were in a great position.

  The problem, though, was that Denver had Elway. He was already famous for his ninety-eight-yard, game-winning drive in the playoffs against the Browns five years earlier, a result that was devastating for my brother. Now Elway was trying to do it against me and my teammates.

  Right away, the Broncos got room to operate with a twenty-two-yard completion to Michael Young. Four plays later we had them on the brink of defeat, fourth down and six yards to go, but Elway scrambled and barely made the first down. Three incompletions followed and we were again one play away from victory. But with fifty-nine seconds left, Elway eluded our rushers and threw a wobbly pass to Vance Johnson, who ran forty-four yards down the left sideline. With twenty seconds to go, the Broncos lined up for a twenty-eight-yard field goal. The snap was low, but holder Gary Kubiak got the ball in position a split second before Jeff Treadwell’s foot met the ball. The kick was good.

  Even down to that final minute, I was sure we’d win. Now I was in shock. Oh, my gosh, we’re going to lose this game. I can’t believe it.

  After the game, I sat on the bus during the ride to the airport and tried to process my emotions. After working so hard all season to get to that point, it was heartbreaking to lose. When I was new to the league, I focused mostly on my own feelings. Now, after nine seasons in the NFL, I was more aware of the impact of a playoff loss on the whole team. Every season brought turnover in personnel. On Monday, we’d report to clear out our lockers and meet one last time with the coaches. This group of guys would never be together again. The finality of it weighed on me. These opportunities didn’t come often. We’d dropped some tough games in the past and would lose some big ones in the years ahead, but that last-gasp loss in Mile High Stadium was one of the toughest I ever experienced. After all the previous playoff disappointments and after leading the entire game, I didn’t understand how we’d let another one slip away.