In many ways, my kids have done a better job than I did in pursuing all-around excellence. I give them a lot of credit for that. I know it’s a parent’s actions that speak loudest to his kids, not his words. My dad was that example for me and though I sometimes fall short, I’ve tried to be that kind of father for my children.
In 1994, setting a good example on the field was still a work in progress. I’m not talking about my performance—I’d been to the Pro Bowl each of the previous six years—but those too-frequent occasions when I allowed my intensity to go too far.
One of those occasions was in a preseason game the year before against the Seahawks. I was battling Michael McCrary, a rookie defensive end from Wake Forest. I had a 150-pound advantage on this kid and I was leaning on him hard, but to his credit, he kept coming back for more and never said a word. It started to get on my nerves, to the point that during one play when he turned to run up the field, I cut him in the back of the knees.
It was a foolish, dangerous thing to do. After I calmed down, I couldn’t believe I’d done it. I apologized to him after the game. In fact, even after McCrary joined the Ravens and I played against him twice a year, I apologized every time I saw him. “Shut up,” he’d say. “Don’t worry about it.” It got to be a joke between us.
My behavior wasn’t a joke, however. I realized I had too much of that going on—retaliations, unnecessary fights, cursing at referees. I knew that God wanted me to play hard, to always do my best. But to represent Him well, I needed to eliminate the other stuff. In my efforts to be more like Christ, I still had a long way to go.
The 1994 Oilers also had a long way to go. The uniforms were still Columbia blue and white and the helmets still featured an oil derrick, but we were a very different team than the one fans had cheered for the year before. With Warren Moon traded, our new quarterback was Cody Carlson, a great guy and a regular at our team Bible studies. Cody’s tenure as starter lasted for two-and-a-half quarters, as he was sidelined by a knee injury in our opening-game loss to the Colts. It was a sign of things to come.
We managed to beat the Bengals in week four, 20–13, but that was one of the few highlights from that season. We kept losing games by three points—to the Cowboys, the Browns, the Raiders, and then the Steelers in overtime, 12–9. I had to admit that our defense was outperforming our offense. We struggled to score.
With our record at 1–9, Bud Adams dismissed both Jack Pardee and Kevin Gilbride. Our new head coach was our defensive coordinator and one of my old teammates at USC, Jeff Fisher.
Jeff and I played together for two years in college, though I didn’t know him well. We actually had several connections. His wife, Julie, was from Arcadia High School, two classes ahead of me. I also used to catch for Julie’s younger brother when he pitched and we played in Pony League. Jeff had been coaching in the NFL for ten years and had done a great job as our defensive coordinator. I was excited when he took over. I knew he was a quality guy with a team-first attitude, which we needed. The fact that he was from USC was frosting on the cake.
We still lost the next five games, including three more close ones. But we knocked off the Jets in our season finale, 24–10, to give us some optimism going into the off-season.
We finished the year 2–14. Our ten-game drop-off was the largest from one season to the next in the history of the NFL. What’s funny is that despite our miserable record, I actually enjoyed that season more than the one before. All the strange events of 1993 had taken a mental and emotional toll. We may not have had as much talent, but we were back to just playing football. That felt right to me. Though the fans may not have agreed, I believed that it was a step in the right direction.
I wouldn’t be surprised if a few die-hard Houston fans were tempted to hit the bottle after our descent into the AFC Central Division cellar. As for me, though, that season didn’t change my drinking habits. I already had an established routine.
My attitude about drinking alcohol in those days was that it was just part of the NFL culture. From my first training camp, when my new teammates gathered in the evening around that fridge in the dorms, I’d seen that hoisting a few cold ones was the preferred method for unwinding from the pressures of being a professional football player. It also seemed to help build team spirit and trust between us. I still have fond memories of Earl Campbell sitting there singing Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson tunes. I wanted to fit in and I wasn’t a problem drinker. At the time, it wasn’t a big issue to me.
My parents came from the era of cocktail parties, so it wasn’t strange to see them with a drink in their hands. But Bruz didn’t drink and I wanted to be like him, so I never had a sip of alcohol growing up. I drank only a handful of times while in college. It wasn’t until I reached the NFL that I made it a regular practice. During the season, Thursday was our camaraderie night. Munch and I and some of the other guys would go to Jackie’s Ice House, a place near the Astrodome. And we always went out and had a few beers after games.
My competitive nature didn’t help matters. Being a Matthews, I wanted to be the best at everything. That of course included drinking. A few times, it led me to do dumb things I never would have done if I had been completely sober.
One of those things occurred on the way to training camp one year. Munch, Dean Steinkuhler, and I were in Munch’s Eddie Bauer Bronco, driving on Interstate 10 between Houston and San Antonio. As happens when one has too much to drink—and seemed to happen especially often to Dean—we reached a point where we needed to relieve ourselves. Instead of stopping at a rest stop, gas station, or restaurant, however, we chose to do our business behind a billboard that featured Noah’s Ark (I think it was an advertisement for a petting zoo).
Actually, only Munch and Dean emptied their bladders behind the sign. When they returned to the front of the billboard, they were a man short. “Where’s Bruce?” Munch said. That’s when they heard what sounded like rainwater splattering on the ground. I’d climbed to the top of the billboard and was now relieving myself along the starboard side of the ark. Not exactly an entry for my résumé.
I rationalized my drinking. I told myself I could handle it. But I know there were times I drove home when I shouldn’t have been driving. I didn’t have as much control over my drinking as I pretended to have.
In 1995 I was relaxing with our family and friends on our property in Sugar Land, a suburb of Houston. We’d recently purchased fifty-one acres of mostly pastureland, and planned to build Carrie’s dream home there. One of my favorite evening activities was to cut down a few trees, build a roaring fire, cook hot dogs, and bask in the warmth while downing a beer or two.
Steven was ten years old then. On one of those nights on our property, he was sitting on a cooler filled with beer. “Hey Steven,” one of my friends said, “why don’t you get me and your dad a beer?”
As soon as I heard those words, I frowned. I don’t want my kids bringing me beer. “Never mind, Steven,” I said. “I’ll get ’em.”
I thought often about that moment over the following months. It bothered me. I had seen people close to me struggle with drinking. It had changed their behavior and even led to ugly incidents. I could warn my children about the dangers of alcohol, but I realized my actions would mean more than my words. They were watching me. Carrie didn’t drink, but I did. Did I want my kids drinking because they saw Dad do it?
There’s a Bible passage that reads, “Let us therefore make every effort to do what leads to peace and to mutual edification . . . It is better not to eat meat or drink wine or to do anything else that will cause your brother or sister to fall” (Romans 14:19, 21). My kids would eventually decide for themselves whether or not they would drink alcohol. But I didn’t want to make that choice for them by encouraging them to drink before they were ready to choose.
Two years later I was still weighing the issue. During training camp, on a morning when I’d been out drinking the night before, I got onto the elevator at our practice facility. A rookie free
agent got onto the elevator with me. He told me he’d just been released. Then he shook my hand.
“I just want to tell you what an honor it’s been to be here in camp with you and be in the Bible study with you,” he said. “You’ve set a great example and I really respect you for that.”
His words were like a blow to the gut. I hoped he couldn’t smell my breath because it probably still had an odor of beer.
What am I doing? I thought. Is this what I’m about? Am I bringing glory to the Lord with my drinking? What kind of message am I sending to my teammates? The truth was that I didn’t even like the taste of beer. The only reason I drank was to get that feel-good buzz. But what was the cost?
It took me a while to work through that mental battle and make a decision. But once I made up my mind, that was it. I’m not going to miss waking up with a headache, I thought. I don’t need alcohol. More important, I’m not going to influence my kids to stumble because of this.
I stopped drinking on May 2, 1998. Other than one glass of champagne, I haven’t had a drop since. I know there are lots of opinions on this particular issue, but for me it was the right choice.
Today, nearly all of my kids are out of the house and living on their own. I don’t have the opportunity to guide and shape them on a daily basis like I once did. But I know they’re still watching me. I just pray that they’ll overlook my imperfections, remember the good examples and lessons, and continue to grow closer to God and the plan He has for each of their lives. As a father, I couldn’t ask for anything more.
14
* * *
IN ALL THINGS
* * *
* * *
* * *
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.
PROVERBS 3:5
* * *
* * *
* * *
MY CONTRACT EXPIRED AGAIN AFTER the 1994 season. Thanks to the recent collective bargaining agreement, I was truly a free agent for the first time—I could sign with any team. A few other teams had expressed interest, but I wanted to stay with the Oilers. We’d just purchased that property and planned to build a house. We had five kids and wanted them to go full-time in one school system. I loved the Oilers fans and the people of Houston had always treated me well.
In addition, Munch had joined the Oilers coaching staff after retiring and had been retained by Jeff Fisher. They and the other coaches were good people who I was sure would point our team in the right direction. As far as I was concerned, Houston was where I belonged.
By this time, I’d personally taken over my contract negotiations. I told the organization, “Look, I’m not going to play games. I have no desire to play for a team anywhere else. I want to be here.”
“Fine,” I was told. “Let us finish our other free agent contracts, then we’ll take care of you.” Though I missed a few days of training camp and the first preseason game, we quickly settled on terms. In early August—I believe it was the eighth, my birthday—I signed a four-year deal. I was thirty-four years old and ready to put down our family’s roots. Considering some of the contentious negotiations I’d had in the past, I thought everything had worked out great.
Three days later, I was with the Oilers in Knoxville, Tennessee, for a scheduled preseason game with the Washington Redskins. Surprisingly, our owner was there too. The team was assembled at our hotel so Mr. Adams could address us. “Hey,” he said, “I just want to tell you guys that we’ve struck a deal to move the team to Nashville.”
My jaw almost hit the floor. Nashville? Are you kidding me? You guys knew about this three days ago and didn’t tell me? I was furious.
I was aware of Mr. Adams’ frustrations with the Oilers’ Astrodome lease and his efforts to build a new stadium in Houston, which had made little progress. But I had no idea that he was considering moving the team. If I’d known about the prospective move, I certainly would have explored options with other teams. I don’t know that I would have left the Oilers because I did have faith in the coaching staff. But I couldn’t believe that the front-office people knew I wanted to be in Houston, knew about the move, and let me sign a contract anyway. I felt betrayed.
As I’ve said, I’m a guy who appreciates his routine. I don’t even like having my weekend plans rearranged, let alone a change in where I want to live for the next four years. I was frustrated that the future Carrie and I had decided on had been ripped away from us.
I was even unhappy with the Lord. “I had a pretty good plan,” I told Him. “What was the matter with it?” Though I’d matured in my faith since my brief holdout before my rookie season and the much longer one in 1987, I sometimes still forget to look at situations from God’s perspective.
There’s a verse in the Bible that says, “Count it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance” (James 1:2). That’s how God works—He allows us to experience problems and the unsettledness that comes with unexpected changes so that we will learn to lean on Him, trust Him more, expand our faith, and grow in our character. Yes, trials are inconvenient, uncomfortable, even painful. Yet He promises to go through them with us.
I had my own life plans in 1995 and they did not include a move to Nashville. But neither God nor Bud Adams had consulted me. I was going to have to live with it.
The transition to Tennessee wasn’t actually scheduled to happen until the 1998 season. Nashville voters had to first approve funds for a new stadium. I crossed my fingers and hoped that the proposed move would fall through.
Everything about the preseason that year seemed out of whack. First I missed the opening of camp because of my contract negotiations. Then came the announcement about the Nashville move. Then our third preseason game in the Dome against the Chargers was canceled because the grounds crew couldn’t get a newly installed piece of Astroturf to mesh with the old turf. The game was delayed for two hours before the announcement was made, which was met with a chorus of boos. Finally, in our last preseason game, we got shut out by the Cowboys, 10–0. Not an auspicious start.
When the regular season began, many Houston fans stayed home. After the disappointments of previous years, our performance the year before, and ownership’s announced intention to leave the city, a lot of people were either angry or had lost interest. I couldn’t blame them. Compared to the raucous old days, the Astrodome now felt like a library.
Yet our product on the field was improving. We’d signed Mark Stepnoski, formerly a Pro Bowl center for the Cowboys. At six foot two and 260 pounds, Mark was undersized for a lineman, yet he excelled because his technique was so sound. Because of Mark’s addition, I moved from center to Munch’s old spot, the only position I’d yet to play on the offensive line: left guard. We had a new quarterback, Chris Chandler, and our defense remained strong. We also had a rookie quarterback with an impressive arm and the ability to run. Steve McNair would need time to adjust to the NFL, but I could tell he had potential. He became the toughest quarterback I ever played with. We won seven games in 1995.
We drafted another important addition in 1996, Ohio State running back and Heisman Trophy winner Eddie George. He was a fitness freak, an amazing physical specimen at six foot three and 235 pounds, and had a great attitude. I loved playing with Eddie. In his first season with us, he gained 1,368 yards rushing and was named the NFL’s Rookie of the Year.
I remained at left guard that season and continued to contribute on special teams. I’d had a few proud moments on special teams over the years. A punt coverage play in 1986 was one of my career highlights. We were playing the Steelers in the Dome and punting to Pro Bowl return man Louis Lipps. I sprinted downfield after the punt was away and noticed no other blue shirts around me. As I got closer to Lipps, I saw two Steelers sprinting at me, one on each side. All right, I thought. I’m just going to keep running, brace for the hit, and hope it’s not too ugly.
The pair of Steelers did indeed h
it me—at the same instant. Somehow, the momentum of one canceled the momentum of the other. They bounced off me and I was still running—I didn’t even break stride. Lipps caught the ball and I made an unassisted, open-field tackle. None of my offensive line buddies were watching at the time, of course. But when we all sat down to view the play on film the next week, they whooped and hollered as if they’d done it themselves. It was a great moment.
On Thanksgiving Day in 1992 I made another unassisted tackle on a punt to Mel Gray, the Lions’ All-Pro kick returner. You could count the tackles I made in my career on one hand, so each time was a thrill.
I was less thrilled, however, about another special teams play in that 1996 season. Field goal protection is one of the most thankless jobs in the NFL—it’s highly stressful and you only get noticed if your man breaks through the line. I’d never had anyone get through me to block a field goal before and no one did it to me since, but the exception was in a game against Pittsburgh. We were down 10–0 in the first quarter when I lined up to snap for a forty-seven-yard field goal attempt. Joel Steed, a three-hundred-pound bull of a nose tackle, was across from me.
When blocking for a field goal, I usually put out both hands and hooked guys in the crook of my arm. That’s what I tried to do this time. But I found myself facing a perfect storm of leverage and timing. All of a sudden my body was flying in the air. It was like being at the beach when a wave catches you and you realize there’s nothing you can do. I was thrown to the ground and thought, Man, why am I looking up at blue sky? In the next instant, I heard a sickening double-thud—the first being the sound of Al Del Greco’s foot kicking the ball, and the second being Steeler defensive end Brentson Buckner blocking it.
Inside the NFL’s First Family Page 13