Inside the NFL’s First Family

by Bruce Matthews

  Back in 1995, the play nearly worked—Rich zinged the pass right at my chest—but at the last moment, a Chiefs player dove to knock the ball away.

  But before the 2000 game against the Cowboys, I tried to talk Jeff out of his plan, without success. Sure enough, in the second quarter, we had a first-and-goal at the Dallas one-yard line—time for Jeff’s trick play. I was nervous as I lined up at tight end. We probably would have fooled the Cowboys, but one of their linebackers, Barron Wortham, had been a Titan the season before. He pointed at me just before the snap and shouted, “Hey, Bruce is in at tight end—watch him! It’s a trick play!”

  I panicked. Instead of running all the way to the back of the end zone, I cut the route short, which allowed Wortham to cover me easily. I’m sure Steve McNair had been coached to throw the ball to me no matter what, but when he did, Wortham stepped in front of me and intercepted it. Apparently, it wasn’t my destiny to appear in any NFL scoring logs.

  But I was more upset by something that happened later in the game. I’d been performing well, throwing guys around. I thought, Who needs to retire? I could play two or three more years the way this game’s going. Then on a play just before halftime, right guard Benji Olson and the man he was blocking fell on the back of my right heel. It felt as if my foot had broken in half. I had turf toe—I’d sprained the ligaments around the joint of my big toe. It was bad. This was one time when I wouldn’t have been able to play the next week.

  Once again, however, we’d finished the season with a stellar 13–3 record. It was the best in the NFL that year, so we had a first-round playoff bye, giving me some time to heal. That was a good thing, because our opponent would be the always dangerous Baltimore Ravens.

  Since Carrie and the kids had missed part of our run to the Super Bowl the year before, I wanted to make sure that didn’t happen this time. Thanks to the fact that we’d clinched home-field advantage throughout the playoffs, I told them we were all staying in Nashville until the end. I wanted them to enjoy the experience. That was especially true for Steven, now fifteen, and Kevin, thirteen. At this point, they were fully invested Titans fans. This was going to be fun.

  My teammates and I knew the Ravens were a tough opponent with a great defense. I was also still dealing with my turf toe, which required an injection before the game. But I’m sure that we were confident that we were the better team and that we’d find a way to beat them. This was just the first step toward our destiny.

  The game was of course a sellout, played under cloudy skies. We got the ball first and did exactly what we set out to do. Eddie George rushed six times for thirty-two yards on an eleven-play drive that ended with Eddie’s two-yard touchdown. It wasn’t easy, but I felt we were executing well and moving their line. I never would have guessed that that would be our only touchdown of the day.

  The Ravens answered in the second quarter when quarterback Trent Dilfer hit a wide-open Shannon Sharpe on a fifty-six-yard pass, which led to a one-yard touchdown run. It would be the last offensive touchdown by either team. I didn’t know it then, but this game would be decided by the special teams.

  We should have had the lead at halftime. Our field goal attempt with 2:27 to play in the second quarter was blocked by the Ravens’ Keith Washington. Then Chris Coleman made a block of his own of a Baltimore punt, giving us the ball on the Ravens’ twenty-five-yard line with 1:44 to go. But we stalled on the thirteen-yard line. This time, Al Del Greco’s kick hit the left upright and bounced away. We’d missed on two huge opportunities.

  The start of the third quarter felt like some weird déjà vu. Coleman again blocked a Ravens punt and we again stalled just short of the Baltimore goal line. Al connected on this kick, however, giving us a 10–7 lead. But the Ravens came back with their own field goal to tie the game with three minutes left in the period.

  Going into the fourth quarter, I knew we’d outgained Baltimore and had great field position most of the game. We’d had opportunities. We just needed to stop making mistakes, keep pounding the ball, and play like the great team I knew we were.

  Yet somehow, thanks to two plays, it all unraveled.

  The first came after Steve tried to run for a first down and was a yard short at the Baltimore twenty-five-yard line. On our field goal attempt, Washington got his hand on a kick for the second time that day. The ball was deflected to Baltimore’s Anthony Mitchell, who caught it on the ten-yard line, ran down the right sideline, cut back to the middle, and scored—a ninety-yard return for a touchdown.

  I still expected us to come back. With just under seven minutes left to play, we had the ball near midfield. But when Steve threw a pass to Eddie, the ball arrived just slightly behind him. It bounced off his right shoulder. With the ball still in the air, both Eddie and Ray Lewis fought for it. Lewis came away with it, eluded tacklers, and ran fifty yards for another defensive touchdown. Eddie just lay there, facedown. I don’t think he could stand to watch it. Frankly, neither could I.

  Despite outgaining the Ravens, 317 yards to 134, we lost the game, 24–10. Our ride to the Super Bowl had ended almost before it started. Baltimore would go on to become world champions, defeating the New York Giants in the Super Bowl, 34–7.

  It was the most painful loss of my career. I had fully expected us to win. What made it even tougher was how hard it was on the kids. It felt like a loss for the whole family. Instead of enjoying a special time together we were suddenly packing to go back to Houston. I had to give the Ravens credit, though. Their defense was the best I ever played against.

  I had a much more pleasant duty to perform that summer. Munch had just been elected to the NFL Hall of Fame. He asked me to introduce him before his induction speech, which I still consider one of the great honors of my career. I told the crowd in Canton, Ohio, “He set a standard of excellence that myself and every offensive lineman who played with him has tried to emulate. The hits that he put on linebackers were legendary. Words like integrity, excellence, and honor come to mind. Mike Munchak epitomizes that to me both on the field and off, and I don’t think that there could be a better person to represent these values than him. Not only as a player but as a husband, a father, and especially as a friend.”

  Jackie Slater was inducted that year too. It was a special weekend, one I appreciated even more because it allowed me to miss the first few days of training camp.

  I hadn’t made any decision about my future going into the 2001 season. I still enjoyed playing and still believed we had a good team. But more and more, thoughts about retirement crept into my mind. The loss to the Ravens had certainly left a bad taste in my mouth, but I was bothered more by the impact of our two-city life on my family. I knew it wasn’t easy for the kids, especially Steven since he was now a junior in high school, to go to school a half year in Nashville and the other half in Houston. Then there was my turf toe. It was better but it hadn’t gone away. It felt like someone had stuck an ice pick in there. I was also bothered by hearing young players grumble about this or that. I’d think, Most guys would kill to be in our shoes. We get paid well to play this game we love. Why are you complaining?

  On September 9 we opened the season with a loss to the Miami Dolphins. Two days later, terrorists launched the 9/11 attacks on America. I remember praying with my kids and reminding them that God was in control. Besides being a terrible tragedy, it was a big-time perspective check. I thought, The NFL has been such a huge part of your life. You’ve treated it like it’s life and death. But life is so much bigger than football. It made me wonder if I needed to shift my priorities.

  We lost two more games to drop to 0–3, already as many defeats as we’d recorded over the entire season the year before. We hosted Tampa Bay next. You never expect to hear something nice from your opponents, especially at the start of a game. But when I went onto the field for our first possession, the Bucs’ All-Pro defensive tackle, Warren Sapp, startled me by saying, “Man, I got a lot of respect for what you’ve done all these years.”

  I d
idn’t want to hear those words at that moment. Before every NFL game, you build up a level of antagonism toward your opponent that gets you ready to play. Now Warren Sapp was complimenting me? Oh man, I do not want to like this guy. After the game, fine. But not now.

  We beat Tampa Bay, 31–28, but it was a rough game for me. The heat sapped my energy and my ankle got rolled up. I wasn’t happy with my performance. Nagging injuries, lousy play, and tributes from opposing players? I suddenly felt old.

  The feeling intensified three weeks later in a Monday night game against the Steelers in their new stadium, Heinz Field. When we broke the huddle for our first play, I looked across the line at their heralded rookie, nose tackle Casey Hampton. I did the math—he was five years old when I reported to my first NFL training camp.

  Man, I’m old.

  Our team must have been feeling old too. Our pass defense wasn’t nearly as strong and the offense wasn’t quite as efficient. Our record was only 5–7 when we hosted Green Bay in December. I’d begun the season at left guard and later moved to center, but by the Packers game I was back to starting at left guard. In both positions I’d struggled, at least by my standards. But in the cooler weather I finally put together a strong performance. We beat Green Bay and Brett Favre, 26–20.

  Our next game was in Oakland. In the second quarter I tweaked my groin, something I’d never done before. Neither team could get going on offense. It was still a scoreless tie when I put my helmet on and got ready to walk onto the field for our first possession of the second half.

  Suddenly a feeling of panic set in. I can’t move! The tightness in my groin had gotten worse.

  I turned to Munch. “Hey,” I said. “You better put (Zach) Piller in for me.”

  Under a light rain, I stood on the sidelines with the defense and reserves and watched my team drive down the field without me. The Raiders fans, especially those wearing wild costumes colored silver and black in the notorious section known as the Black Hole, yelled for their defense to stop us.

  Suddenly it hit me. You know what? Your body’s breaking down. This is it. This is your last year.

  During a lull in the action, I again approached Munch. “Hey,” I said. “I’m done. I’m through.” He knew what I was saying. I think it surprised us both. It was strange to say it and strange to mean it.

  On January 6, 2002, we hosted the Cincinnati Bengals in my final game. I hadn’t announced anything officially but the team knew what was happening. Earlier that week, Jeff asked me for a list of songs so his daughter could create a playlist for our pregame warmup. On game day, the scoreboard read, “Music provided by Bruce Matthews.” I’d picked songs like “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” by the Hollies, which were completely out of character for what we usually did. It was pretty funny.

  Going into the game, I wasn’t sure exactly how I wanted to end my playing career. Then, on our first drive, Steve McNair threw a forty-one-yard bomb down the left sideline to Derrick Mason for a touchdown. “Hey Munch,” I said as we celebrated on the sideline, “to have that as my last play, it can’t get any better than that.” It was my final down on offense. I still snapped for point-after-touchdowns, so my last official play in the NFL was a successful extra point at the end of the third quarter. That score gave us a 21–20 lead. Unfortunately, as had happened too often in my career, the Bengals came back with a field goal in the final seconds. They beat us, 23–21.

  As I ran off the field, I thought about how I’d been playing football since I was a little boy. It was weird to think it was over. But I had no regrets about how my career had turned out. Very few guys have the opportunity to make a career in the NFL, let alone avoid serious injury, play for great teams with great teammates, and stay in the game for nineteen years.

  I’d said it before and I’d keep on saying it, because there was no other way to describe it. I’d been blessed.

  17

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  THE BIGGER PICTURE

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  For I know the plans I have for you . . . plans to give you hope and a future.

  JEREMIAH 29:11

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  IF I NEEDED ANY MORE reminders that some things in life are more important than football, I got one just three weeks after playing my last game. I was at home after spending the day with the family celebrating Mikey’s eighth birthday. The phone rang. Dad had remarried after Mom passed away, and it was Carolyn who was calling.

  My brother Brad had just passed away.

  It was hard to believe. I knew Brad had been dealing with health issues recently—he’d had health struggles for years—but I thought he’d pull through, like he always had in the past. His body had finally worn out.

  Back in the eighties, both Brad and Ray had been doing great. They lived in adjoining apartments in Arcadia near my sister, Kristy. Ray worked in maintenance at the data-tape division of Kodak, and Brad was an assembler for an electrical company. They could read and write, shop for groceries, cook, handle their checking accounts, and get around on the city bus system.

  After work on Friday, September 30, 1988, Brad was walking to the Arcadia High School track to do his usual three-mile run. He stepped into a crosswalk and a guy driving a pickup ran a red light. The collision sent Brad flying forty feet.

  Doctors said he might not survive. They gave him twenty-six pints of blood but he never lost consciousness. I didn’t find out about the accident until after my game that Sunday—Dad didn’t want to distract me. Following our Monday practice, Carrie came to pick me up and deliver the news in person. I was driving when she told me. I had to pull off the road to compose myself.

  On my off day that week, I flew out to visit Brad. It was a tough sight. He had a halo brace around his head and a tube down his throat, so he couldn’t talk. He’d undergone a tracheotomy, a colostomy, and a gastrostomy. He was stabilized, but the accident had left Brad a quadriplegic—he was paralyzed from the neck down.

  It was such a terrible blow to a guy who already faced so many challenges. “Why, God?” I later prayed. “You’ve blessed me and my family so much. Why are Brad and Ray the way they are? What did Brad do to deserve this?”

  Our family supported Brad, as well as Ray, the best we could. Kristy visited Brad in the hospital every day for nearly a year. Carrie and I and the rest of the family came to see Brad when possible as well. Bruz and Leslie often invited Ray over for dinner and to spend the night.

  I’d be apprehensive before my visits with Brad, thinking, How is this thing going to go? I was afraid I’d see him in a bad state and not be able to encourage him. Yet by the time I had to leave, I was the one who felt encouraged. Brad always said, “I’m doing all right.” I was amazed that he wasn’t bitter, that he never gave into the temptation to complain.

  When Carrie and I talked to Brad about God, I began to understand where that positive attitude came from. In the Bible, Jesus said, “I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it” (Luke 18:17). Brad already had that childlike faith in the Lord. After the accident, it grew stronger. It seemed to me that whatever Brad lost physically, he gained in awareness of the bigger picture. He might not have been able to articulate it, but it was as if he understood that life was temporary and that, even with his difficulties, he had much to be grateful for.

  Even after doctors had to amputate his leg, Brad continued to encourage and inspire not just me but so many people he came in contact with. Once he said, “It was God’s plan for me to get injured this way.” That blew me away. I don’t know that I could have responded to so many challenges with the same level of faith and trust. But that was Brad.

  I still miss my brother today. I’m fortunate, though, that Ray lives in a group home near us in Texas. He visits us on holidays and, every couple of weeks, we’ll go to a movie or have a burger together. Whenever we see him, he’s got lots of st
ories for us. It doesn’t matter if we’ve heard them before—he’s going to tell them again. Brad was probably more in touch with his spiritual side, but Ray also has a belief and trust in God. I’m so grateful for both those guys, and can’t imagine what my life would have been without them.

  I also couldn’t have imagined what was in store for our family in 2003. Carrie and I had planned on having only six kids, but we discovered that God had a different agenda. Carrie was pregnant again.

  We were both in our forties and knew there was some risk of complications. Carrie’s bloodwork showed there was an increased chance that our baby would have Down syndrome. A doctor wanted to perform amniocentesis so we’d know for sure, but since an ultrasound hadn’t picked up any health issues, we decided against it. Even though any danger from the amnio was small, we figured the procedure just wasn’t necessary. We were having this baby and would take whatever we got.

  Not that we were seeking a special-needs child. We both prayed that our baby would be healthy, with no complications. Carrie had such peace throughout her pregnancy that we figured God had answered our prayers.

  Our seventh child—and second daughter—was born by Cesarean section on November 18: Gwendolyn Gracie Rose Matthews. It was a relief when the doctor announced that our baby didn’t have Down syndrome.

  Our relief was short-lived. Carrie asked, “Are you sure she doesn’t have Down syndrome?”

  “I’m sure,” the doctor said. “I checked the palms of her hands” (a single, deep crease in the palm can be a sign of Down syndrome).