by Tony Dungy
The teaching that week was from Ephesians 5:25. We promised to memorize this verse from the New International Version:
Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself for her.
I have additional notes written beside the verse: “Identify ten specific ways to show love to your wife—formulate them along with her.” “Love and don’t be harsh,” which was my paraphrase of Colossians 3:19—“Husbands, love your wives and never treat them harshly.”
Finally, my notes contained this, which makes so much sense theoretically but is always so difficult to balance: “How would your business do if you spent the amount of time on it that you spend on your wife and family?” It’s remarkable how, as we worked through the Bible that year, certain verses seemed to come up at particularly appropriate times.
Although we had spent our whole married life in the ultracompetitive world of professional football, Lauren and I had always tried to view it through God’s eyes. As much fun as it was to be winning, we tried not to get caught up in it. We knew that our family life and our faith walk were more important. Fortunately, we both had great training from our parents as well as from the pastors and chaplains we had been exposed to over the years. And Lauren has always made it a point to help me see what is really important and to keep my job in the right perspective. I know that’s why God brought us together.
The competing views of success in our world often create an interesting tension. Society tends to define success in terms of accomplishments and awards, material possessions, and profit margins. In the football business, winning is the only thing that matters.
God’s Word, however, presents a different definition of success—one centered on a relationship with Jesus Christ and a love for God that allows us to love and serve others. God gives each one of us unique gifts, abilities, and passions. How well we use those qualities to have an impact on the world around us determines how “successful” we really are.
If we get caught up in chasing what the world defines as success, we can use our time and talent to do some great things. We might even become famous. But in the end, what will it mean?
What will people remember us for? Are other people’s lives better because we lived? Did we make a difference? Did we use to the fullest the gifts and abilities God gave us? Did we give our best effort, and did we do it for the right reasons?
God’s definition of success is really one of significance—the significant difference our lives can make in the lives of others. This significance doesn’t show up in win-loss records, long résumés, or the trophies gathering dust on our mantels. It’s found in the hearts and lives of those we’ve come across who are in some way better because of the way we lived.
* * *
I will never forget my first time in the playoffs as a coach. I’ve gone other times since then, but none of the subsequent trips has been able to duplicate the feeling of that first playoff run. It was a new experience for so many on our team. We had coaches who had come straight from college football and many first- and second-year players. Most of our veterans had never experienced a playoff run. This was all new for the city of Tampa as well; the Buccaneers hadn’t been in the playoffs since 1982.
Our first playoff game was also the final game in the old Tampa Stadium. It was an unforgettable evening. Our players were eager to play the Lions again, and they were ready for Barry Sanders. Our defense swarmed all over the field—holding Sanders to sixty-five rushing yards and the Lions to only seventy-eight passing yards. As I looked out onto the field midway through the fourth quarter, I realized that with the way our defense was playing, the Lions wouldn’t be able to catch us. The player we had “settled for” in the 1996 draft, Mike Alstott, carried the ball for a thirty-one-yard touchdown run to ice the game.
We had won the last game in Tampa Stadium. After the game, our players ran around the field with Buccaneers flags. Brad Culpepper and others went up into the stands in full uniform to mingle with the crowd. It was bedlam. After I gave my interviews, Lauren drove us home, although many of the fans hadn’t yet left. Others were still in traffic on Dale Mabry Highway. Lauren rolled down our windows and began honking the horn, yelling, “We won! We won a playoff game! We’re going to Green Bay!”
I was mortified. “Lauren, stop! I’m the coach—we can’t be doing that!”
“I can, and I will!” Lauren kept honking and yelling, and even I started waving at the fans, who were nothing short of ecstatic. We all were—it was a great feeling.
Yes, we were headed to Green Bay, the defending Super Bowl champions, for the second round of the playoffs. The Bucs had never won a game in which the temperature at kickoff was less than forty degrees. And we had lost to the Packers four straight times. Considering all this, we certainly were a confident bunch.
When the game got underway, we started slowly. Then Trent Dilfer threw two interceptions, and we rushed for only ninety yards. We lost 21–7. What a disappointment. It was an unsatisfying, empty ending to an otherwise great year. We flew home, still proud at what we had accomplished, but our emotions were in the valley.
When we arrived back at One Buc, there were people everywhere. The Bucs fans had been awaiting our arrival for hours. Our buses actually had to park blocks away, so we walked through the crowd, interacting with our fans. It was the perfect finish to a magical year. It was a good reminder to appreciate the joys of the moment—there would be time later to focus on improvement.
We were obviously building the team the right way and could see our progress. At the end of our first year, the players dumped Gatorade on me after our 6–10 finish. This year, following a playoff loss, the crowd of fans was so large we couldn’t get into our facility. We were left to wonder, What will it look like when we finally win it all?
* * *
The 1998 off-season gave us a chance to continue adding depth to our defense and speed to our offense. We added Jacquez Green out of Florida with our first pick, which was actually in the second round. We picked Brian Kelly from Southern Cal as well. He remains a defensive standout in Tampa to this day.
We also saw an opportunity to build on some of the support we had enjoyed in Tampa ever since we had first arrived. We wanted to benefit our community more intentionally. Our quarterbacks coach, Clyde Christensen, attended church with Mark Merrill, a Tampa attorney who had started an organization called Family First. Clyde and I had both grown up with very involved parents, and we were both sensitive to family issues. A year earlier, Clyde had arranged a meeting between Mark and me so we could discuss ways that NFL coaches could assist people in their most important coaching roles—as parents.
We were meeting in my office just before the start of the 1997 season when I realized it was time for me to pick up ten-year-old Jamie from school. I apologized for cutting the meeting short. Mark later said that seeing me head off to pick up my son was more affirming for him than if we’d met for another hour. To be fair, picking up the kids was not the norm for me. Most days, my job was dropping the kids off at school, and Lauren would pick them up. For whatever reason, however, I had to get Jamie that day—and it was the start of a great partnership with Mark Merrill.
In the summer of 1998, Family First launched a new program called All Pro Dad. Clyde and I promoted the program, and we helped Mark host an event at the Bucs training camp. Fathers brought their children and interacted with them at the camp; then we presented specific principles they could apply to being better dads.
Clyde even helped Mark design a T-shirt for the event. A few years later, Clyde was wearing the T-shirt at the office. Nate Webster, a linebacker out of the University of Miami—a refreshingly candid person—stepped back to read Clyde’s shirt. After he had read through the “10 Ways to Be an All Pro Dad,” including things like “Love Your Wife,” “Be a Role Model,” “Show Affection,” “Eat Together as a Family,” and “Pray and Worship Together,” Nate said to Clyde and me, “I need one of those shirts. I don’t do any of
those things with my kids!” He really took the message to heart.
I hope All Pro Dad has touched many fathers and, by extension, their wives and children. I hope we’ve been faithful in using our platform as professional football coaches to strengthen our community.
* * *
If the 1997 season was my favorite, the 1998 season might be the one I found most frustrating.
The year started with great promise. We were coming off the magical 1997 season, and the new Raymond James Stadium was spectacular. Before the season began, I had the privilege of participating in its inaugural event. Even today, one of my favorite memories of my time in Tampa was Bryan Glazer’s excited phone call informing me that the stadium’s first event had just been scheduled: a Billy Graham crusade. He knew I would be excited too, and I became even more excited when I was asked to share the stage with Dr. Graham and welcome the crusade to Tampa. Hearing Dr. Graham speak was awe-inspiring.
Dr. Graham’s messages are always so straightforward and to the point—I think that’s why they’re so powerful. God’s gift to us is free and can’t be earned. If you believe that Jesus died for your sins, you can live forever with Him in heaven. No matter what has happened in your past, that free gift is offered to you. That was it. So simple. So clear.
When Dr. Graham finished, he invited everyone in the stadium to come and accept God’s free gift of a life-changing relationship with Christ. People began streaming down every stairwell—they kept coming and coming and coming. I had never seen anything like it. Watching what God can do through a simple message shared by such a humble man, I was overwhelmed almost to the point of tears. It wouldn’t be the last time that happened to me in that stadium.
As for football, we had improved from 1996 to 1997, and we should have kept improving in 1998. Instead, we finished 8–8 with the most inconsistent playing of any team I’ve ever fielded. We’d play well one week and badly the next. Our problems weren’t only on one side of the ball. Our defense alternated between hot and cold performances. Our offense scored in bunches one week and then suffered through droughts. We had lost to Green Bay six times in a row, then finally broke that streak by causing eight fumbles and sacking Brett Favre eight times. We handed 15–1 Minnesota their only regular-season loss. But we also lost to a 6–10 New Orleans team, twice to Detroit, and to Jacksonville when we blew a fourth-quarter lead.
We headed into the final game with a record of 7–8. If we won at Cincinnati, and if Arizona lost to San Diego, we’d be back in the playoffs—barely. We went on the road and finally put together a complete game, beating the Bengals 35–0. I was proud of our team.
We were now relying on the San Diego Chargers, who had only five wins that season, to get us into the playoffs by beating Arizona. We watched the beginning of the game at the airport on the overhead televisions. Some of the guys clustered around tiny handheld televisions. We hung on every play.
When our plane took off, San Diego was poised for a comeback win after being down 13–3 in the third quarter.
A short time into our flight, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Air Traffic Control knows whom I have onboard the aircraft this evening, and they wanted me to tell you congratulations on today’s game.” We all sat breathlessly. “They have also passed along the scores from the late afternoon games, including Arizona, who kicked a field goal on the last play to beat . . .”
I didn’t hear the rest, even though our plane was deathly quiet.
What distinguished the 1997 team from the 1998 team was not those two extra wins that put us into the playoffs. The 1997 team was simply a better steward of its opportunities. Every team has its own unique set of dispositions, gifts, talents, and opportunities. What they all have in common, however, is the ability to control what they do with those dispositions, gifts, and talents when the opportunities come along.
The 1997 team was younger, with less depth and game experience. The 1998 team filled in some of those holes and was a year more ingrained into our system. On paper, the 1998 team was the better team. But our 1997 team stretched itself and achieved its potential; the 1998 team was inconsistent and squandered chances. I still believe what I told the team the day after the finale against Cincinnati: “We have a good team, but we didn’t take advantage of the opportunities we were given all year long. That’s why we had to rely on someone else. We cannot do that again.” The same is also true for each of us as individuals.
That, to me, is where we find the best definition of success. We’re not all going to reach the Super Bowl or the top of the corporate ladder, but we each have a chance to walk away from something saying, “I did the ordinary things as well as I could. I performed to the full limits of my ability. I achieved success.” Under that definition, a 5–11 team might actually be more successful than a 14–2 team.
Someday I might coach another team that needs to win its final game and needs help from another team to get into the playoffs. That won’t be a problem for me as long as the team has played to the limits of its abilities and has fulfilled its potential. Our 1997 team played to—and beyond—its potential. Our 1998 team did not.
Chapter Twelve: Hurricanes and Tornadoes
Excellence that feels it has to be proclaimed, by the mere fact of its proclamation admits the doubt of its existence.
—CleoMae Dungy
WE WERE DISAPPOINTED that we had missed the playoffs, but we soon found ourselves with an excellent scouting opportunity. In those days, the coaches from two of the teams that just missed the playoffs—one team from each conference—coached one of the all-star squads in the Senior Bowl—the college all-star game held each year in Mobile, Alabama. The Buccaneers were the NFC representative in 1998, so my assistants and I went to Mobile for the Senior Bowl just a few weeks after that flight back from Cincinnati. The coaches are with the players in meetings and on the practice field. This gave us significant opportunities to evaluate each player in a variety of settings. In contrast, coaches from the other clubs are relegated to scouting from the stands and interviewing the all-star players during the evenings at the hotel.
With this firsthand background information, we had an excellent draft. In the first round at number fifteen, we were faced with a choice between the best two defensive linemen in the draft, defensive end Jevon Kearse of the University of Florida and defensive tackle Anthony McFarland of Louisiana State. We already had a solid defensive line, but since our entire defensive philosophy was predicated on pressure from the front four, we wanted to add even more depth to that group.
Both defenders had unusual nicknames. Kearse was called “The Freak” in college because of his extraordinary physical abilities. McFarland had been nicknamed “Booger” as a small child by his mother because of his rambunctious behavior. After considerable debate, we selected McFarland. Even though he was a bit undersized for the position, my assistant coach Rod Marinelli and I were convinced he was a high-motor guy who would make up for any lack of size with his remarkable speed and hustling attitude. We also knew more about McFarland than about Kearse because we had coached him for a full week. Kearse was selected by the Tennessee Titans one pick behind us at sixteen, and they were thrilled to get him. They knew he was an excellent pass rusher from the right side, approaching a right-handed quarterback from his blind side.
In that draft, we took four players we had seen at the Senior Bowl. Booger McFarland, Tulane quarterback Shaun King, and Florida State safety Dexter Jackson had all played for our team; Martin Gramatica, a placekicker from Kansas State, had played for the other team. We caught some criticism for drafting Martin in the third round, which is pretty high for a kicker, but a year later, those critics got off our backs when the Raiders picked a kicker in the first round. That wasn’t the only time we picked a player before our critics believed he should have been drafted. However, I always keep two things in mind: First, selecting players is obviously an inexact science, as indicated by the number of “busts” through the years—players who di
d well in college but poorly in the pros. Second, it’s more important to get the player we need when we believe we need him than it is to be concerned about being “right.” Despite the criticism we received following the draft, all four players we selected paid immediate dividends for us that season.
Even though Booger McFarland was a great player for us and a critical part of our defense, I’m sure it was tempting for some analysts to play “what if” with our selection, especially when Kearse led the AFC in sacks his rookie year. But I had learned from Coach Noll that there’s no value for the coach in second-guessing the picks after the draft. Once a player joins our team, our priority is to teach him, not worry about the player we didn’t select. We do our homework before every draft. We evaluate our past choices and learn from our experiences. After the draft, we move on and do the best we can to teach whomever we have before us.
My mom and dad would agree with this approach.
* * *
By the time the 1999 season arrived, our guys were focused and determined to work toward meeting their potential as individuals and as a unit. The start of the season, however, didn’t exactly point toward greatness.
We opened at home against the New York Giants and beat them about as badly as you can beat a team without actually winning the game. Our defense held the Giants to 107 yards of total offense. We allowed them only one first-down conversion out of the fourteen third-down plays they ran. We held them to twenty-seven yards rushing on twenty-four attempts, an average of just 1.1 yards per carry. But with a fumble and an interception return, our offense gave up two touchdowns. So much for our basic tenets of focusing on the giveaway/takeaway margin and not giving up big plays.