by Tony Dungy
Simeon looked at Rod like he was crazy, clearly thinking, How can you think I’m not a great player?
But Rod had him. Simeon signed with the Buccaneers, and Rod rode him hard through camp and into the season, trying to light a fire within him and get him to play up to his tremendous ability on every play. Rod was known to take Simeon out of games and talk about his intensity, then send him back in after a few plays. Out. Then in. Out again. Then back in. Over and over.
We played a home game against Green Bay in October. It was a typical Tampa day—muggy and hot, around eighty degrees. It was a tough, physical game, and we were fortunate to grind out a win, 14–10, after Brett Favre threw incomplete passes into the end zone on the last two plays of the game. Simeon fell to the turf on his back, exhausted. He, with his teammates, had played with the every-down passion that Rod demanded, so much so that he required IV fluids after the game.
Rod ran out onto the field, exhilarated by the win and the fact that he’d gotten through to Sim after all those weeks. He stood over Sim. “Now you’re starting to understand! This—this effort—is what we’ve been talking about!”
Sim looked up and with typical Simeon Rice candor said, “If this is what it takes to win every week, I’m not sure that I want it. It’s not worth it.” Rod’s elation was immediately deflated. Eventually, though, Simeon became a player we knew we could count on.
* * *
For the fourth year in a row, we started the season 3–4. We lost to Green Bay on the road but defeated them at home. We swept Detroit but got swept by Chicago. We beat the Rams in St. Louis. It had been a roller-coaster year by the time we battled back to clinch a wildcard playoff spot during the next-to-last week of the season.
Along the way, we split with Minnesota, losing the game in Minneapolis but winning the game in Tampa. In that game we were faced with a situation in which league rules actually seemed to reward unsportsmanlike behavior.
Back then, if teams were tied for a playoff berth, one of the tiebreakers was point differential—which team had beaten its opponents by more points over the course of the season. The point differential wasn’t the first tiebreaker, but it occasionally did come into play. When we played the Vikings in Tampa, we found ourselves inside Minnesota’s five yard line with a 27-point lead and less than two minutes to play. We knelt on the ball four times, just running out the clock rather than trying to score. When we were winning with a big lead, I never liked to rub it in, especially when facing a good friend like Denny Green.
After the game, someone asked me whether I realized that my decision could cost our team a playoff spot if we ended up tied in the standings. “If the Buccaneers miss the playoffs because we refused to embarrass another team,” I said, “then it’s a lousy rule.” Fortunately, that rule was later changed, so coaches no longer have to make that decision.
I hoped, of course, that my decision wouldn’t end up hurting the team, just as I had hoped in 1997 with Michael Husted. But I believed that our principles were more important than worrying about the slight chance of missing the playoffs. I knew that if I was going to emphasize character, then I had to be willing to back it up with actions, even if those actions were difficult. Looking back, I still believe it was the right thing to do.
Although I’ve summarized our regular season in fairly short order, the season was anything but short for those of us who lived it. The NFL season lasts from July to January. It’s a long grind in the best of years. But with the rumors of a coaching change circulating, the 2001 season seemed even longer for many of our coaches and staff and their families.
Lauren was especially sensitive to the changes in the air. Although she had previously been a sounding board for the Glazers, she now heard only silence. In the past, she often came by to spend time with me and our boys, who were in my office every afternoon after school; that year she decided to stay away.
Shortly before the end of the regular season, I had just finished a workout and was drying off in the cramped coaches’ locker room after my shower. A member of our front-office staff was also in the locker room, getting ready for a run.
“Coach, I just wanted to say that I’ve appreciated seeing your witness in light of the circus that is occurring all around,” he said.
I didn’t really have a chance to reflect on my answer before I gave it, but I’m not sure that I could have improved on it much, even now.
“I think there are times when I believe God welcomes the circus into our lives to give us an opportunity to show that there’s another way to live and respond to things.”
Those words are no less true today than they were then.
* * *
Questions of faith—for all of us, I suspect—were pushed to the forefront of our lives and national consciousness by the events of September 11, 2001, just two days after we had beaten Dallas in our opening game.
The day before September 11, Jade had joined our family through adoption. When we got her, I had been so excited to think about all we could offer her as a family: love, stability, financial security. But on that Tuesday—the players’ day off and a day we coaches are normally sequestered in a dark film room preparing for our next opponent—everything changed. We usually miss news events, but that day our thoughts of the Eagles stopped as we found ourselves glued to the television screens and wondering what was going to happen. Some of the staff left early. Others of us just stayed together to watch.
Suddenly, I realized how foolish I had been to think I could provide any kind of security for our new baby. As these events unfolded, it became clear to me that only God could do that.
As the day continued, it became obvious that we weren’t going to play that week. In an unprecedented decision, Commissioner Tagliabue postponed all week 2 games, possibly to be rescheduled for a later date.
We were scheduled for a bye the following week, so we would not play again until the last week in September. By the time our bye week came along, the nation’s resolve had become firm, unified, and pointed toward getting back into a normal routine. We did not want this act of terror to have changed our daily lives. I had never before attempted to convince someone that football was terribly important in the overall scheme of life, but as we prepared for the game against Minnesota that week, I told the team that the best thing we could do for our country and to honor those who had died was to continue to do our jobs with excellence in spite of our national adversity. Our country needed a return to some sense of normalcy. We needed to get back to work—for ourselves and our fans. This was like the five o’clock bus ride, an unforeseen obstacle we would have to overcome.
I don’t remember much about that first game after September 11, but I know it wasn’t the game itself I was looking forward to as much as just being out there again and getting back to work. It had been a while since I had given much thought to the significance of singing the national anthem before a game, since it happened so routinely every week. I was usually more interested in who was performing it. But this game, I was focused on the anthem itself—the words, the music, the meaning—as much as the game. I was focused on our team standing out there, ready to go back to work in honor of our country. It was a statement to the world and anyone who would seek to harm us: You cannot stop us from pressing on.
That was one of the few games in my life that I remember little about what happened or even whether we won or lost. What I do remember is that the Minnesota fans did a great job—as did fans around the country—of supporting us, our nation, and those who had died. We were all unified in our patriotism.
I have always felt that God remains in control, despite the situations we find ourselves in, and I believed He would use the tragic events of September 11 for His glory as well. I never lost faith that God loves us. He sent His Son, Jesus, to make it possible for us to have a full and joyful life here and to make it possible for us to spend eternity with Him in heaven. September 11 made me think about that a lot; compared to eternity, worrying about things like
coaching jobs, playoffs, and even the Super Bowl didn’t seem so important.
* * *
It was week 18 of the regular season. Usually the NFL season has seventeen weeks—sixteen games plus a bye week—but the commissioner had decided to reschedule those week 2 games for the week immediately following the normal end of the regular season, pushing the playoffs back by a week. Our matchup with Philadelphia, which had been highly anticipated by the fans and media in the preseason thanks to our playoff skirmish the year before, was now virtually meaningless. Both teams had already qualified for the playoffs, and the outcome wouldn’t affect our seeding. Actually, it was beyond meaningless; we were scheduled to play the Eagles in Philadelphia the very next weekend in the first round of the playoffs. Both teams would be careful not to show anything in this game that we might use the next week, when the game actually mattered.
After our staff met, we decided to rest most of our starters and play a very vanilla offense and defense—a preseason game approach. The young guys would get playing time, and the starters would be protected from injury. We turned our attention to practice for the week.
On Thursday afternoon, January 3, I saw Rich walking out to the field. It wasn’t unusual for him to come out and watch, but this time something seemed different. He walked straight toward me. In a very soft voice, Rich delivered the message from my dad: my mom had died.
My mom had been fighting diabetes for a long time, so I had known this was coming, but I had dreaded it. And yet, it was a relief. The disease had taken a physical toll. Her body had shrunk, and she had been confined to a wheelchair, in constant pain. As sad as her death was, I was overcome with a sense of joy because I knew she was in heaven. All that hit me at once: the sadness of losing my mom coupled with the joy of knowing she was now with God, pain-free. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d experience those emotions simultaneously.
My dad was handling all the arrangements for the funeral, which was to take place the following Tuesday. I stayed in Tampa to coach our last regular season game, certain that my mom would have wanted me to. It was the first time I didn’t care if we won or lost. It wasn’t just because of my mom’s death, although that certainly put things in perspective. Rather, it was because we were scheduled to play the Eagles again in the playoffs in six days.
I later learned that Rich had a slightly different perspective on that game in week 18. We had fallen behind early, and when we did, he said to another staff member, “Doesn’t Tony realize how much harder it is to fire a 10–6 coach than one who is 9–7?” I can’t say I did, because I still didn’t think there was a chance I would be fired. So when our backup players couldn’t hold a ten-point fourth-quarter lead, I didn’t give it a second thought. I was only concerned with preparing for my mom’s funeral and the next week’s playoff game.
Throughout the course of my six-year tenure with the Buccaneers, the Glazers always flew with the team to away games. They sat in first class in our chartered 757 with the assistant coaches. Because there weren’t enough seats for all the coaching staff in first class, Rich and I always sat in the last row of coach. I liked to sit in the back so I could see all the players.
That Friday morning, Rick Stroud of the St. Petersburg Times wrote an article, quoting unnamed sources, saying that I would be fired if we didn’t win Saturday’s playoff game against the Eagles. I really didn’t worry about it, but I didn’t want the players to get distracted. So I brought the paper with me on the flight so I could talk to the Glazers. I knew I could ask Joel, given our conversation in Atlanta and his assurance then that I was their coach.
None of the Glazers was on the flight with us that day. As Lauren says, I’m very naive, but that was the first time I felt that something was going on. How could the owners not fly with us to a playoff game?
On Friday afternoon we had a walk-through practice at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. It was cold and gray that day. Warren Sapp and a couple of other players took their shirts off in spite of the cold, trying to do their part to keep the others loose and relaxed.
It didn’t help. For the third consecutive playoff game, we didn’t score a touchdown. We lost 31–9. We couldn’t make a single big play, and in the meantime, we threw four interceptions. Just like that, we were done for the season, and when we arrived back in Tampa, I wondered if those “unnamed sources” in the Times were correct.
Sunday came and went, and I didn’t hear anything that would make me think I was about to be fired. We held our exit physicals and met as a team; then the players went their separate ways. Most of them wouldn’t return until the off-season program began in March.
Rich told me that the Glazers were meeting as a family, but he thought we were going to be okay. The Glazers wanted to discuss some changes, but they were looking at continuing things for at least another year. I still had regrets about how I had handled the Mike Shula situation in 1999, so I was concerned about the kinds of changes they might ask for.
On Monday we met as a staff, reviewed Saturday’s game film, and discussed our off-season schedule.
Rich called that afternoon and said the Glazers wanted to make a change. He asked me to come to his house to meet with them.
I knew then that my time with the Bucs had come to an end. Rick Stroud’s article had been correct.
Rich lived in one of the oldest sections of Tampa, in an old, pretty home guarded by a huge oak tree in the front yard. The driveway wound around that tree, which made backing out to the street almost impossible. As I pulled up and saw the Glazers’ cars, I made it a point to note how close I was to that tree so I could avoid hitting it when I left later.
As it turned out, I was backing out of Rich’s driveway about one minute later. The conversation was short and pleasant and lasted about thirty seconds. As Rich had said, the Glazers wanted to make a change. Joel, Bryan, and Ed—the Glazers’ three sons, who had been actively managing the team that year—were all present as they informed me I was no longer the head coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
I thanked them for the opportunity they had given me as head coach. My only question was about what would happen to my assistant coaches. The Glazers said they didn’t know. After all, that would be up to the new coach. Since they had spent the last couple of days deciding whether or not to fire me, they said they had no idea yet who the new coach might be or what he would do with the staff.
Tuesday evening, after my nighttime excursion to One Buc to pack up, Lauren and I went back one more time to make sure I had gotten everything. Once inside, I suggested to Lauren that she go back outside and move the Explorer closer to the back door while I finished. The security officer who had let us in had given us some space, but I knew he was lingering somewhere nearby.
Lauren hesitated. She told me she was worried she wouldn’t be able to get back in.
I tried to reassure her. “I think you’re overly concerned.”
“Really? Your keypad code doesn’t work. The guard used his code and walked us in. And now he’s around the corner somewhere, keeping tabs. Tony, we’re not welcome here anymore.”
She did decide to go move the Explorer closer to the back door, but I knew she was right. Everything had changed.
At the end of my tenure with the Bucs, I really had no one to be upset with. The Glazers owned the team, and they had to do what they thought was best for the Buccaneers. Yes, if it were up to me, I would have preferred that Joel and I not have had that conversation in Atlanta so I wouldn’t have relied on it throughout the season. I would rather have been told that 2001 would be a make-or-break year, that we needed to advance deep into the playoffs and maybe win the Super Bowl if I wanted to keep my job.
At the same time, however, I have never lost sight of the fact that the Glazers saw me as an NFL head coach when no one else did. They gave me my first opportunity, and I’ll always be grateful to them for that. So no, there was no one to be upset with. God just wanted me to move on to a different situation. His time for me in Tampa
had been completed.
Chapter Fifteen: A Soft Landing
“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the LORD. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”
—Jeremiah 29:11
I’M A FOOTBALL COACH. I always remember this fact to help me keep things in perspective. When the Glazers fired me, I was terribly disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to stay the course with the organization we had built in Tampa. But I also recognized that I wasn’t dealing with life-and-death issues. It wasn’t as if I were helping women through high-risk pregnancies or helping people through physical problems, as my siblings were. They had what I considered to be critical jobs; I have never viewed my job as that important.
No, I am a football coach. And as a football coach in the National Football League, I know for sure that it’s going to end someday. These days, about a quarter of the head coaching jobs change hands every year, and it’s usually not pretty when it does come to a close.
At the time I was fired, I believed I would have other opportunities to coach in some capacity, but I also wondered if God might be transitioning me out of coaching altogether. Maybe God had something entirely different planned for me. One of the best things to come from being head coach of the Buccaneers was the platform it provided me to speak on topics that matter to me. I enjoy speaking, especially to youth groups, and I’ve always believed that reaching young people is something I should do. We are all role models for someone, but as an NFL coach, my sphere of influence was broader than it is for most people. Now I had to consider whether I should start to be a role model in a different way.