by Tony Dungy
Lauren and I prayed about it a lot before the playoff game against Pittsburgh. After that, I was sure I wanted to come back, and Lauren wanted me to as well. We felt it was the right thing to do for our family. I wasn’t ready to give up coaching yet, and we needed to press on if we could. Within a week following the end of the season, I told Jim I was sure I’d be able to do it. I was coming back for 2006.
There had been remarkable similarities between my first few years in Indianapolis and Tampa. Both teams had shown improvement, both had stretches of great play, both had reached the playoffs . . . and both teams had ended year after year with disappointing playoff losses. Just as the Bucs hadn’t been able to get past Philly, the Colts had come up short against their nemesis, New England. The Glazers’ response was understandable, and it’s really the norm in the NFL. They decided to make a coaching change in hopes that something new and different would get the team over that hump. Jim Irsay’s response was to stand by me. He never lost his belief that we could do it. Both strategies produced the same result the following season. I don’t know what the lesson is in that, but I loved Jim’s approach. With all the disappointment of the previous year, I really needed the support of my bosses, and it was great to know that he and Bill Polian were solidly behind me.
I remained convinced that we didn’t need to change the way we did things. In the meantime, however, we were hearing talk from the experts that our “window of opportunity had closed,” that we would never win the big one. This time, I fought the urge to do what we had done in Tampa—making short-term changes in an effort to get over an imaginary barrier. We had been putting ourselves in a position to succeed every year; we just needed to play up to our potential in the postseason. But even though I knew this, I also knew it would be a hard sell when so many people were telling our players differently.
* * *
During the off-season, we lost about 40 percent of our offense when running back Edgerrin James decided to sign with Arizona. The media saw this as the latest and clearest sign of the apocalypse—the Colts were finished. Inside the building, however, we were comfortable because we had Dominic Rhodes. We also believed that in time, Joseph Addai, our new first-round draft pick, could fill the position Edgerrin had handled for six years.
Mike Vanderjagt was a free agent as well, and he signed with Dallas. Ironically, we signed Adam Vinatieri from our archrival, the Patriots, to replace him. That miss against Pittsburgh had been Mike’s last kick for the Colts, and unfortunately, even though he made so many big kicks for us, he’ll probably be remembered for the one he missed.
Throughout the off-season, Lauren and I continued to work through our own feelings of loss and grief. Grieving parents and counseling pastors had told us that the death of a child can wreak havoc on even the best of marriages, but we were bound and determined that this wouldn’t happen to us. Having said that, we quickly realized why losing a child is so hard on a marriage. No two people grieve in the same way or recover at the same rate. I don’t think Lauren had very many good days at all during those first few months, and when she would finally have one, I would be having a bad day. And different things sent each of us into tailspins. Things that bothered her didn’t always have the same effect on me, while some things that tore me up weren’t a big deal to her. But gradually, we began to have some more normal days—together. Eventually, we began to return to the days when we could just talk and interact as husband and wife.
Eric and Tiara seemed to be healing a little more each day as well. Jordan and Jade talked about Jamie the most, often asking where he was and when they would see him again. This gave us plenty of opportunities to talk about heaven and God’s gift of salvation. Although their young minds couldn’t understand why Jamie wouldn’t be coming back to see us, they could understand the concept of a beautiful place and a God who loves them.
In spite of our pain over losing Jamie, Lauren and I understood that we needed to keep living. In the summer of 2006, we went ahead with our prior plans and adopted Justin. When I see my in-laws, now in their eighties with a high schooler and middle schooler at home, I’m sure that I’m seeing my future.
Justin was born while Lauren, Tiara, Jordan, and Jade were in Pennsylvania visiting Lauren’s family. Eric and I were in Indianapolis as the team finished its off-season workouts, and we were just about to join the family in Pittsburgh when we got the call that Justin had arrived in the world.
“Tony, just go by the hospital, pick him up, and bring him to us.” Lauren tried to make it sound routine, like it was the kind of thing people do every day. She couldn’t fool me.
“What? Does that seem like a good idea?” Lauren’s plan seemed like a good idea to her, but I wasn’t so sure.
“Of course it does. It makes perfect sense.” Lauren’s calm demeanor is tough to counter, especially when she couples facts with logic. I was valiant, but I could feel defeat right around the corner.
“But he’s a brand-new baby. What if he cries or something? What do I do?”
“He’ll need three things: to eat, to be changed, and to sleep. He’ll probably sleep all the way, anyway. Just put him in the car seat and start driving. And if he doesn’t sleep all the way here, I’m sure a fifty-year-old father of five and his fourteen-year-old son can figure it out.”
Wily mothers and their logic. I’m glad Mark Merrill didn’t post a transcript of that conversation on the Web site of All Pro Dad.
By the way, I’m embarrassed to say that it wasn’t the last time we discussed the plan. I must have called Lauren back five times, trying to convince her to fly home and help me.
Justin slept the entire drive.
* * *
At the 2006 training camp, I explained our strategy to the players.
“We’re going to be fine,” I said, “as long as we think we’re fine. If we don’t, we’re going to have problems. We’re going to do what we do. Stay the course. Our biggest temptation will be to think we need to do something different.”
That year, my word picture for the players was from a story Denny Green had shared with me about quarterback Joe Montana.
Joe had been with the San Francisco 49ers for a number of years, helping them win several Super Bowls. Year after year, the team ran head coach Bill Walsh’s same offense. At the beginning of each season, Bill installed the offense the exact same way, with the plays installed in the same order. The first play he installed—every year—was “22 Z In.” Joe Montana could run “22 Z In” in his sleep.
When Paul Hackett became offensive coordinator for the 49ers, he installed “22 Z In” just as Bill Walsh instructed him. Paul realized that Joe knew more about “22 Z In” than he did, but when the meeting was over, Paul saw that Joe had taken three pages of notes. He’d documented exactly how Paul wanted to run the play, as well as all of the basics of “22 Z In” and its details. That’s what a professional does.
“That’s what we need to do this season,” I told the Colts. “You’ll think you’ve heard it all before, but you can’t get mentally lazy. We have to stay sharp and continue to work to improve—all through camp and all through the season. We are going to do the same things over and over—that’s how we are going to win.”
Then I ran through the same list of goals I use every training camp:
• Top 5 in the NFL in giveaway/takeaway ratio
• Top 5 in the NFL in fewest penalties
• Top 5 in overall special teams
• Make big plays
• Don’t give up big plays
I talked about what we had done in 2005—things we had done well and areas where we could improve. Then I gave them a copy of an article I had read in the Houston Chronicle. They had often heard me paraphrase Matthew 16:26, my favorite Bible verse: “What good is it to gain the whole world but lose your soul?” To me, one of the implications of that verse is that Christ not only promises us eternal life but also a life that’s more abundant here and now. But according to the Houston Chronicle a
rticle, many NFL players weren’t finding that abundant life as evidenced by the following statistics:
• Sixty-five percent of NFL players leave the game with permanent injuries.
• Twenty-five percent of NFL players report financial difficulties within the first year of retirement.
• Fifty percent of failed NFL marriages occur in the first year after retirement.
• Seventy-eight percent of NFL players are unemployed, bankrupt, or divorced within two years of retirement.
• The suicide rate for retired NFL players is six times greater than the national average.
“Guys, please keep this in mind: football is a temporary job. We are going to do everything we can to win, but we’re not going to ruin the rest of our lives over football.”
Then I gave them a handout I’ve given every team that I’ve coached, entitled “Five Things That May Get You in USA Today.” I had listed the five things in large print to grab their attention:
1. ALCOHOL OR ILLEGAL DRUGS
2. BEING OUT AFTER 1:00 A.M.
3. DRIVING MORE THAN 20 MPH OVER THE SPEED LIMIT
4. GUNS
5. WOMEN YOU DON’T KNOW WELL ENOUGH (OR THAT YOU KNOW TOO WELL)
I have always believed that if our players were careful in these five areas, they wouldn’t have many off-field problems.
During training camp, I read another article suggesting that the regular season didn’t matter to the Colts, that only the playoffs were important. The author said he didn’t care if we went 16–0, because it was meaningless. The playoffs were all that mattered. I held the article up in front of the team.
“Don’t buy into this trash. Everything we do matters. This kind of thinking will destroy us. We cannot have the impression that we will glide through the regular season and into the playoffs, that our wins along the way don’t matter. That is the perfect prescription for not making the playoffs. This is the kind of thinking that destroys talented teams.”
* * *
We wanted to start the season well. We knew the league would schedule the “Manning Bowl”—Peyton and the Colts against his brother Eli and the Giants—for opening weekend. Following that, we were set to play several division games. We didn’t want to dig a hole for ourselves at the start. And we didn’t.
We started 9–0, but it was different than the 13–0 of 2005. In 2005, we were playing well and winning by large margins. In 2006, we were struggling to win. We were coming from behind, sometimes on the final drive of the game. Often we were beaten statistically even though we were able to win the game. The media didn’t think we were very impressive—and they were right—but I realized that this was a good sign. We were winning games the hard way, showing character and building resolve. We were playing together, even without playing our best.
I kept telling our coaches that here we were, undefeated, and we hadn’t even played well yet. I thought we were in very good shape. Then we lost in week ten at Dallas and in week twelve at Tennessee, although both of those games were decided on the final drive. It wasn’t as if we were being beaten badly.
In week thirteen, we headed to Jacksonville. The Jaguars always played us well, and we knew we would be in for a tough day. We didn’t expect to lose 44–17, however, giving up the second-highest number of rushing yards in the NFL since 1970.
The players and coaches were stunned. We hadn’t lost a game like that in a long time, and most of the concern was with our defense. But when I watched the tape, I didn’t see anything that couldn’t be fixed. I met with the coaches on Monday morning and told them we would be fine. We just needed to play a little faster, a little sharper, a little better. No personnel changes. No scheme changes. If anything, we’d simplify things a little to make sure the defense was playing fast and carrying out the correct assignments.
I told the team the same thing on Wednesday. My talk had the same effect as the talk I gave in 2004 when we gave up forty-five points to the Chiefs: everyone in the room exhaled. Sometimes change is needed, but usually people simply need reassurance and encouragement. This was one of those times.
We split our next two games and headed into our final regular-season game against Miami. We already knew we wouldn’t get a first-round bye this year. No matter what we did against Miami, we’d have to play in the first round of the playoffs. But if we beat the Dolphins, we would at least ensure that we were number-three seed for the playoffs. Because only the top two seeds get that first-round bye, most people didn’t think there was much difference between being seeded third or fourth, but I did.
I told our guys that 2006 might be the year the third seed mattered. San Diego and Baltimore were at the top of the AFC standings, but there wasn’t a dominant team; upsets were still possible. With a couple of playoff upsets, there was a chance the third seed could end up hosting the AFC championship game. And if that happened, we wanted to be that third seed and host the game in Indy.
We came out and played well. Miami was a good test for us in many ways. They had a good defense, and their offense had really started to roll behind their running back, Ronnie Brown. We won, 27–22, and finished the year undefeated at home. Still, we had lost four of our last seven games.
None of the experts were picking us to do much in the playoffs, but I felt good about our chances. We would be getting a couple of defensive players back in time for the playoffs, including safety Bob Sanders, a physical and inspirational leader for us. He had missed eleven games with injuries that year and had not been able to play in any back-to-back games during the regular season. We weren’t certain whether we’d have him after the first playoff game, but we hoped he would at least help us get off to a good start.
We opened the first round of the playoffs against the Kansas City Chiefs, Herm Edwards’s new team, at home. Everybody outside of our building was certain that the Chiefs would be the end of us. We had had a lot of trouble stopping the run in the regular season, and the Chiefs had Larry Johnson, a big, strong back. All the commentators were having flashbacks to the Jacksonville game, especially since we were last in the NFL in rushing defense. One reporter asked me if I thought our run defense could even slow down Larry Johnson. I said that while I didn’t think we would hold him to twelve carries for twenty-five yards, I thought we’d do fine.
* * *
When the Chiefs arrived in town for our Saturday game, Lauren and I went to dinner on Friday night with Herm and Lia Edwards. The Bears had earned a first-round bye in the NFC playoffs, so Lovie and MaryAnne Smith drove down from Chicago to join us at P.F. Chang’s in Indianapolis.
Right off the bat, Herm brought up what we were all thinking: Lovie’s Bears had the easiest road in the days ahead. With a bye and home-field advantage, they were the favorites in the NFC. After Saturday, either Herm or I would still have to win two more games to get to the Super Bowl. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that either Herm or I would face Lovie and the Bears in the Super Bowl. If that did happen, we all knew the other one would be there to cheer.
After an early meal, I got up to go because it was time for both Herm and me to head back to our hotels for team chapel and meetings. They didn’t think I saw it, but I caught the look that Herm and Lovie exchanged—a look that said, Which one of us is getting stuck with the bill this time?
Herm broke up laughing as I paid the bill. He claimed it was the first time in thirty years that I had paid. Who knows—he may be right.
A free meal was the highlight of that weekend for Herm, I’m afraid. While we didn’t hold Larry Johnson to twelve carries for twenty-five yards, he ended up with only thirteen for thirty-two, and the Chiefs had only 126 yards of total offense. Our defense was stellar in our 23–8 victory—they had played better and with more energy.
In addition to our defense playing well, I was encouraged by the way we won that game as a team. Five years earlier I had stressed that every component was absolutely necessary to our success as a team. Now, on a big stage, Peyton hadn’t played particu
larly well by his standards, but our defense had stepped up to help carry us to victory. In prior years, if Peyton didn’t play well, we usually lost. This was a welcome change.
* * *
Next we headed to Baltimore to play the second-seeded Ravens. We had played them in Baltimore to start the 2005 season. Back then, the return of the Colts to Baltimore hadn’t been much of a news item. Now it was the story line.
The Colts left Baltimore in 1984 when Jim Irsay’s father moved the club to Indianapolis via a caravan of moving vans. We saw footage of those vans continuously during that weekend in Baltimore. As I watched the coverage, I noticed that while they may have been packing their belongings in the dark, it didn’t appear that they were doing it in the rain.
With this matchup being portrayed as a “revenge” game for the Ravens—the team created when the Cleveland Browns moved to Baltimore in 1996—Clyde and I wondered if we should still take our customary walk. Baltimore’s Inner Harbor is picturesque, but we weren’t sure just how worked up the fans might have become about this game. We weren’t looking for any excitement.
We decided to go anyway, and most of the people we saw greeted us and wished us good luck. And the Inner Harbor was beautiful, as always, on that unseasonably warm January morning.
The ride to the stadium was a different story. We’ve played before raucous crowds in Philly, New York, and elsewhere, but this crowd was vicious. As our bus approached the stadium parking lot, it was obvious that these fans, dressed in purple Ravens gear, were not the same people we had seen in the Inner Harbor.