by Tony Dungy
Fortunately, I had warned our guys about this. I knew we would see the WWE wrestling-style introductions, with their defense coming out through smoke to whip the crowd into a frenzy. But eventually there would be a kickoff, and it wouldn’t matter how much the crowd was pumped up. The crowd wouldn’t be playing. After the opening kickoff, this was going to be a normal, sixty-minute game.
It was, and we controlled it. Baltimore had the league’s top defense, so our offense wasn’t able to get many big plays. We had a number of solid drives but had to settle for field goals. For the second week in a row, however, our defense played lights out, and we led 12–6 in the middle of the fourth quarter. We had the ball and were trying to run out the clock. We relied on our run game and held the ball for over seven minutes, throwing just one pass. We took the clock down to 0:26 as the Ravens called their last time-out.
We faced fourth down from Baltimore’s seventeen yard line, and I had a decision to make. I had been thinking about this moment for the entire drive, knowing it might come to this. If we ran the ball again but didn’t make the first down, they would have to go more than eighty yards to score. But we only had a six-point lead, and a fluke touchdown would beat us. If we kicked a field goal, the game would be over. They wouldn’t be able to score twice in the last twenty-six seconds to overcome our nine-point lead. But disaster could still strike if they blocked our field goal attempt and ran it back for a game-winning touchdown. It was not unthinkable. Ed Reed, one of the Ravens’ great players, had blocked many kicks in his career.
We had the best kicker in the game, Adam Vinatieri. Still the memory of my decision to kick deep to New England’s Bethel Johnson in 2003 flashed through my mind. I’ve learned that our past often prepares us for the future if we allow it to. God provides us with opportunities to learn from those things that have happened to us. I remembered the New England game in 2003, and I remembered Herm’s “Miracle in the Meadowlands.” Did I want to give the Ravens that remote chance to score quickly? People sometimes ask me if I pray during the games. I certainly do, and this was one of those instances where I prayed for wisdom.
I decided to kick the field goal. Situations like this were exactly why we had signed Adam. He nailed the kick, tying a playoff record with his fifth field goal of the night. It was not until the next day, when I was watching the film, that I saw how close Reed had actually come to blocking it. Adam had gotten the ball up quickly, just over the tips of Ed’s outstretched hands.
The flight home after a road win is always fun, but this trip was extra special. We were headed to the AFC Championship Game again, even if we didn’t know who our opponent would be. We enjoyed celebrating on the plane.
* * *
The following afternoon, Lauren, Eric, and I were at home watching San Diego host New England. This was when that third seed might mean something. If the Chargers won, we would travel to San Diego for the AFC Championship Game. But if fourth-seeded New England won, we would host them here in the RCA Dome.
San Diego did some uncharacteristic things during that playoff game—going for it on fourth and long instead of kicking a field goal and passing when they usually would have run—things that were different from what they would likely have done during the regular season. Late in the game, the Chargers’ Marlon McCree intercepted a pass that should have ended the game, but after being hit, he fumbled it back to New England. Watching the action, I kept thinking of the number of times I’d told our team not to do anything different in the playoffs. Marty Schottenheimer was San Diego’s coach, and he prepares as hard as anyone I know. Marty, just do what you do, I thought.
It seemed like poetic justice, though. Somehow I knew that if we ever reached the Super Bowl, we’d have to do it by beating New England. Besides, I really wanted to play the AFC Championship Game in front of our fans in Indianapolis.
The buzz around town began as soon as New England upset San Diego, 24–21. Lauren and I took the kids to Chuck E. Cheese’s after the game, and fans spotted us. “Coach, we’re hosting the AFC Championship Game!” and “Can you believe we’re playing New England again?” Indianapolis was alive all week.
Chapter Twenty: Race to the Super Bowl
And what do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul?
—Matthew 16:26
DAVID AND GOLIATH. I thought about that Bible story as I prepared for Wednesday’s team meeting before our game against New England.
Even though we had beaten the Patriots during the season, I anticipated that we would hear all the reasons we couldn’t do it in the playoffs: that was the regular season, but this was the postseason, where they play so well and we struggle; Bill Belichick and Tom Brady have never lost a conference championship game; they’ve got so many trophies and playoff wins; and on and on. Again, I reached back and drew on my mother’s teachings with an apropos word picture for the team. Most of the Colts had heard the story of David and Goliath before. I wanted the players to remember three things that week.
First, the past had prepared us for what was to come. Although he was only a boy, David tended sheep and protected them from lions and bears. Unlike the Israelite soldiers, he didn’t worry about Goliath’s size or reputation. He saw the giant through God’s eyes, as just another adversary. We had played three difficult games in the last three weeks—Miami, Kansas City, and Baltimore—and we had won each by playing as a team. We were playing well and had already beaten New England twice in a row, once this season and once last season. God had prepared us with situations both on and off the field, and we shouldn’t be intimidated by their reputation. No fear.
Second, King Saul tried to outfit David with armor, a helmet, and a sword. But David wasn’t comfortable. “I don’t know how to use these; I know how to use my slingshot.” Similarly, we weren’t going to do anything differently to beat the Patriots. We were going to play our same defense and run our same offense. Do what we do.
Third, once he hit Goliath in the head with the stone, knocking him to the ground, David didn’t take any chances. He took Goliath’s sword and cut the giant’s head off. Although the analogy isn’t politically correct in this day and age, I wanted to make sure that when we got to that critical point in the game, our guys finished the job. I told them to get their swords ready.
My basic message was nothing different than it always had been, just a different way of getting them to remember it. I gave the team one final thought.
“People will tell you that in the playoffs we have to ‘raise our game to another level,’ whatever that means. The perception is that New England does this, and that they have such success in the playoffs because they do something special or better. But here’s the reality: New England does so well because in the playoffs they play exactly like they play in the regular season. Smart. Energetic. Passionate. Disciplined. And then when the other team gets uptight and self-destructs, New England keeps doing what they do. They play the same—day in and day out, play after play after play. Now we have the opportunity to match them, to avoid self-destructing and do what we do to the end of the game.”
At our evening meeting on Saturday, I outlined the things we do well and what we needed to do the next afternoon. When I finished, Jeff Saturday, our center and a leader of the team, asked if he could say something. I was happy for him to address the guys.
“We have eighteen guys still with us from the 2003 AFC Championship Game,” Jeff said. “Now we’re getting a second chance. The other thirty-five players from that team are not with us, and they undoubtedly wish they could be here in the conference championship game. This is our team and our time. I know we’re going to get it done.”
* * *
The atmosphere in the RCA Dome was electric. After we took the field, the game immediately began like every other playoff game had begun against New England. I had already warned our guys that the Patriots might take some chances to score points early since we had scored a fair amount on them the last two times out. Sure enoug
h, on a fourth down near midfield, when they might ordinarily have punted, they went for it instead, and Corey Dillon broke a long run. Three plays later they fumbled, but the ball went right through our hands and into the end zone, where it was recovered by one of their offensive linemen for a touchdown. We got ourselves in range and kicked a field goal, but then they drove right down the field for another touchdown. 14–3. In our first two playoff games we had not given up a single touchdown in the first half. Now New England already had two.
On the ensuing kickoff, we flirted with disaster when we fumbled, but we were able to recover the ball. We were not playing sound football.
Two plays later, disaster did strike. Patriots cornerback Asante Samuel intercepted Peyton Manning’s pass and returned it thirty-nine yards for a touchdown. 21–3. The crowd was stunned. It was like every other playoff game against New England. So far.
Before the game, I had been in the locker room watching Lovie Smith’s Chicago Bears play the New Orleans Saints in the early game, immediately before ours. When the Saints fell behind by eighteen points, I said to myself, That’s three scores; this game’s over, and headed out to our warm-up, feeling that the Bears were definitely going to the Super Bowl with that kind of “insurmountable” lead. For some reason, the fact that we were now trailing by eighteen points and needed three scores ourselves didn’t seem a hopeless situation. The irony of that didn’t hit me until much later.
Although the crowd was stunned, our players did not seem to be. I don’t know exactly why, but I knew Jeff Saturday had been right. We were still in the second quarter, and while 21–3 was not where we wanted to be, we could score quickly—like many times in the past.
I went over to the offense before the kickoff and told them not to get their heads down. “Last night Jeff said it was our time. It’s still our time.” They all nodded. “We’re going to win this game.”
We took the ball and marched down for a field goal. The score was 21–6 at the half.
In the locker room at halftime, I said, “Guys, we faced the same situation—against this same team—in 2003, right here in the same dome. The only difference is that we were down by twenty-one points then. Now we’re down by only fifteen. We came all the way back in that game and had a chance to win from the one yard line on the last play of game. We’re going to be in that situation again. So get your sword ready because this time we’re going to win.”
I really believed we were going to win, and my team knew I believed it.
We scored a touchdown to start the half. 21–13. We got the ball back after a New England punt, drove down the field again, and scored another touchdown. 21–19. Ordinarily, I would have just kicked the extra point, given all the time that remained. But we had practiced a two-point play, and we thought we could execute it against the Patriots. After a quick prayer, I decided I’d rather play from a tie. Our two-point conversion worked. 21–21.
This was a great comeback, but the tie didn’t last long. New England ran back the kickoff eighty yards and scored five plays later. 28–21.
We drove right back down the field ourselves. On their two yard line, our running back Dominic Rhodes fumbled, and the ball went into the end zone. Jeff Saturday fell on the ball for the tying touchdown. This game was certainly different: two touchdowns on fumble recoveries by offensive linemen. 28–28. It was our time.
We traded field goals, and then New England kicked another to take a 34–31 lead with 3:49 left in the game. New England had the ball and needed only one first down to ice the game. Uncharacteristically, they made a mistake on that critical play. They had twelve men in the huddle—an automatic five-yard penalty. They were unable to get their first down and punted it back to us with 2:17 to go.
Every quarterback dreams of being in a situation like this, and Peyton met the challenge. He marched us down to New England’s two yard line. Along the way, Reggie Wayne fumbled after catching a pass during the drive. I didn’t see it; I was focusing on a flag thrown by the official in the backfield, away from Reggie. But I heard the collective gasp from the crowd. Moments later, I saw the replay on the scoreboard screen as the ball shot straight into the air in the middle of four Patriots, only to be plucked from the air by Reggie as he was being pulled down. We would have gotten the ball back anyway, since the penalty was on New England. Somehow this felt different than all the other games that had ended in disaster. It was our time.
Finally, we faced third down with 1:02 remaining. If we didn’t score a touchdown on that play, we would still have fourth down to kick a field goal and tie the game.
I thought back to all the practices and all the times we’d come up short against New England. I thought about a year earlier, at 12–0, when Jamie asked if he could be with me on the field at the Super Bowl. The sharp pain of his death struck again, but I forced myself to return to the moment. I tell guys to hang on to memories but to live in the moment because we never know what will happen down the road.
I refocused. Right now, at this moment, I told myself, we’re here. Have faith. Faith in our guys. Faith in the journey. Faith in the practices, principles, and priorities that got us here.
Faith in God, who had carried me through, both personally and professionally.
I was sure we would score.
Peyton took the snap. Jeff Saturday had a great block on their nose tackle, and a hole opened up like a path in the Red Sea. Joseph Addai carried the ball into the end zone. 38–34. The giant was down on the ground. But we knew the game wasn’t over yet. The Patriots needed a touchdown, and they still had a minute left. Our Colts fans were caught up in the drama and intensity of the moment. The dome had never been louder. Even so, on the sidelines I heard our defensive players tell each other, “Get out your sword.” It was time to finish off the giant.
Our defense took the field. The Patriots were moving the ball. Tom Brady dropped back to pass and fired the ball, and nickelback Marlin Jackson intercepted. With the clock at 0:16, the giant was down—and out.
People expect that winning the Super Bowl would be the bigger high, but for me this day was it. To finally win a conference championship. To know that we would finally have the experience of playing in a Super Bowl. And to have done it right there, at home in Indianapolis in front of our Colts fans. What a game. What a victory. What a feeling.
Confetti was everywhere—in the air, in our hair, on our clothes. Lauren and I stood on the podium with other Colts, watching the trophy presentation. All over the field I could see our coaches and their wives, our players and their kids, our staff and their families. “We’re going to the Super Bowl.” Unbelievable.
No one had left the stadium yet. I know. I checked the corners.
Standing on the podium, I had about two minutes to think. So full of emotion, I was having trouble grasping our achievement. I thought of how we had lost to the Patriots to end our season in 2004. And 2003. Losing 41–0 and not being in-your-face enough. Cleaning out my office in Tampa, wondering if I’d ever coach again. Not getting any interviews in 1993. Being traded from the Steelers to the worst team in football. Lauren. My children. My parents. Jamie.
A long journey.
The Lord had made this journey so awesome, even with all of its disappointments. It was incredibly emotional, thinking about all we’d come through together.
For me, it wasn’t even the Super Bowl itself that was uppermost in my mind. It was the thought of the journey and the way we had persevered through it all. Not giving up. Staying the course. The phone calls from Chuck Noll and Dick Vermeil saying, “Don’t throw in the towel on what you believe in.”
Coach Noll had always told me, “Being stubborn is a virtue when you’re right; it’s only a character flaw when you’re wrong.”
Through all those years, I had believed that the principles I was holding to were right, that the way I wanted to build a team and win was good. So many people had told me I couldn’t get where I wanted to go while doing it the way I thought it should be done. T
hrough it all, however, I had stuck to my principles—and getting to that point with my team was deeply rewarding.
On the podium, CBS broadcaster Jim Nantz asked me how we were able to come back and win the game.
“We have a great group of guys who are very unified,” I said. “But I think God orchestrated this in such a way that we can’t take credit for it. We just want to thank Him for giving us the strength to persevere.”
Then he asked me what I thought about facing my close friend Lovie Smith in the Super Bowl.
“I’m so proud that Lovie is taking the Bears to the Super Bowl as well,” I said. “And meeting him there will make that game extra special. But this moment is about us: the Colts and the fans in Indianapolis.”
Indianapolis was wired, and so were we. Thirty of us went to dinner, and the restaurant stayed open for us until four in the morning. We sat there together, our extended family—children and all—talking and laughing, enjoying the moment and all that it meant.
* * *
Some people say it’s a letdown to finally reach a destination, but for us, reaching the Super Bowl was even more exhilarating than I had anticipated. That may be because it hadn’t really been my focus. All along, my focus had been on doing things the way I thought was right—walking where I felt the Lord was guiding. Sure, I absolutely wanted to reach the Super Bowl, but I always tried to keep that goal in its proper place in my life. With the Lord beside me, I felt certain that whatever was supposed to happen was going to happen. He didn’t call me to be successful in the world’s eyes; He called me to be faithful.
I was bound and determined to stay with our schedule. On Monday, the day after the AFC Championship Game, the coaches met to watch our game film as we always did. On Tuesday, we put together our game plan. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, we reviewed our game plan with the players. It was work as usual. Then I gave everybody the weekend off. I didn’t want anyone to be at the Colts facility on Saturday or Sunday. Jordan and Jade had weekend basketball games at the YMCA, so we took those in as a family. It was the first weekend off for our team in more than three months.