by Tim Tebow
We got the ball back again with only a little bit of time left. Again, we felt like we could move the ball. We hit a few passes, things seemed to be going great, but then we missed a couple of passes. Then on a third-down play to the left that I pitched out on at the last second, I thought for certain we’d have the first down. Instead, we came up just short, and it was fourth and one from their thirty-two yard line.
It was the ballgame at that moment. Instead of trying a long field goal—it would have been a forty-nine-yard attempt—Coach called my number on a short yardage play, and Ole Miss made a great call. They slanted the defensive front right side of the line into our play call, blitzed the linebackers right into it, and blitzed the cornerback off the edge of the defense.
There might have been three or four times in my four years that I was stopped on a short-yardage play. Unfortunately, that was one of them.
To this day, I still don’t think that team should’ve beaten us or taken our undefeated season from us. And certainly not at home in the Swamp.
Some fluke things occurred that you have to attribute to our ineffective execution—like my fumbled handoff to Brandon. And Mississippi did a nice job taking advantage of the opportunities as they arose. But going into that game, we felt like we controlled our destiny, and we did, but when we arrived, we could tell that for whatever reasons we simply weren’t mentally or emotionally prepared—any of us. I can’t explain it, but I can tell you this: from my position and role on the team, I felt largely responsible for our falling short in the outcome.
Walking off the field, I couldn’t believe we’d lost. Our only stated goal from the coaches was to win the SEC East and play in the SEC Championship Game, but for us players . . . we also wanted an undefeated season, which had never happened at Florida. That was now gone—the end result of a game we should have won. We might still be able to win the SEC East, or even the National Championship, but we had a loss.
Coach Meyer’s comments to us afterward were positive, but I was struggling with the loss. The players got dressed.
I sat alone in my locker for about forty-five minutes, replaying the game over and over in my head. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. We had spent countless hours over the summer on our own, and then with the coaches in the August heat, to accomplish something that no Florida team had ever accomplished: a perfect season. Now, with an awful second half against a determined, opportunistic Ole Miss team, that undefeated season wasn’t going to happen.
Our Sports Information Department folks kept coming in to ask if I was ready to face the media. Coach Meyer sat right in front of me with his back to me and leaned back against my knee. We sat quietly for quite a while and barely spoke. I knew the media was waiting, but Zack Higbee knew what was going on and was buying extra time for me. I was still crying off and on, and when I thought that I’d finally pulled myself together enough to face the press, I broke down again. I sat there while Coach gave me a hug, doing his best to console me.
Frustrated doesn’t begin to capture how I felt, although that was part of it. I probably went through the five stages of grief a few times in that short period of time: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Initially in what must have been the denial and anger stages, I felt betrayed, that my teammates hadn’t risen to the level we needed. That we hadn’t brought a level of competitiveness, with a work ethic and game-day focus to match, to the contest that day.
The more I reflected on it, however, the feeling of betrayal faded. The problem lay with me, not them. They had all played hard, but it hadn’t been enough. The only thing I could ever control was me and my effort, and I decided that I had been the one who let us down. I took a few minutes to gather my thoughts, and then I got up and began to head out of the locker room with Coach Meyer and Zack to face the media.
In my mind I wasn’t going to make a big deal about this press conference. I simply felt embarrassed and ashamed because I felt I’d personally let the Gator Nation down. I simply wanted to make a little apology to the fans and not make a big deal out of this press conference. So I thought about how I wanted to apologize for the lack of enough effort on my part and to promise that they would see a better effort from me for the rest of the year. Finally, when Coach had calmed me down enough to go to the press conference, my parents walked into the locker room and I got emotional again . . . so we had to start the process over while Zack updated the patiently awaiting questioners that it would just be . . . another . . . minute or two.
Finally I was all set, not that I wanted to face the press or anyone else after that particular game, mind you.
As I started to apologize, I started to get a bit emotional in my remarks, and then I got fired up, because that’s how I tend to get when I’m speaking. Very passionate. What I said was from the heart; I had given it some thought in the locker room, but it was still pretty much off the cuff and right from the heart:
To the fans and everybody in Gator Nation, I’m sorry. I’m extremely sorry. We were hoping for an undefeated season. That was my goal, something Florida has never done here.
I promise you one thing, a lot of good will come out of this. You will never see any player in the entire country play as hard as I will play the rest of the season. You will never see someone push the rest of the team as hard as I will push everybody the rest of the season.
You will never see a team play harder than we will the rest of the season. God bless.
It wasn’t long before they started playing my speech on ESPN SportsCenter. My family told me it was fine. It was good—it was me down deep inside. I do remember having a few of the reporters looking at me like I was crazy. My family and I got in the elevator to go to Coach Meyer’s office, and I was covered up in the back of the elevator, hiding, because I didn’t want to be noticed in public anymore that day.
One reporter in the front of the elevator turned to another writer next to him and said, “Holy cow. How about that? I know he’s for real, but I wonder how the public’s going to take that. I think the public will kill him for that.”
Those were the first comments I heard, and I cringed listening to them.
By that night, however, the feedback I was getting was all positive. I think that people agreed with the reporter’s assessment: I was being sincere. I received a lot of calls and texts that night from people to say they appreciated it and they’re supporting me. I have always appreciated the Gator Nation; I certainly did that night. They came through again when I—and my teammates—seemed to need it most.
My comments weren’t all that big of a deal immediately afterward. I had apologized to Gator fans, and then I got more impassioned as I continued speaking. But then it started to take on a life of its own. I couldn’t go anywhere without seeing it posted somewhere or on a television screen.
I was uncomfortable watching shows where people were critiquing it. It wasn’t really meant to stand on its own for all time; it was simply an apology, and a heartfelt moment about having dedicated so much to a cause and then falling short. At some level people understood that, but I can’t say that for the next few days I enjoyed seeing it all that much.
The next day, Coach let me address the team. My comments to my teammates were similar but more intense and personal. In essence I told them I wasn’t asking them to do anything that I wasn’t also going to ask myself to do: simply, that I would be the hardest worker in the country the rest of the season and our team would be as well, if they were willing. Nothing was over. We still had a shot to go on and win and accomplish everything else we had set our sights on.
Coach Meyer changed our schedule from that point forward. In the past, we had always had a light day on Sunday and practice on Monday. He flipped it. We had an unbelievable, passionate practice that Sunday. We could all tell that this was going to be a lot different. We also scheduled a worship service each Sunday afternoon for the team and family members who could attend.
Coach Meyer later told me that receiver David N
elson went to his office after that meeting and told him that he wanted to do whatever he could to get on every special team, play on the offense, and contribute to this team in any way he could.
David and I weren’t the only ones; that loss affected everyone in different ways. But in general, afterward, without it being said, I could see that there was a fire in everybody’s eyes and that things would definitely be different. The next few teams we played were going to have to suffer some wrath. It gave you the feeling that, whoever we were playing, it was as if they had said the wrong thing to your mom. It brought everybody together and created a level of unity I had not seen before. I felt, after that, that everyone was now united with one mission and one goal, not to win the conference or the next game, but rather to win the next play. Then the next. If someone stood in our way, he was going to be overcome—physically and through our preparation, execution, and passion—and we were going to dominate our opponents every step of the game.
From that point forward, as a team, we weren’t thinking in terms of being a great offense or defense, but rather our focus was to exert our planning, ability, determination, and unified will on whoever stood before us—one play at a time. We were going to do what we wanted to do offensively and defensively, and woe to anyone who stood in our way.
As always, our signs in the locker room still read, Get to Atlanta. 47 days to Atlanta. Each day the sign was updated: 46 days to Atlanta . . .
We had a great week of practice to get ready for Arkansas on the road and started off the game that day in Fayetteville with a great first drive to quiet the crowd down a little. By halftime, we had a comfortable, if not overly impressive, 14–0 lead.
In the second half, leading 17–7, we called a play where we have one receiver run a post route (a route in which he angles toward the goalpost) and another run a wheel route (a route in which the receiver runs an out pattern toward the sideline, then curves the route further up field), Trick Right 50 Z Drive Bullet Alert Zero. (Who thinks up these names?) I dropped back and as I read the coverage, I should have thrown to the receiver running the post route down the middle, but I hesitated and tried to reset myself and throw to the receiver—Percy Harvin—running the wheel route. Not only did I throw it too late and behind Percy, and right into the hands of the Arkansas linebacker who made the interception, but I stepped back as I released the ball and somehow hyperextended my right knee.
By the time I got back to the sideline, I was hurting and furious with myself, and the coaches and everybody knew it. We got the ball back, and several plays later I hit Percy Harvin on a post for a touchdown. It might have been one of the hardest passes I threw my whole life. I stuck it right on his chest, across the goal line—I probably needed to get my emotions in check a bit—but still Percy made the grab effortlessly, putting us ahead, 24–7.
Still, I was so angry and mad at myself that I turned and walked off the field. I could see Coach Meyer watching me with a look of combined frustration and disappointment, because he could see my angry attitude. He was looking at me with his hands in the air, as if he was trying to pump up the Florida fans who had made the trip to Fayetteville. But as he did it, he was mouthing stuff to me like, “Let’s go!” and, “Get excited!”
I tried to do what he said, and so I went over to him and chest bumped him to try and see if that might work to snap me out of it, but I hit him too hard. And worse yet, I hit him in the mouth with my shoulder pads and chipped his tooth.
Now it was worse; we were like two little kids; he was mad at me even more now, walked away, and wouldn’t talk to me for the next ten minutes, while I tried to apologize, but I was still mad from the way that I was playing. If you knew what was going on—you could only laugh.
Finally he came over to me and apologized and said he loved me. I said the same thing to him. He smiled—you could see the chipped tooth. They checked out my knee, and no one was the wiser when they slipped a brace on it. First time that I’d ever worn one.
In the end, we won the game, and while I was still angry with myself, the win did help to calm me down some. But I knew that if I was going to be true to what I’d said that day after the Ole Miss game, I would have to be better.
We had a good week of practice preparing to host LSU in Gainesville, during which I worked in some rehab on my knee. Coach Meyer got his tooth taken care of. We had a good game plan, which wasn’t going to rely so much on my running. The Gator Walk— the walk from the buses through the crowd and into the stadium—was even more exciting than usual that day. I was amped all day before the game, and the atmosphere in the Swamp helped to keep me fired up all day.
On the third play of the game we were facing a third down with still ten yards to go. I think the play call was for a Far Strong Right Waggle Left Cross, in which Percy Harvin ran a deep crossing route across the middle of the field. The defensive back had pretty good coverage with inside position on Percy—between me and Percy—and so I tried to throw it over the top of the defender to Percy. The defensive back jumped, and as it went right over his hand, he tipped it just slightly and right into Percy’s arms, who made the catch and ran it in for the touchdown. Seventy yards. A perfect way to start the game.
From that point on, the whole game went well. They turned the ball over quite a bit, and we were able to take advantage of a lot of those giveaways and continue to execute flawlessly during the whole game. Percy and Jeff Demps each had a good game. Demps was definitely not playing like the freshman he was. From the standpoint of making good decisions and throwing accurate balls, making a lot of correct audible checks, I felt that was one of my better games in college. I still was able to make some plays with my speed and athletic ability, but, again, the coaches tried to limit that because of my hyperextended knee.
At the end of the day, I was still myself on the field, with the aid of a knee brace: I still scrambled for a touchdown and had some good runs, but I tried to stay in the pocket more than usual. We won the matchup of the last two national champions (we had won it all in 2006, and they won it in 2007), 51–21. That was a big win for us after losing to them the year before, especially since they still had some of those good players they’d won it all with as well as others they’d added. It kept us on track and added a lot of momentum and confidence to our promise to one another.
The LSU game demonstrated that we seemed to be growing together as a team. We were doing many more of the little things right. Fans weren’t getting my cell-phone number (always a plus). But perhaps most unexpected of all was the fact that my relationship with Coach Mullen began to change in many positive ways.
For my first two years, we’d gotten along, but it wasn’t particularly warm. For whatever reason, his comments and some of our conversations didn’t seem particularly open to matters of faith, which made it harder for us to find a connection. I’m not sure what changed going into my junior year. Maybe his faith changed, or maybe he saw my sincerity about my faith in a new light. Or maybe it was me and my attitude to the whole relationship. Maybe it was something altogether different, but he began spending time on the practice field before practice with some of the visitors who would come by to watch, and he began talking more about matters of faith. I guess God was continuing to work in our lives to grow us closer.
The week after LSU was our homecoming with the University of Kentucky, which turned out to be a special game. For our special teams, that is. We blocked their first two punts and scored after both, then scored again, and then blocked a field-goal attempt—and scored again. It was 28–0 at the end of the first quarter.
We were surprised that the score got away from them like it did. After all, we’d had the shoot-out with them just the year before. Once again, we were focused on winning every play, and we won most of them that day. I came out of the game in the second half, and Johnny Brantley finished the game at quarterback, throwing a touchdown to David Nelson, David’s first catch of the year. Final score, 63–5.
We had now played three games
after the Ole Miss game and had won all three handily. Clearly, our focus was good. We didn’t set out to score that many against Kentucky, but the score really unraveled. We have never set out to embarrass an opponent—well, in all honesty, we may very well have thought about doing that as we prepared for the next opponent during the week following that Kentucky game.
I was probably more nervous about the 2008 Georgia game than I had been in any other game that year. While I wanted to win every game, that feeling before Georgia was particularly intense. I was focused on winning to atone for the embarrassing loss of the year before and make it up to the entire Florida fan base and our team. More than anything, I wanted to win it for Coach Meyer, because I knew how hurt he had been the year before when Georgia had embarrassed us—from their goal-line antics after their first score to the result—and how Coach had taken that. I wasn’t going to let that happen again. Not to him, not to our team, not to Gator fans.
All week the players and coaches were asking Coach Meyer what we were going to do for payback. Over and over, he was asked, and every time he said the same thing: “Nothing.” After all, Georgia was really good, with Matthew Stafford, Knowshon Moreno, and others, and they were ranked number eight in the country. We just needed to find a way to win, not worry about payback.
It started close. We took a 7–0 lead, then after they kicked a field goal, they tried an onside kick, which we recovered. We took it in for a touchdown and were up 14–3. The game continued in that fashion, with us winning every aspect. We played with focus and passion. We were more physical and simply outplayed them. A couple of our defensive players came off the field saying they thought some of the Georgia offensive guys were ready for the game to end. It appeared that some of them were physically intimidated.
In the middle of the fourth quarter, we were beating them badly. Coach Meyer came up to me and said, “Timmy, I had a dream this week. I dreamt that we were beating Georgia just like we are, you were in at quarterback, you dropped back, took the ball, and threw it into a sea of red-and-black dressed fans.” I’m telling you, he really wasn’t sleeping well over the prior Georgia game.