by Pete Carroll
My mother was a great influence on my values and outlook. She was a real giver, and throughout my childhood our house was always open to my friends. It was a fun stop for everyone, and it became a way station for a lot of kids as we were growing up. Some of my friends would stop by to talk with her even when I was not there. My friends and I felt close to both of my parents, and my mother especially was always available as a sounding board for whatever ideas we had. She instilled in me a great curiosity about how the world works, along with an overall sense of optimism and possibility. She used to say: “Something good is just about to happen.” I still believe that today.
My dad was extraordinarily competitive and showed that often as a boisterous fan. But when it came to me, I only had great support from him. He was smart and tenacious, and whether he was playing cards, golf, or board games, it didn’t matter—he was going to win. I did not realize it at the time, but looking back it’s obvious that’s who he was and what he was all about. I always hate to reduce people to a single dimension, but when you get right down to it, my dad was first and foremost an extraordinary competitor, and my mom was about as open and giving as someone could be.
In classic little-brother fashion I worshipped my big brother, Jim, who was five years older and would follow him around like a puppy dog whenever he let me. He was a three-sport star growing up and in high school. His friends would mentor me, and I would imitate them in everything: how they shot a basketball, threw a football, or stood in the batter’s box. Jim would go on to teach me the finest points of gamesmanship and competitive tactics that most little kids in Marin were not exposed to. By the time I entered Little League I probably had an edge. I knew how to hook slide, pop-up slide, and hit the dirt and go in headfirst. My pitching arsenal was also growing as I was taught how to throw a curveball, slider, change-up, and knuckleball, to name a few. When most kids in town were watching The Mickey Mouse Club on television, I was watching Jim and his friends compete at whatever sport was in season—it didn’t matter. I wanted to be like Jim, but I also vividly recall wanting to beat him at something, just one time. I guess I felt if I could beat my older brother, my hero, just once, I would know I could beat anybody. It seems a little over the top how hard I would try to beat them; my brother and his friends would crack up over it, and looking back, I can’t blame them.
The support that I got early in life did not come just from my family. My early coaches were also great sources of guidance and motivation. We may have been playing “little league,” but I can tell you that my Pop Warner coaches were seriously tough and demanding. Even though we were very young, they made us understand that we had to put in our best effort if we wanted to be part of the sport. All of them helped to teach me that when you are trying to do something really well, the stakes are always high: You’re either competing to be the best you can be or you’re not.
At the end of my freshman year, my high school coach, Bob Troppmann, invited me to work at his summer Pop Warner football camp as an instructor, assistant coach, and all-around helping hand. It was a huge moment in my development as a young competitor. Working and coaching the kids for a week would earn me the right to attend Coach’s two-week high school summer camp, the Diamond B, for free. I would have happily done more than that for the opportunity.
The opportunity meant a lot to me, as the Diamond B was known in our world as a boot camp for aspiring football players. And it was the real thing: The rustic setting and bare-bones facility located in the hills outside Boonville, California, was where Coach T, a proud marine, gave me my start. Coach T may not have been able to make me taller, but he definitely toughened me up. The days started with early-morning wake-up calls to the tune of the “Marines’ Hymn” and five-mile runs and included grueling two-a-day practices that would set the tone for what football was all about for me. I loved every minute of it. Looking back, I see that working at Coach T’s Pop Warner camp and participating in the Diamond B camp gave me an early start in coaching; I just didn’t realize it at the time.
Like any kid, I had heroes, and most of mine were athletes. Growing up outside San Francisco in the late 1960s was exciting, and I was interested in a lot of what was going on around us. But especially in high school, my life revolved around sports. I played baseball, basketball, and football throughout my high school years. I worshipped Gale Sayers of the Chicago Bears as one of the greatest open-field runners of all time and the NBA legend Rick Barry for his unwavering confidence and his understanding of who he was as an athlete. My favorite idol was San Francisco Giants Hall of Fame baseball player Willie Mays. Even today I feel blessed to have had the chance to cheer for Willie, one of the greatest performers of all time.
I could not have imagined back then how many of those heroes I would actually have the chance to meet and even work with someday. I had a poster hanging on my bedroom wall of Sayers and Mike Garrett from their days as star players in the NFL. If you had told me then how closely Mike and I would become connected in the years to follow, I would have called you crazy. I never would have thought that Mike would be my boss one day—as the USC athletic director, he was the one who hired me as the coach of the Trojans, and we worked together closely for nine seasons. At the time, I just wanted to play the same game they did.
During my high school years, I never lived up to my desires and expectations as an athlete even though I competed more or less non-stop. I played baseball, basketball, and football all four years, but I was never really satisfied with my play. My coaches saw my frustration. I clearly had a passion and competitive spirit that separated me from others. I was arriving early to practice, staying late, and essentially always looking to find a competitive edge. I just couldn’t seem to find one. Nevertheless, by my senior year, I was taking the field for Coach Troppmann on a steady basis. I remember one occasion that year when he put me in at quarterback late in the game against Santa Rosa High School, essentially to mop things up. In those days we called our own plays, and all the guys in the huddle were begging me to throw the ball to them. Coach T had told me specifically not to throw the ball and just call running plays. Instead I called a pass to one of my receivers and their defensive back intercepted it. On the interception return, I tried to tackle him on the sideline, but he got around me and ran in for a touchdown. I’ll always remember the sight of Coach standing over me as I opened my eyes, lying there in the mud. “Carroll,” he said, “you’re on my black list.” Eventually he let me off the hook and forgave me. To this day, I still call Coach T from the sidelines before every game we play. I don’t think we’ve missed one of those conversations in years.
What I didn’t know was that those disappointing years in high school sports would prove to be invaluable when I entered the coaching circuit later in life. When I left Redwood High as an eager seventeen-year-old graduate, a career in coaching was the furthest thing from my mind. I wanted to be a player, and after a long wait, my body was finally starting to catch up.
With aspirations of still making a significant mark as an athlete, I entered junior college at the College of Marin to improve my game as a football player—along with my grades, which were less than stellar coming out of Redwood. At Marin, at long last, I started to become the player that I always had hoped to be and I started to get recognized. After two years at Marin, I was awarded a scholarship to play safety for the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California. At the time, UOP had a reputable Division I football program under Coach Homer Smith and, in my final year, Coach Chester Caddas. It was a dream come true for me. In a two-year career at UOP, I received recognition as an All-Coast and All-Conference player—the first time since before high school that I had received recognition for my play. It was a chance to reclaim my personal identity as a real athlete and performer, and I will forever be grateful to Pacific for my days playing there. The opportunities I had there literally changed the direction of my life forever.
My career as a UOP Tiger may not have propelled me into the NFL to
play alongside personal heroes like the guys on my wall, but it did open important doors for me. From Pacific, I was invited to training camp with the Honolulu Hawaiians of the World Football League. I recognized from the beginning that it was a “world” away from the real thing, but here was a chance to play professional football. Instead of having training camp in the team’s home city or some other exotic place, we were relegated to hot and smoggy Riverside, California, but I didn’t care. Although it was going to be difficult to break in, even to this league, I was determined to make the most of it. I resolved to put everything I had into that fall camp.
Unfortunately, I would be disappointed. Due to an NFL players’ strike just two weeks into my tryout with the Hawaiians, WFL rosters across the country were suddenly jammed with NFL players looking for work. These guys were literally in a different league, and competing with them was going to be close to impossible. Combine that unlucky timing with a nasty shoulder injury in practice, and it was all but inevitable that my professional career would be brief.
The beginning of the end of my professional career actually came on our very first day of practice. The coaches had me playing at free safety, and in spite of the fact that we were not playing in full pads, I was ready to prove that I could tackle and hit wide receivers harder than anybody there. As that first practice continued, I was gaining confidence and having a blast. During our final team period of the day, the offense completed a pass down the sideline and I moved aggressively to cut off the receiver. Just before the goal line, I was about to hammer the receiver, but he stumbled and I dove over him instead, landing hard. It seemed as if it were all in slow motion, and I can still hear my shoulder crunching as I hit the turf.
The trainer diagnosed me with a mild shoulder sprain, said I was okay, and ordered a few days’ rest. As soon as he agreed, I was back on the field competing for a roster spot. I was far from being healed, and in hindsight I can see that maybe it was a mistake, but at the time I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything get between me and my dream.
Unfortunately, I was already going against better players than the ones I had played against at Pacific. With my shoulder banged up, I lost the punch I needed to strike receivers and tight ends the way I knew how. They just weren’t going down as easily as they had back in college. Two weeks into camp, in what ended up being my final practice with the Hawaiians, a golden opportunity presented itself. The tight end ran a beautiful corner route, and just as he was about to make the catch, I jumped to knock it down. I fell a few inches short and he ended up scoring a touchdown. As he was making the catch, something inside of me said, Pete, this may be your last play as a professional. I wish that voice had been wrong.
Early the next morning, the administrative assistant for the Hawaiians knocked on my door and said, “Coach needs to see you. . . . And bring your playbook.” I walked toward the head coach’s office, knowing my fate, and I sat down expecting to meet him. Rather, one of the assistants was there to greet me. “Pete, we know you’re a really good player, but with your speed we think you’re not going to be fast enough, so we’re going to release you.”
I was crushed by the news and to this day it still bothers me. I had worked so hard to beat the odds, and then, just as I was making my way toward competing at an elite level, my career was over. It all seemed to happen so fast and I was devastated. I have never completely accepted that it didn’t work out for me as a player, and to this day I still wish I could suit up. I really do think that if there was a professional league for “old guys,” I would go for it in a second. Maybe that chip I had on my shoulder as a kid has never gone away.
After being released, I went back home with absolutely no plan. I never dreamed I would get cut, and I think I was probably a bit in shock about it. As I thought about what would be my next move, a man who had seen me compete for two straight years came calling, and that call changed my life forever. It came from Chester Caddas, one of my head coaches and early mentors at Pacific. When he heard that I had been cut from the Hawaiians, he offered me the chance to come back to the UOP program as a graduate assistant coach to further my education and pursue a master’s degree. He gave me a shot at a coaching career and I took it before he had the chance to change his mind. My playing days had ended, and instead of my finding a career, my career had begun to find me. The education and development behind my coaching officially began that day and in the words of my mother, something good was just about to happen.
2
LEARNING TO COACH
My three years studying and working for Chester Caddas at the University of the Pacific brought experiences and lessons that I never could have anticipated. There were challenges and setbacks, but they helped me understand new ways to compete. I was still bothered about not being able to take the field as a player in the way I’d imagined and expected, but at Pacific, both as a young coach and as a graduate student, I was learning faster than ever before.
It didn’t take long before I was competing as intensely and passionately in my new role as I ever had on the field as a player. Academically, I was focused on two objectives: to earn a secondary teaching credential that would qualify me to teach and coach on the high school level, and to take classes in a master’s program in physical education. My studies led me to my first encounter with sports psychology and performance. The lessons I learned there have become invaluable to me as a coach. The opportunity to be a graduate student while coaching Division I football was one of the greatest experiences I could have had at the time.
When I wasn’t consumed by my coaching responsibilities, I found myself immersed in the teachings of various psychologists and authorities on sports performance. Many of these have influenced my personal philosophy and approach ever since. I will always be grateful to Professor Glen Albaugh, who taught sports psychology and served as one of my academic advisers. Dr. Albaugh challenged our class with ideas that transformed forever the way I looked at performance, competition, and coaching.
Abraham Maslow was the first of the big thinkers introduced to us by Dr. Albaugh. Maslow conceptualized a school of thought that emerged in the 1950s as a new, more positive way of thinking about the human personality, its potential, and its needs. He worked until shortly before his death in 1970 and produced a huge body of writing, including some of the early foundations of what would grow into the self-help movement. His classic book Toward a Psychology of Being became a foundation for me. I am not sure I would be the coach, or the person, I am today if I had not been exposed to Maslow’s principles.
He illustrated the “hierarchy of needs” and the concept of “selfactualization,” which left a lasting impression on me. In a nutshell, Maslow said that humans have categories of needs and that these needs—from basic survival to love and friendship—are arranged not randomly but according to a specific order, like a staircase or a ladder. More important, they can only be truly satisfied in sequence. Unless you are able to meet the needs on a lower step, you cannot successfully address the needs on the next step up.
Maslow’s sequence begins with physical needs, such as food, water, sleep, etc., and goes on to include less basic needs like safety, community, and love. Someone dying of starvation, Maslow liked to explain, is unlikely to be thinking about love—while someone who is drowning will probably forget about how hungry he is in a hurry. Like so many great discoveries and insights, a lot of what Maslow said seemed like common sense once he pointed it out.
The top level of Maslow’s ladder is what he called the level of self-actualization. This is the level where a person’s basic needs have all been met to the degree where he or she is liberated to go out and make an impact on the world.
It is also the point where people, in a host of different ways, begin to strive to be the best people they can possibly be. When we reach this level, we can begin to have access to what Maslow called “peak experiences,” or moments of great happiness and high performance. At this point people can begin to actualize moments of f
ull potential.
From a coaching perspective, one aspect of Maslow’s findings influenced how I looked at players. Maslow is widely considered to have been the first psychologist to study happy, healthy people—from regular folks to extraordinary minds like Albert Einstein. He wanted to understand how they were able to be happy and successful in their lives. I was intrigued by that thought and would begin to look at my players with that new perspective.
What I learned about Maslow’s insights challenged me to start asking: What if my job as a coach isn’t so much to force or coerce performance as it is to create situations where players develop the confidence to set their talents free and pursue their potential to its full extent? What if my job as a coach is really to prove to these kids how good they already are, how good they could possibly become, and that they are truly capable of high-level performance?
As an athlete and a young coach coming from a conventional football background, this concept did not just challenge my early beliefs about coaching—it changed them forever. Maslow was thinking about individual development when he was writing, but the implications for team sports and leadership in general could be groundbreaking. I had grown up in the world of traditional football, where this kind of thinking would have been laughed right out of the locker room. But for some lucky reason Maslow’s teachings sank in and stuck with me as I moved on in my coaching career. Clearly, as a coach, I wouldn’t be able to control every aspect of my players’ lives, but Maslow started me thinking about the entire notion of leadership and motivation in a new way.
At Pacific during those times, winning wasn’t exactly a given. But I kept asking myself, What if players were able to perform exactly how they envisioned themselves performing?
Fortunately someone with an answer to that question came to visit our class. His name was Tim Gallwey, author of The Inner Game of Tennis. Tim, who later became a personal friend of mine, captured my attention instantly. He spoke to us about performance and how an athlete can elevate his performance by mastering the art of playing with a “quieted mind.” Tim’s insights would be as important to my outlook in the years ahead as any other single influence.