by Jim Trotter
No one knew how severely Junior was hurt because he never let them know. He was the leader, and as the leader he had to be there for his teammates. So he played on, keeping any pains hidden behind his smile.
12
The Trade
THE CHARGERS WERE free-falling. It was early 2003, and they had just concluded their sixth straight nonwinning season—a 5–11 finish that included nine straight losses to end the year. John Butler, the general manager who had been brought in a couple of years earlier to turn things around, wasn’t accustomed to such futility.
During Butler’s 14 years in Buffalo’s personnel department, the Bills went to 10 playoffs and four consecutive Super Bowls. Their record was 140–83. But Butler’s first season in San Diego featured no wins in November or December and no playoffs in January. Worse, coach Mike Riley had interviewed with the University of Southern California late in the year after it was apparent he would not be brought back. To Butler, a former Marine who saw active duty during the Vietnam War, that was athletic treason. He said nothing publicly, but privately he knew Riley was out at the end of the year. He had retained him in 2001 at the insistence of chairman Dean Spanos, who had promised Riley a third year on the job because there had been so much organizational dysfunction during Riley’s first two seasons. But there was no saving him after a 5–2 start became a 5–11 finish.
“It came down to one bottom line, and that was [not] winning football games,” Butler said after pink-slipping Riley. “Unfortunately, that didn’t take place as much as we’d hoped this year, and in previous years. It just became what you knew in your heart—a change had to be made. I thought this [team] was better than a 5–11 football team. Right now the only thing I have in my mind is that I want a winner, a proven winner.”
He eventually turned to Marty Schottenheimer, a respected leader who had had only one losing season in 16 years with Cleveland, Kansas City, and Washington. No coach had a better track record of quickly converting perennial losers into respected winners. In Kansas City, for instance, the Chiefs went to the playoffs in seven of his 10 seasons after doing so only once in the 17 years before he arrived. The Browns went to the postseason in each of his four full seasons, after doing so just twice in the 12 years before his first full year.
Washington was the only team Schottenheimer failed to get to the playoffs, in 2001, but that also may have been the best coaching job of his career, as he rallied the team from a 0–5 start to an 8–8 finish. Owner Dan Snyder found Schottenheimer’s run-centric offense too boring, however, and he wanted the coach to relinquish some of his authority in personnel matters. Schottenheimer refused and was fired on January 13, 2002. Seventeen days later, the Chargers introduced him as their new coach.
In San Diego, Schottenheimer made his intentions clear in one of his first team meetings. He gathered the players in the large room off the lobby at their training facility and opened the session with two questions: “What’s our purpose? Why are we here?”
Quarterback Drew Brees was among those seated in the front row; Junior was to his immediate left, with backup QB Doug Flutie to his immediate right. Brees considered himself a leader, but after spending his rookie season on the sideline, he had yet to start a game, and now he was reluctant to speak for the team and answer Schottenheimer.
“What’s our purpose?” Schottenheimer asked again. “Why are we here?”
The coach’s delivery was slow and measured, like his gait. When no one responded, his speech accelerated and his volume increased.
“What’s our purpose? Why are we here?” he barked, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. If there were two things Schottenheimer was known for, besides turning losers into winners, it was for his love of hearing himself speak and for his tendency to cry as if every speech were a Hallmark moment.
Brees could see that his coach wanted an answer, but should he be the one to give it? He squirmed in his seat and glanced around the room. When Schottenheimer loudly barked the questions a fourth time, “What’s our purpose?! Why are we here?!” Brees’s emotions took over. He sprang to his feet and shouted a response directly in Schottenheimer’s face: “To win a championship!”
“You’re damn right we are!” Schottenheimer shot back.
Brees could hear his heart pounding. Reality quickly set in. What had he done? Slowly he sat down, slightly embarrassed. A few seconds later he felt a tap on the side of his thigh. It was from Junior, who gave him a nod.
“It was one of those nods like, ‘That’s right, young buck. And I’m with you,’” Brees said. “That was one of those moments when I knew we had a connection. I knew he was behind me.”
The routine had become old hat for Junior: team loses games, new coach comes in, optimism rises. As the leader of the locker room, he knew he had to help each coach sell his program, so he would put on a positive front even when he had his doubts.
Schottenheimer simultaneously intrigued and concerned Junior. He liked the fact that Schottenheimer had a proven track record, but Junior also knew that the coach had a reputation for being inflexible and tough on veterans, even star veterans. It was said that the only thing Schottenheimer liked more than long speeches was long practices, which was something Junior never had to worry about under Riley or Jones. But Junior was willing to give the newcomer the benefit of the doubt because he was genuinely excited about the roster upgrades.
The Chargers had used the off-season to add a Pro Bowl–caliber linebacker in Donnie Edwards, a starting cornerback in rookie first-round draft choice Quentin Jammer, and a bulldozer guard in Toniu Fonoti, a second-round draft pick from Nebraska. The previous year they had drafted running back LaDainian Tomlinson and Brees with their first two picks, and Junior loved that each of these teammates was hardworking and humble.
The moves paid off early in the year. After six consecutive nonwinning seasons, the dark clouds parted as the Chargers won six of their first seven and were primed for a serious run at the division title coming off their bye week. Then they were routed at home by the Jets, 44–13, and squandered a 10-point fourth-quarter lead in a 28–24 loss at St. Louis.
They rebounded to beat the 49ers by a field goal in overtime, but the following week they were spanked 30–3 at Miami. Suddenly a sense of unease circulated through their training complex, if not the city. With three losses in four games, the Chargers were free-falling just as the Broncos were coming to town in a battle to determine first place in the AFC West.
Junior didn’t practice during the week. He was battling bone spurs in an ankle that caused him to miss two of their first seven games, including a 29–6 defeat at Denver on October 6. He was able to play only by taking pregame pain-numbing injections in the ankle, but this particular week was different. The injury was worsening, to the point that no one was sure he’d be available for the game.
On Thursday night, three days before kickoff, Schottenheimer phoned him at home. “I’ll never forget it because I happened to be sitting right there,” said Orlando Ruff, who was at Junior’s house. “Marty says, ‘Look, I really need you to play on Sunday. How does your ankle feel?’ Junior said, ‘If you’re asking me how I feel, it doesn’t really matter. If you’re telling me that you need me to play, I’ll be out there.’ From being able to barely walk during the week, he goes out and plays the entire game; not at 100 percent, but his 85 percent was better than most.”
Not in this game. Junior struggled to get around and finished with just four tackles. The only positive was that the Chargers prevailed, 30–27, in overtime. But the joy was temporary, as they lost their final four games to finish 8–8 and extend their streak of nonwinning seasons to seven years.
Butler was confounded. He had fired a coach he considered to be in over his head—Riley had had losing streaks of six, 11, and nine games in each of his three seasons, respectively, and finished his tenure with a franchise-worst .292 winning percentage—and he had brought in someone who was as close to a sure thing as you could find in the NFL.
He pondered what other changes he could make. Eventually his mind circled back to a conversation he had had with Spanos at the conclusion of the previous season.
“How would you feel about trading Seau?” Butler asked.
Spanos had been caught off guard. He knew they were talking about the face of the franchise and a public icon. Butler respected Junior as a player, but he knew Junior was getting older. Butler also knew that the younger players would never assume leadership roles as long as respected veterans like Junior and Harrison were around. He told Spanos they needed to do something dramatic to change the culture because it would take a year or two for the roots to take hold and produce a consistent winner.
“You have to do what you feel is best for the organization,” Spanos told him. Both men knew there might be a backlash from the public. Junior wasn’t a part of San Diego—he was San Diego, born and bred.
Butler had chosen not to pull the trigger the previous off-season because he believed that changing coaches and blowing up the roster would create too much turmoil in one off-season. After all, the Chargers still had to line up and play, and he wasn’t going to find replacements better than Junior and Harrison.
But he quickly began to second-guess himself when the pair was slowed by injury. Junior missed a career-high three games, and Harrison had one of his worst years while trying to play through a torn groin that should have sidelined him for at least eight weeks; he missed just three games.
Now Butler was firm in his mind that change was needed, and he was willing to take the public backlash. He had been diagnosed with lung cancer the previous summer, and the long-term prognosis wasn’t good. Feeling his health deteriorating and wanting any fallout from the move to land on his shoulders, Butler took the Chargers on a youth kick that off-season.
Never mind that in October 2000, when Junior signed a new contract extension, there was an understanding between him and Spanos that he would play only three more years, then retire after the 2003 season. Would Junior have followed through? No one knows, but it didn’t matter at that point. The Chargers were moving on.
“It was a huge decision for all of us,” said Buddy Nix, the team’s top college scout at the time. “It was a deal that we labored over a lot. The bottom line was that we were rebuilding, obviously. We were losing. Junior and Rodney were the leaders of our team, and they were getting some age on them. That’s not to say they couldn’t play anymore; they could still play. But we felt that as long as those guys were there, players were always going to look to them for leadership.
“We wanted to develop that young group with Drew and LT [LaDainian Tomlinson] and [linebacker] Shaun Phillips. We wanted those guys to develop their own leaders. It was a hard, hard decision. It was one where I thought we were going to have to have protection to get in the building. Those are icons. They’re not guys that you cut.”
Ed McGuire, the vice president who handled contracts and financial matters on the football side, phoned Junior’s agent, Marvin Demoff, and informed him of the team’s plans. He then empowered Demoff to talk trade with other clubs.
Demoff had been around the game long enough to know its capricious nature, so he wasn’t completely surprised. Junior had also had some forewarning.
He was hosting his annual golf tournament when his cousin Randall Godinet pulled him aside and said that something wasn’t right. The Chargers had purchased a foursome, but no one had showed up. It was the first time that had happened, and their absence was conspicuous.
Later in the day, after receiving the call from Demoff, Junior sought out his cousin, who was in the bar area.
“Let’s go,” Junior said.
“What do you mean? Everyone is here,” Godinet said.
“No, we gotta go now,” Junior said.
The two then hopped in a golf cart and headed for Junior’s suite at La Costa Resort and Spa. Along the way, Junior recounted what had transpired.
“My agent just got a call,” he said. “He said they’re trying to shop me around and said I’ve got 24 hours [to talk with teams].”
When they reached the room, they quickly went inside and closed the door.
“We literally stayed up the whole night,” Godinet said. “Junior was crying and everything.”
He had spent nearly all of his life within a 100-mile radius of his hometown, and now everything was about to change.
The next morning he met with Bette Hoffman, the director of his foundation.
“He looked at me and said, ‘I’m going to be cut,’” Hoffman recalled. “I couldn’t believe it. It was like a bad dream. We started putting plans together immediately on how to handle it from a PR standpoint, but he was devastated. It was like he was dead inside.”
The news stayed quiet for a day or two. When it started to leak, Schottenheimer was the first to confirm it to the San Diego Union-Tribune, following a conversation with Junior.
“Look, this is not easy for me,” the coach told the paper. “Junior Seau embodies everything you want in a player—work ethic, dedication, passion. But we felt this was something we needed to do, and we wanted to do it right. That’s why we extended the courtesy to Junior and his representative to try to see if there’s a trade that can be reached.”
The next morning Junior held a press conference at his restaurant; no team officials joined him. Local TV stations interrupted their programming, and ESPNews carried it live. Junior wore a dark blue suit, a pale blue shirt, a red tie, and flip-flops. His face was clean-shaven, his smile frozen in place. Flanked by family and friends, he knew everyone was on edge, so he broke the ice that March 15, 2003, afternoon with a joke.
“I want everyone to know that Seau’s The Restaurant won’t host The Chargers Report,” he said of the club-sponsored TV show that had aired from the restaurant the previous two years. After everyone chuckled, he got serious.
“It is true that the San Diego Chargers have advised my agent and I to . . . seek employment elsewhere,” he said. “Not by choice, my agent and I are doing so. My wish here today is that I am able to go to the market and be able to seek employment without any stipulation. The support that I have received through emails, phone calls, cards, has been overwhelming, just like it has been the past 13 years. San Diego is my home and always will be. I just have to leave for six months as a professional athlete and entertain another community.”
He added: “I do not want to turn this into anything negative . . . What we need to do is make sure we don’t turn this into something where we’re carrying a hardened heart. Junior doesn’t carry a hardened heart; that’s a waste of time. I have great faith that both parties will do well.”
Despite the conciliatory tone, Junior seethed inside. The apostrophe in his Seau’s The Restaurant logo had always been the lightning bolt found on the sides of the Chargers’ helmets. But following the team’s decision, he changed the apostrophe to a football. He was hurt and angered, not only by what had happened, but by how it had happened. For the better part of a decade, he had been the model of professionalism during difficult and dysfunctional times within the organization. He had never criticized the franchise or the front office in the lean years. He had never turned on teammates who weren’t deserving of a roster spot. Yet he did not receive a call from the owner to personally inform him of what was taking place. He felt he deserved that, at the very least.
“We used to talk about the losing,” said June Jones, the former interim coach who became a close friend of Junior’s. “He was frustrated, without question, but we used to talk about how we couldn’t let anything defeat us from within the locker room, because people were going to be eating away at us from the outside. We really talked about how to act, how to talk, what to say to the media, and how to deal with hard questions. The number one thing was, you always had your teammates’ back and you never turned on anybody in the locker room. He was a team guy.”
News of his impending departure did not go over well in San Diego.
“I’ve learned
firsthand the NFL is a business,” Harrison said. “No matter how big you are, no matter who you are, you can’t escape it. Jerry Rice couldn’t. Rod Woodson couldn’t. Bruce Smith couldn’t. Ronnie Lott couldn’t. But I’m really shocked and surprised because Junior really deserves to finish his career [with the Chargers].”
“It’s real sad to see Junior go,” said Padres baseball star Tony Gwynn. “He’s been a big part of this community. This is what they do, unfortunately, instead of being honest with him. He deserved better than that. It’s a two-way street. I’m sure he wanted to stay here, but the Chargers have to want him to stay too. For all the stuff he’s done for the community, he deserved a lot better than this.”
Once Junior accepted that he was no longer in the Chargers’ plans, he set out to quickly find a new home. His first conversation was with Tampa Bay Bucs coach Jon Gruden, but they couldn’t make it work. Then came Philadelphia. Eagles coach Andy Reid definitely was interested; he respected Junior’s game and had gotten to know him during their time together at the Pro Bowl. However, Reid had committed to another player at the position and didn’t want to renege on his word.
Arizona made a play for him, but Junior had no interest in the Cardinals. His focus was on the Miami Dolphins, who had gone to the playoffs every season from 1997 to 2001, though the team failed to get past the second round each time. The Dolphins were coming off a season in which they finished 9–7 and missed the playoffs altogether, creating concern within the organization that their window for winning a championship was closing.
The talent was there to make a Super Bowl run—they had seven returning Pro Bowlers, including six on defense—but veteran leadership was missing. Coach Dave Wannstedt and others within the organization thought Junior could provide it and began finalizing a restructured contract.