The Score Takes Care of Itself

by Bill Walsh

  Personally, when I sensed from time to time that our team or staff was getting comfortable, I wasn’t afraid to exercise whatever acting skills I could summon. During a practice that was lacking high energy and laser-like focus, I might suddenly just let my emotions boil over, throw down my clipboard, chew out an assistant coach (they knew what I was up to), and exhibit the emotions and language I’d seen Pete Newell display so effectively: “I can’t take this anymore! We’ve got to pick it up or I’m gonna make some changes here, because this has got to stop!” The players didn’t even know what “this” was. It didn’t matter.

  What I was doing in that instance was for effect, something to shatter their comfort zones. Having jarred their attention, given them a jolt, I’d get right back to business. Rarely would I get personal or do any damage. It was a somewhat contrived outburst that served like the snarl of a tiger when you get too close to its cage. Used sparingly, it is an effective leadership tool.

  The people around you must feel somewhat on edge with you at times because they know there’s another side of your personality—ill at ease because they don’t always know what to expect and have come to understand there’s a toughness within you. Ideally, those you lead are driven to excel by the expertise, example, inspiration, and motivation you offer—the Standard of Performance you define and personify—but sometimes you have to snarl to remind them of the consequences of straying from your standards.

  This is part of the tough (at times severe) side of leadership necessary to eliminate a comfort zone, which can creep into an organization and keep it from pushing on to higher and higher levels. One of the tools I used to accomplish this was to emulate Pete Newell—to shake things up with a somewhat contrived show of temper that comes from nowhere and disappears just as quickly.

  There are times, of course, when a snarl must be replaced with a bite, when you are not acting, but instead taking serious action. One year during practice at our training camp in Rocklin, California, a rookie lineman, a muscular and swaggering guy trying out for the squad, broke through the offensive line and got to Joe Montana. At that point, he knew what to do, namely, nothing. You do not make contact with our quarterback during practice drills or plays.

  This fellow didn’t follow the rule. Apparently to show us what a great tackler he was—or maybe he was just stupid—he proceeded to deck Joe with a vicious hit. It’s not overstating it to say this guy put our whole season on the line for an instant. I fired him right there, before Joe even got back up on his feet. “Get that son of a bitch out of here,” I yelled at an assistant coach. “Right now. Don’t even let that son of a bitch take a shower!”

  Sometimes you snarl; sometimes you bite; sometimes you smile and give a thumbs-up. There’s a little bit of the actor in all good leaders.

  Play with Poise

  Leadership requires poise under pressure. An organization that wit nesses its leader at loose ends when troubles arise will look elsewhere for strength and direction. Knowing in advance what I would do in various situations—for example, scripting a game—was insurance that I could stay poised when it counted. Here’s a good example of how it stabilized my thinking and behavior in a high-pressure, pivotal game that was played under arctic conditions and afforded the winner a trip to the Super Bowl.

  The 49ers had arrived in Chicago during an arctic cold-snap to face the Bears at Soldier Field in a game that would decide the NFC championship. Local fans and media had started proclaiming the Bears “the Team of Destiny” because, after preseason media reports suggesting the team was fading, they had gone 12-4 during the regular season.

  Having won Super Bowl XX three years earlier, they were now a game away from a return trip, and Chicago had begun to celebrate early. Why? Because their opponents were coming in from the West Coast, meaning they were “wine-sipping, Brie-eating, effete athletes,” as one popular Midwest image of the 49ers had it. Adding substance to that characterization was our tough 10-9 midseason loss to the Bears in a game at Chicago.

  During the warm-up in freezing conditions, Chicago’s big and seemingly less intelligent linemen were parading around in short shirtsleeves and strutting their stuff like tough guys. Some of the 49ers looked over and wondered, “What’s wrong with them? They’re gonna freeze to death.” But the posturing continued, a little psychology to intimidate or embarrass us. (The previous season, in San Francisco, the Bears had lost to the 49ers 41-0. Immediately after the final gun, Mike Ditka, a tempestuous, in-your-face coach, had reacted to our cheering fans by hurling his gum into the stands on his way to the locker room. Of course, he got three hundred pieces of gum thrown right back at him. Somebody even filed assault charges for being hit by Ditka’s wad of gum. The Chicago media, of course, played this up in the days before our NFC championship game.)

  Now I was in Chicago with their screaming fans, the wind howling with a twenty-six-below-zero windchill and the entire season at stake. In addition to all the play-off pressure and other distractions, there was this: Right behind our bench was a Cyclone fence holding spectators back. Standing at the fence was an inebriated Bears fan with a big megaphone that could have called across the Great Lakes. The guy had picked his spot carefully, because his plan was to ride me mercilessly during the game.

  Before it even started, he was shouting through his megaphone, with the volume turned up, about my anatomy, which he decided was not adequate for most males. He questioned my sexual preferences, with accompanying speculation. This went on and on—really crude stuff, but as the game progressed and it got colder and colder, his mouth began to freeze up. He’d try to say, “Walsh, you’ve got a big fat a-a-a-a-a-sssssss,” until finally he couldn’t even talk any more. You would think I could tune out somebody like that, but it’s tough. It was just another factor that could easily have interfered with my focus and decision-making abilities. It didn’t.

  We had a well-designed game plan with thorough contingency options that were right in front of me on my clipboard. We stuck to the plans, because there was no way I could consistently make intelligent and rational decisions with the freezing wind, the noise, the cold, the megaphone man, the Bears’ great team, and sixty-seven thousand fans bearing down on us.

  We won 28-3, and I defy anyone to think they’re so strong, so able, so gifted they can make clear-cut good decisions in the middle of that kind of pandemonium under that kind of stress.

  The San Francisco 49ers had talent and were well schooled. Neither matters if the person in charge falters or fails when it matters most. Having a clear idea of what your options are—situational planning—helps you be a leader when leadership is required.

  Two weeks later, we won Super Bowl XXIII.

  Teaching Defines Your Leadership

  People say there are winners and losers in life. But typically, it’s more like this: There are winners, and there are people who would like to be winners but just don’t know how to do it. Intelligent and talented people who are motivated can learn how to become winners if they have someone who will teach them.

  Leadership, at its best, is exactly that: teaching skills, attitudes, and goals (yes, goals are both defined and taught) to individuals who are part of your organization. Most things in life require good teaching—raising a family and educating children, running a company or sales team, or coaching athletes—so it’s unfortunate that more people don’t spend the time and thought required to do it effectively.

  I was fortunate in this area, because I learned through the observation and study of tremendous teachers. Consequently, when I look back on my years as an assistant coach and head coach, what gives me great satisfaction is not necessarily a Super Bowl championship or an award, but the experience of recognizing ability in a person and then teaching that individual how to reach his potential in ways that helped our team.

  That process—seeing someone I had evaluated, selected, and taught break out and do great things—is what it’s really all about for me, the source of my greatest pleasure in leader
ship. In my experience, this is what it takes to be a good teacher: passion, expertise, communication, and persistence.

  1. Passion is not just having a desire to do the job of teaching.

  Passion is a love for the act of teaching itself—believing in your heart that it is not a means to an end, but an end in itself. In order to have passion, you must love the topic you teach. My love of football and teaching it is so strong that when I was a coach it became hard to shut my mind off and think about something else.

  I might be half asleep or dreaming, or talking to someone, and my mind would drift away from the conversation and a play would take shape in my mind. I could see all twenty-two players moving in response to what I had drawn up.

  Diagrams of plays kept flowing through my head—the X’s and O’s, the lines and arrows going through my mind constantly, like a computer’s screen saver where the objects keep changing shape and moving around.

  Once during a get-together with friends, I was sitting on a couch in front of the fireplace with my arm around my wife, Geri. Unconsciously I began diagramming a passing play on her shoulder with my index finger while carrying on a conversation with someone across the room.

  After a while, Geri looked at me and asked, “Honey, did it score a touchdown?” I didn’t know what she was talking about until she told me; I didn’t know I had been drawing a play on her arm with my finger. That’s how much I love it; that’s how much you need to love teaching your team. It is not a duty or burden that you get out of the way so you can move on to “important” things. It is the important thing.

  For me it was a fundamental source of personal joy. I was consumed by the process of developing the abilities of others. You do it because you really care for it; you do it because you have to.

  2. Expertise is the inventory of knowledge and experience you possess on a particular subject.

  You’re not necessarily born with it; you develop it, research it, thrive on learning as much about your subject as you possibly can.

  The greater your expertise, the greater your potential to teach, the stronger and more productive you can be as a leader. Without it you are disabled and will garner less and less respect from your team because they will sense that you’re not on top of things, let alone able to teach them something meaningful. People know when you don’t have the answers.

  Here’s a good rule of thumb: “The more you know, the higher you go.” To advance in any profession, I believe it is imperative to understand all aspects of that profession, not just one particular area: Only expertise makes you an expert.

  When assistant coaches approach me and ask, “Bill, what is the best route to getting a head coaching position?” I tell them they must expand their base of knowledge and develop their inventory of skills and profi ciencies in all phases of the job: “You may be an offensive coordinator and making more money than your offensive line coach who’s reporting to you, but unless you know offensive line coaching, he’s the de facto offensive coordinator. He determines your fate, because he knows more than you do.”

  Your team will sense it, that you are not as knowledgeable in what you do as you should be. They will sense that you don’t have the answers, that you lack a strong understanding of the “how” of doing things. When this occurs, they will not follow you.

  A teacher gains expertise by seeking out great teachers, mentors, and other sources of information and wisdom in a relentless effort to add to his or her own knowledge. My teachers—outstanding in their own particular ways—included John Ralston at Stanford; Al Davis at Oakland (and by default, the great Sid Gillman under whom Al had served in San Diego with the Chargers); the Bengals’ Paul Brown; Tommy Prothro of the San Diego Chargers; Bob Bronzan, my coach at San Jose State, where I was a wide receiver; and others who showed me the value of teaching and how to do it. (In business this means actively seeking the counsel of those you respect in your profession, as well as studying printed material and publications that you determine will provide pertinent input.)

  3. Communication is the ability to organize and then successfully convey your informed thoughts.

  Many mistakenly believe that just presenting facts—information—is teaching. Successful teaching is a two-way process. Just as a pass is not successful until the receiver catches it, successful teaching requires reception, retention, and comprehension of your message. Some teach by word, others by deed—their example is the teacher. The best teaching uses both forms of communication, word and deed. And in all situations, enthusiasm for the subject matter is what powers the communication connection to those you teach.

  I have spent literally thousands of hours in front of an overhead projector diagramming and explaining plays to a bunch of easily bored athletes sitting on hard metal chairs and taking notes in a dimly lit room with bad ventilation. This can get dull fast, even if you’re the player in the diagram who’s going to be carrying the ball for a touchdown.

  To me, the intricacies and potential of each individual play were exciting; each one was like a ten-thousand-dollar Rolex watch with unique, highly crafted, and precision-made features that I cherished. I wanted to convey my sincere enthusiasm and real excitement to the players.

  I did it with facial and body language—moving assuredly and with energy, rubbing my hands together as if I were savoring a fine meal. And I did it with an enthusiastic tone of voice and positive words. The goal was to get the team as enthusiastic and excited as I was about the play’s potential. I couldn’t do it by reciting information as if I were reading from a phone book.

  Here is a list of descriptions I used to set up and create excitement for seven different plays during a presentation in preparation for a game with the Dallas Cowboys:• “Guys, this one should knock ’em on their asses!”

  • “Now, here’s one I think is almost perfect for us.”

  • “I think we’re gonna have some fun with this one. It’s a beauty!”

  • “Fellas, this next one should score. No question about it.”

  • “Here’s one play that is really just excellent. Forget excellent. It’s better than excellent.”

  • “This one will work just great. You’ll see why right now.”

  • “Oh, boy, this is terrific. Just look at what this one does!”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Each one was something special, with its own special introduction and personality. Other teams might use just a number to identify a play. My plays were never just numbers to me, and I didn’t want them to be just numbers to our team. They were distinct entities with personality, character, and potential of their own. Never a number. They were my children, and I bragged about them like a proud parent.

  After presenting the details of a specific play, I’d repeat a variation of my opening observation: “I’m telling you, we could have a five-hundred-yard day!” or, “Wait’ll they see this one coming. They won’t know what hit ’em!” I started and finished my description with nothing but optimism, enthusiasm, and belief. Never a caveat, no “ifs,” no hesitancy.

  My body language and positive words were never contrived, phony, or overdone. I genuinely had great affection—love, in fact—for what I was teaching. But X’s and O’s, squiggly lines, and squares and circles with arrows pointing in various directions can be boring, even deadening when presented without energy and enthusiasm. I wanted to convey to the team that what I was offering them was alive, that it had magic in it. I made sure my demeanor conveyed that; I showed them I really cared. You must do the same if you want to light a fire in those you lead.

  Your enthusiasm becomes their enthusiasm; your lukewarm presentation becomes their lukewarm interest in what you’re offering.

  I came to understand over my years as an assistant coach that when the audience is bored, it’s not their fault. And when they’re plugged in and excited, it’s because of you, the person in charge.

  4. Persistence is essential because knowledge is rarely imparted on the first attempt.

  One of t
he keys to successfully executing the complexities of the West Coast Offense was my devotion to the principle of persistence.

  We did the same drills over and over again; I said essentially the same thing over and over, discussed the same information, concepts, and principles over and over. Gradually, my teaching stuck. Eventually, successful execution became almost automatic, even under extreme duress, because like air, my teaching was everywhere.

  While passion, expertise, communication, and persistence are the four essentials of good teaching and learning, I would also add these nuts-and-bolts practices to facilitate what you do as a leader who is a great teacher:1. Use straightforward language. No need to get fancy.

  2. Be concise. For many leaders it’s harder to be brief than to be long-winded. We love to hear ourselves talk.

  3. Account for a wide range of difference in knowledge, experience, and comprehension among members of your organization. For me it could be seen in the way I communicated one on one with an experienced superstar such as Jerry Rice or a first-year offensive guard who was learning the ropes of our system. This difference in content depending on whom I was talking to and in what circumstance was always factored in to my teaching.

  4. Account for some members of the group being more receptive and ready to learn than others (for reasons out of your control).

  5. Be observant during your comments. Know if you’re connecting.

  6. Strongly encourage note taking.

  7. Employ a somewhat unpredictable presentation style. “Droning on” is the most common style, and you may have to work on stepping it up so that you don’t fall into the “drone trap.”

  8. Organize with logical, sequential building blocks in your communication.