While he’s gotten better, that doesn’t mean guys still don’t fear the hell out of him. One day, one of our linemen, Grey Ruegamer, flipped his truck on Route 3 in New Jersey. It was a terrible wreck that closed Route 3. Not a pretty picture. Grey was so petrified of being late for one of Coughlin’s meetings and having to deal with the wrath of Tom, he had the tow truck drive him directly to the stadium. And Ruegamer wasn’t some rookie, either. He’d been in the league for nine years.
Some head coaches in the NFL have gotten calls in the middle of the night and driven out somewhere to help a stranded player. Former Falcons head coach Jim Mora, Jr., has done that for guys. The entire locker room loved him for the fact that they knew he was there for them. They weren’t afraid to mess up and be human.
In my opinion, the perfect head coach is that approachable, like that uncle who you always knew you could go to if you were in trouble. He’d help you out.
At first not only did we think Tom wouldn’t help us, but that he’d be the first one calling the cops on us. Tom needed to get the players to buy into what he was preaching before we’d run through walls for him. That’s what coaches like John Fox, Lovie Smith, Tony Dungy, Sean Payton and Bill Belichick do. Andy Reid makes you crave his approval. Jeff Fisher makes you feel like crap if you let him down.
On the other extreme, coaches like Joe Gibbs, who have that old-school style, don’t often have the connection with the locker room they need today. When Pro Bowl safety Sean Taylor got hit with a DUI, Gibbs immediately punished him without waiting to find out if he was guilty or not. As it turned out, he wasn’t. He was completely exonerated. So how do you think Taylor and others in that locker room looked at Gibbs at that point? Legend or no legend, today’s player doesn’t care about your pedigree.
Players believe in the coaches who have our best interests at heart. When coaches rip into their players, guys feel ashamed. For letting Foxie down. Ashamed for disappointing Lovie. I can’t tell you how many players I speak to are forever loyal and grateful to Belichick and Parcells for not only teaching them about football, but for caring about them off the field, and for teaching them how to handle their lives. They’re teachers of life lessons.
This is where today’s NFL coaches make a difference, especially with young guys or guys without father figures while growing up. I liked Tom enough that I truly did not want him fired at the end of 2006. I’m sure some guys did, but I absolutely did not. We’d spent the past three years learning to respect each other.
NFL players fear the unknown. Who knows what a new guy would have done had he come in here? Who knew what kind of whip he would crack or if a new coach was a good coach or a better coach? Now that I was truly happy with my hard-ass coach, I didn’t have to go through the whole get-to-know-you phase all over again.
I can’t believe I’m actually writing this, but I want to end my career with Tom Coughlin. I want to learn more about him. Watch him crack that exterior even more in 2007. Then finally, I’ll walk into the sunset with him as the last head coach of my career.
Before this turns into a lovefest for Tom, we still have that little matter of my tardiness on the morning of October 20, due to that stalled vehicle in the Lincoln Tunnel. Remember what I told Tom that day? That if I knew I was getting fined anyway, I would show up whenever I wanted?
For the record, I had my best game of the season that Monday night against the Cowboys. I terrorized Bledsoe like I knew I would. And then Tony Romo, after Bledsoe got benched. Obviously, missing that meeting did not affect my game. Regardless of how well I played, and despite having my best game of the season, the day after that game, I received a letter at my locker from Tom that read:
Dear Michael,
This letter is to formally notify you that you were late for a team meeting on October 20, 2006. Unexcused late reporting to any mandatory team related activity is a violation of the New York Giants 2006 Rules, Regulations and Maximum Club Discipline Schedule. For such action the Club hereby fines you $1,500.00.
Please be advised that any repeat violations may result in increased fines and/or suspension for conduct detrimental.
Sincerely,
Tom Coughlin
Head Coach
Later that afternoon, Mr. Sincerely, Tom Coughlin, Head Coach, sent one of his assistants over to talk to me about being late. I cut the coach off in mid-sentence, proclaiming, “Look, Coach, either he’s going to fine me or lecture me, I’m not getting both.”
With that I walked away. I guess it’s all part of the Tom-Michael relationship now. Fine me for being three minutes early, we have a problem. Fine me for being late. If I deserve it, I’ll take my medicine like a man. As a veteran, at least I’d been around long enough to know that I could play the role of diplomat.
CHAPTER SIX
Behind the Locker Room Doors
The peanut butter and jelly sandwich was just itching to bust through the gap. Just begging to launch itself through my two dearly distanced front teeth. My eyes bulged in anger, but it was the freakin’ sandwich everyone will remember. Why in the hell would I ever put a sandwich in my mouth before taking a stand at my locker to berate a throng of media people, in front of cameras no less?
What would possibly possess me to stuff a half-eaten sandwich in my mouth, then come out with a verbal assault? What was I thinking?
What ticked me off so much? The now infamous incident when a reporter took quotes of mine made on the radio and tried to create a rift between me and Plaxico Burress. It was alleged that I said on my radio show that Plax is a quitter. Man, I know the man isn’t a quitter. He’s too good a player to be remembered as a guy who gave up on a play. What I said wasn’t with the intent of implying he was a bad guy or a quitter. I simply stated that the play in question—a play in which he slowed up on a route and then made a halfhearted attempt to tackle “Pacman” Jones of the Titans after his interception of an Eli pass—was not indicative of the pride he has in being the player he is.
I don’t think it bothered Plax at first. He knows how I feel about him. But when the entire thing escalated, I think Plax felt obligated to get mad and defend himself. He needed to save face in the eyes of the public. As if we needed any more controversy in this place, we just got some, courtesy of my big mouth and a really bad play.
So I sought out Plax privately: “I know you’re not a quitter. If I felt you were, I’d tell you to your face.”
As the two of us sat in the hot tub together before practice (with shorts on, I must stress), I told him I would never beat around the bush on something like that. He didn’t say anything except, “All right!” All he kept saying was, “All right!”
The next day he went out and told the media that he told me if I had something to say, I could say it to his face. I had no problem with his saving face, but I don’t remember that conversation ever actually taking place. Once again I wanted to clear the air, so I approached him again in the trainer’s room. This time I told him if he had something to say, let’s clear the air. I wanted to move past this thing. I didn’t want to get into a pissing contest with him. All he said was, “No, I’m cool, I’m cool.”
After few days of him avoiding me, Plax finally said, “You know what? All is good now, Michael. To be honest with you, it kind of stoked my fire.”
What most people don’t know about me and Plax is that he is actually one of my best friends on the team. As far as who I interact with, I go out of my way to hang with Plax, joke with Plax and talk to him every single day before each practice. The two of us soak together (again, with shorts on) and we sit and talk about pretty much everything going on in our lives.
It hurt me that I hurt a guy like that. It upset me that a guy I truly cared about was stung. Inside our locker rooms there are only a handful of guys you get close with. A handful of others you have no idea who they are because they either just got there or are about to leave. The rest you hang with loosely. Plax was one of the guys I was tightest with.
When
he first came to the team, he arrived with the reputation of being a troublemaker. Word was he was not a good teammate. One day, early on in the relationship, I walked past him and said, “What’s up, Plax?” He just ignored my pleasantries and kept walking, so I burst out with, “What’s the matter? You’re not going to speak to me today? I’m just being nice and you can’t say hello?” He finally responded with a casual, “Huh? Oh, what’s up?”
I don’t think anyone ever came at him like that. I’d cracked the exterior. Of all the guys in the locker room, he’s one of the last ones I expected to become close to, but we ended up being that friendly. Go figure. An NFL locker room is a funny thing. Our locker room is its own wild little community consisting of an entirely unique set of social rules and norms.
Think about it. We’ve got fifty-three guys, and five more on the practice squad, all forced to look at each other every single day. We practice together, travel together, work together, meet together, eat together, fight together, cry together, and shower together for at least six months a year, maybe longer.
We’ve got big farm boys fighting alongside inner-city guys. We have Ivy Leaguers befriending those who majored in eligibility or who got the big boot from school. Different races and religions, Republicans and Democrats, even a few anarchists, all bonded together for one common cause—fighting for that beautiful, elusive ring. We become one united world under the Lombardi Trophy.
We sweat together, we stink together and we sit in big vats of ice together. Imagine sitting waist-deep in an old bucket of ice with another grown man. You know what true trust is? Trust is that he won’t piss in that tub with you.
Our locker rooms are like the jungle. Instead of eating each other for survival of the fittest, you’ve got the lions hanging out with the antelopes and the hippos. Not only do we not eat each other, we vigorously fight for the other animals in our jungle. Sounds funny but we are absolutely that much different.
I grew up as an army brat. While many of these guys have grown up knowing only one kind of person, I moved a lot and lived on an army base in Germany and came across a terrific array of nationalities and beliefs.
When I sit back and think about it, 98 percent of the guys I play with, if we didn’t play football together, I’d probably never find myself hanging out with. We’d have nothing in common.
What sense would it make for me to hang out with a big farm boy like our former left tackle Luke Petigout from Pennsylvania? But I worked out with him every day and actually enjoyed it.
This is where football is great. If the rest of the world could follow the lead of an NFL locker room, we wouldn’t have three-fourths of the wars that plague our planet. The Middle East leaders should all be thrown together in an NFL locker room, forced to do the same things we do, and I guarantee you the Israelis and Arabs would suddenly love each other. There may be ignorance or fear of the unknown coming into a locker room, but you leave with an incredible education in sociology.
Just look at our position dinners. Each week during the season every member of our defensive line gets together and goes out to dinner. Yes, in public. The o-line does the same thing in every locker room. The defensive backs often do the same thing. Different groups gather outside our locker rooms and hit the town in a sign of bonding. Our defensive line has had guys in trouble with the law—black guys, white guys, a big gap-toothed man with a PB&J hanging out of his mouth, braniacs, complete buffoons, we all go out to dinner and converse like we’re family.
How different can we be? One big lineman from Arkansas who played with us had a head the size of a watermelon. We’d get to a nice restaurant and as we’re preparing to order, this young buck would declare, “Wow, I ain’t never seen no thirty-dollar steak.”
We’d all stare at the kid in complete disbelief. Then he’d make it worse by proclaiming he wanted to take his wife to a nice I-talian restaurant and proceed to ask if any of us knew where the nearest Olive Garden was.
Now would I ever hang out with a man like this in real life? Hell, no, but in our world, I’d fight for him and knock out anybody I had to in order to protect this man in the line of fire. I’d fight for him like I came out of the womb with him.
The craziest thing is when you see two guys become really close who couldn’t be more opposite—a talkative East Coast inner-city guy and a quiet guy from California. Happens in every locker room. Not only do these cats get close, but often their wives get close as well.
Each Halloween, Eli throws a party and pretty much the whole team shows up. In real life, three quarters of the people in this locker room would not be invited nor would they want to attend. But in our world, not only do they (and their spouses) show up, they show up in costume, so as to follow the rules of a party thrown by some country kid from Louisiana.
Actually, at that party, Eli came up with the greatest costume of all time. It was right after our then-quarterback Jesse Palmer had finished a stint starring in The Bachelor. Eli dressed up in one of Jesse’s suits, completely gelled his hair to look like Jesse and carried a handful of roses. He walked around all night handing people roses, voting to keep them in his harem, just like Palmer did on the show. It was hilarious.
As quiet as Eli is, that party showed us that he can drink with us, party with us and bust on us just like the best of us. He had gone through some rough times, but it’s parties like these that go far in reinforcing our devotion to each other.
The most important rule inside our locker room is brotherhood! Whether you’re there for a day, a week, a month or several years, we all abide by a brotherhood of rules. You’re OUR brother now, and we’ll fight like brothers and fight like crazy for each other.
Entering the brotherhood comes with advice. You must drop your past and accept that life is now different. Cut any dead weight that has been in your life up until the day you walk into our world. The sooner you drop those negative influences, the better off you will be. But half these guys believe you have to keep it real and don’t drop the dead weight.
I’ve had to pull kids aside and explain to them, “Those other cats you’re hanging with, you need to cut them off. Cut the cord.”
Also, some guys have a difficult time hearing from their friends how money has changed them. One of the most insulting things that can be said about a guy is for his crew to tell his boys back home that he’s changed, that he’s big-timing them. Those are damn near fightin’ words.
But now, you are part of our family, so don’t put us in harm’s way. There are far too many hangers-on and users trying to take advantage of people in our world. At times things can get hairy. I don’t want to be collateral damage.
Look at what happened with Ray Lewis years ago when his homeboys allegedly stabbed a couple of other guys to death. Ray realized that he needed to get away from those sorts of guys. Now he’s as much a model citizen in the NFL as you have. Sean Taylor of the Redskins had his car and house sprayed with bullets by some guy he had a long-running feud with. What if one (or more) of his teammates had been at his house that night and got shot? Get that shit away from us!
The Broncos locker room got hit hard this year when some young guys who were hanging out with talented cornerback Darrent Williams got into it with some other hotheads. Williams was the peacemaker and paid for it with his life when he was shot and died in the lap of his teammate Javon Walker.
We don’t need to hang out with anyone who keeps us from reaching our goals, much less places our lives in danger. As close as you are with your boys back home, your locker-room brotherhood must run deeper. You have to hang with people who have as much or more to lose as you do.
If you simply refuse to stop hanging out with trouble, we’ll distance ourselves from you. It’s our version of an intervention, a silent intervention. We won’t tell you about our parties. We won’t include you in all of our off-field gatherings. There’s way too much at stake here for any of us to get caught up in some crossfire, or even be seen with somebody who could tarnish our names.
I am not in the Bengals locker room, so I can’t explain why they have so many screwups. It’s not like their head coach, Marvin Lewis, accepts it. He fines the shit out of those guys. The problem is, however, that sometimes a locker room does not police itself well enough. We all have malcontents in our locker rooms. In fact, each locker room can benefit from the attitude of a couple of ornery guys. They’ll bring that attitude onto the field but drop it once they walk back into the real world. They’ll lose the thug attitude when the vets simply won’t have any of it.
The stuff we say inside a locker room, if somebody said the same stuff on the streets, they’d want to hurt a man over it. You might want to severely injure me in the real world for some of the garbage that comes out of my mouth in that locker room. But the real world doesn’t share our camaraderie.
As a result, we have a camaraderie that allows us to bag on one another—and mercilessly. When I say nothing is off-limits, I mean nothing is off-limits. If a guy gets arrested or has any other embarrasing incidents, we’ll bust on him. If a guy even glances over at another guy in the hot tub or shower, for the rest of that year we’ll call him a DW (dick watcher, a favorite term inside our domain).
William Joseph gets killed about his clothes: “Looks like you’re wearing something that should be hanging in a curtain shop, William.” Tiki used to get killed about his clothes, too: “Tiki, too short on the pants AND the tie!” Some of those country bumpkins show up in the brightest damn suits that make Deion Sanders look like he shops at OshKosh B’Gosh. We’ll rag on them for hours at a time.
All the ribbing relieves the stress and the pressure to win at all costs, which in turn builds camaraderie. Without that togetherness, without that bond and chemistry, we might want to kill someone every time they did something that cost us points or a game.
Inside the Helmet: Hard Knocks, Pulling Together, and Triumph as a Sunday Afternoon Warrior Page 7