“Welcome to the team, part two,” Billick said when it was his turn on the phone. Bisciotti passed on the chance to learn more about Green’s family.
Harris was on the phone again. “I’m sorry I took so long on KJ,” he said. “I had some disagreement in the room here.”
“You put me into a pretty deep corner there for a while,” Newsome said, half-joking with his friend.
There was one final glitch before the draft was over. In the sixth round, picking at 187, Newsome wanted to take Clarence Moore, a rangy six foot six wide receiver from Northern Arizona, considered a project with potential, probably someone who would spend the season on the developmental squad. He called Moore and a woman answered the phone. When he asked for Clarence Moore, the woman said he wasn’t there and didn’t know where he was. Newsome tried a second number and got no answer. Time was running out. Newsome sighed, took out the card for Josh Harris, a quarterback from Bowling Green, and dialed his number. He answered on the first ring.
“Put the card in for Josh Harris,” he instructed New York. He had planned to draft his young backup quarterback later, but not reaching Moore, he had to change plans on the fly.
“Where in the world can the kid be, today of all days?” Bisciotti said.
“One time I couldn’t find a kid because he was at the movies,” Newsome said. “His mother finally ran down there and got him out of there so he could call me back.”
“You won’t take a kid if you can’t reach him?” Bisciotti asked.
“No way,” Newsome said, shaking his head. “He might be in jail, he might be in the hospital, he might be dead, for all I know. I need to talk to him, know where he is, before I draft him.”
This is not nearly as far-fetched as it might sound. One year the Oakland Raiders drafted a player named Don Mosebar in the first round even though they couldn’t find him when it was their turn to pick. The next day they found him—in the hospital, where he had undergone back surgery over the weekend, thus explaining his failure to answer the phone.
“I got a better one for you,” Jim Fassel said. “Few years back, a CFL team drafted a guy they couldn’t find. The reason they couldn’t find him was because he had died.”
The Ravens had another sixth-round pick twelve spots after taking Harris. By then, Savage had run down another number for Moore. “We had the wrong number,” he said. Newsome decided to give him one more try. This time he reached Moore. “I’m glad I found you,” he said. Moore said he’d been getting a lot of phone calls, most recently, he said, from the Redskins, Titans, and Panthers. “Have you heard anything from Pittsburgh?” Newsome asked, since the Steelers were on the clock at that moment. No, Moore said, he hadn’t. Newsome instructed Moore to stay on the phone. The Steelers took a center from Stanford. The 49ers then took a safety. Newsome breathed a sigh of relief and told Moore he was a Baltimore Raven.
“I think that one is going to need some babysitting,” Billick said. He turned to Chad Steele, the Ravens’ public relations manager. “You may need to play big brother with him.”
Steele nodded. He was the son of Gary Steele, the first African American to be a football letterman at Army, and had played college basketball at Winthrop. He was twenty-nine and was close to several of the team’s younger African American players.
The final round was the spot where it had been predetermined the team would draft a kick returner. The Ravens were not happy with Lamont Brightful, their incumbent returner. He had lost confidence somewhere along the way and had started to have trouble hanging on to the ball. The team had scouted about a dozen potential returners prior to the draft. The scouts liked Derek Abney, a bright-eyed kid from Kentucky who had speed and could be a spot player at wide receiver. That opinion was not shared by Gary Zauner, the special teams coordinator.
Zauner was a special teams savant. Unlike other coaches who saw coaching special teams as a stepping-stone to another job, Zauner had always coached special teams and had no desire to do anything except coach special teams. He had been the first full-time special teams coach ever when LaVell Edwards hired him to do that job in 1979 at Brigham Young. He had been both a punter and a placekicker in college and had been in NFL training camps as a punter, though he had never made a team. He understood everything about special teams play. He had studied it for years, spending hours and hours looking at special teams tape and working on the practice field with special teams players. Practice periods devoted to special teams work were known as “the Zauner hour.” All the other coaches—except for Zauner’s assistant, Bennie Thompson—simply cleared the stage for Zauner to work.
Zauner and Billick had worked together in Minnesota for five seasons. In 2002 Billick had brought Zauner to Baltimore as special teams coordinator. Billick had absolute faith in Zauner’s understanding of special teams play and special teams players, a faith that was occasionally disturbing to the scouting staff, since Billick was apt to take Zauner’s word over theirs if there was a conflict.
Now there was a conflict. Zauner liked Abney, too, but he liked a kid named B. J. Sams better. Sams had played at McNeese State, a 1-AA school in Louisiana. He had been spotted by Ron Marciniak, the wise old head on the Ravens’ scouting staff. At seventy-one, Marciniak was decades older than almost everyone else on the staff but, after twenty-five years in the league, still kept his hand in doing some scouting for the Ravens. He had recommended that Zauner take a look at Sams. “What I liked about him,” Zauner said, “was he caught every ball. A lot of return guys have speed, not all of them can catch every single ball. He seemed to do that.”
Newsome wasn’t about to defer to Zauner on a draft pick. Abney got the nod. A few minutes later Brian Rimpf, an offensive lineman from East Carolina, became the Ravens’ final pick. When Newsome called him, whoever answered the phone told him that Rimpf was on the phone with Tampa Bay. “Tell him to hang up,” Newsome said. “They’re behind us. There’s nothing they can do for him.”
At 5:05 the card for Rimpf went in and everyone took a deep breath. The end of the draft did not, by any means, mean the end of the day. Every NFL team keeps a list of potential free agents—undrafted players—and a wild scramble to get some of those players begins as soon as the final draft pick has been made. Some teams spend a decent-size chunk of money to entice free agents. In 2003 the Cowboys spent close to $120,000 in bonuses to attract free agents, including giving one player $25,000. That was more than the Ravens’ entire budget for free-agent bonuses. Rarely did they offer more than $2,500.
What the Ravens sold was opportunity. The sheet that the scouts and assistant coaches worked off of while calling free agents reminded them to bring up names like Priest Holmes and Mike Flynn and Will Demps and Bart Scott, all Ravens free-agent signees who had become successful NFL players. In fact, 50 of the 150 free agents signed by the Ravens since 1996 had made NFL rosters, and nine of the fifty-five Ravens under contract at that moment had been free agents.
Zauner was pushing Newsome to bring Sams into minicamp for a look. Newsome wasn’t eager to do it. He had Abney and he had Brightful. In his mind, the two would compete for the job. “Just give him a shot,” Zauner said. “It won’t cost you anything.”
Newsome threw up his hands, exasperated because Zauner wouldn’t let the argument go. “Tell you what, Gary,” he said. “I’ll bring him in here to make you happy. In fact, if he makes our opening-day roster, I’ll give you two thousand dollars.”
“Deal,” Zauner said, delighted that his nudging had paid off.
By the time the staff went home that night, twenty-seven players had agreed to come to rookie minicamp as free agents. Some got small bonuses. Some got nothing. And some would have to come in before minicamp for what amounted to a tryout to see if they were worthy of a minicamp uniform. “The Gong Show,” Savage called it.
The rookies would report on Friday. The draft was over. The scouts could take a deep breath. Now it was time for the coaches to go to work.
6
; Camps and More Camps
YEARS AGO, THE END OF THE FOOTBALL SEASON meant a lengthy break for NFL players. Most would return to their homes, take off several months, and perhaps do a little bit of conditioning work before reporting to training camp in July. Once they reported for two-a-days, they began working to get into shape for the start of the season. Those days are long gone. Most players take almost no break now from some kind of conditioning, and all are expected to take part in an off-season training program, whether one prescribed by the team or one put together by a personal trainer, frequently with the approval of the team.
The Ravens’ best-known veteran players—Jonathan Ogden, Ray Lewis, Jamal Lewis—all left town during the off-season. Many veterans had homes in Baltimore and worked out at the team’s facility under the watchful eye of strength coaches Jeff Friday and Paul Ricci throughout the winter and spring months. Players who had just finished their first NFL season—especially those who had been on either the developmental squad or injured reserve—were expected to be back in Baltimore by the end of March for more formal workouts. Their arrival marked the beginning of a gradual return of the entire team. Rookies first came at the end of April for a three-day rookie minicamp. During May there were two “passing camps” for all quarterbacks, running backs, and receivers, with some special teamers and a handful of linemen also present. Then, in the first week of June, came the first of two veteran minicamps. One was mandatory; the other, “voluntary.” As in “you better volunteer to be there.” “Making the team is also voluntary,” Billick liked to say. Only one person was not expected to be back for those two weeks—cornerback Chris McAlister, whom the Ravens had designated as their “franchise player,” meaning he could not negotiate with other teams and would not sign a new contract at a locked-in price ($7.1 million) until the end of training camp.
Like the team, Brian Billick’s staff had experienced relatively little turnover. The most significant loss had been defensive backs coach Donnie Henderson, who had been hired by the New York Jets as their defensive coordinator. In Henderson’s place was Johnnie Lynn, who had been the defensive coordinator on Jim Fassel’s New York Giants staff for the past two years but who had been purged after Fassel’s departure. This was the way of the NFL: position coaches become coordinators, fired coordinators become position coaches, just as coordinators become head coaches, and fired head coaches become coordinators once again.
Lynn was one of four new coaches on staff. Jeff FitzGerald, who had worked with defensive coordinator Mike Nolan in Washington, had been rescued after four seasons in purgatory with the Arizona Cardinals and would coach the outside linebackers. Jedd Fisch would work with the offense, breaking down tape, putting together scouting reports, and offering his computer expertise to some of the less-computer-literate coaches.
Most notable in that group was the fourth—and most prominent—new name on the staff: Jim Fassel. Technically, the former Giants coach was not an assistant coach, he was a senior consultant. In reality he was in Baltimore to coach one player: Kyle Boller. The idea to hire a personal tutor for Boller was Billick’s. Fassel and Billick had known each other for more than twenty years, dating back to Fassel’s days as an assistant at Stanford (where he had coached John Elway), which had coincided with Billick’s tenure with the San Francisco 49ers as a public relations assistant/unofficial assistant coach. Each man had come under the influence of Bill Walsh—Fassel during Walsh’s last two years at Stanford, Billick during Walsh’s first two years with the 49ers. They had remained good friends as their paths crossed through the years.
Fassel had become a head coach in 1997 in New York, Billick two years later in Baltimore. They began a tradition of getting together for dinner each year at the scouting combine in Indianapolis. If their teams played each other, the winning coach bought. If not, whoever had the better record bought. In 2001 their dinner came a month after Billick’s Ravens had hammered Fassel’s Giants, 34-7, in the Super Bowl. “I walked in and told the manager I wanted the most expensive wine he had on the menu and to keep it coming,” Fassel said. “Brian was more than happy to pay.”
The two men would talk long into the night, the subjects ranging from preparing for a Super Bowl to negotiating a contract to hiring assistants to what it was like to get cut in training camp without ever playing in an NFL game to raising girls (Billick) and raising boys (Fassel). “I think it is fair to say that I’ve had as many discussions with Brian on as many different topics as I’ve had with any friend of mine through the years,” Fassel said. “I think we’re completely comfortable with one another.”
Fassel had announced his resignation as Giants coach with two weeks left in the season in order to save the Mara family the pain of having to fire him. He’d had a good seven-year run in New York—three playoff teams, two division titles, one Super Bowl trip—but the Giants had never completely recovered from a devastating playoff loss in San Francisco at the end of the 2002 season and, decimated by injuries, had lost their last eight games in 2003, to finish 4-12. Most football people believed Fassel would be snapped up for another head coaching job before the Super Bowl had been played. He was interviewed by the Buffalo Bills, Arizona Cardinals, Atlanta Falcons, and Washington Redskins. At one point, it appeared likely that Dan Snyder was going to hire him to coach the Redskins. But Snyder ended up shocking the football world by bringing Joe Gibbs back instead.
“I certainly couldn’t blame him for hiring Joe Gibbs, could I?” Fassel said. “I mean that’s a no-brainer, a slam dunk. I didn’t know it at the time, but I think I was lucky not to get a job. I was burned-out, more burned-out than I knew. Seven years as a head coach in the NFL, especially in New York, wears on you. How many head coaches are there in the league right now who have been in their jobs for double-digit years?” (There are three: Bill Cowher in Pittsburgh, Mike Shanahan in Denver, and Jeff Fisher in Tennessee. Billick, going into his sixth year, was tied for fourth in tenure with his current team.) “When I didn’t get a job, I realized I was relieved. I needed a break.”
The plan then was to take the year off. The Giants still had to pay him his $3 million annual salary for another season. That left Fassel free to spend time watching John, his elder son, coach his team at New Mexico Highlands and Mike, his younger son, kick at Boston College. The rest of his time would be spent relaxing, watching some games, and putting together a coaching plan to present to prospective employers at the end of the 2004 season. Then Billick called.
“Basically, I wanted Jim to put together a schedule he would be comfortable with,” Billick said. “Do as much or as little as he wanted. Everyone knows how great he has been with quarterbacks through the years, and I knew Kyle would benefit from any time he spent with him. We eventually decided he would come down a couple days a week, be with us in camp, and come to any games that didn’t conflict with one of his sons’ games. It was also a way to keep his name out there a little during the season. I thought it was a good deal for everyone.”
Fassel liked the idea. The commute from his home in New Jersey would be a relatively simple one and he would be gone for only a couple of days at a time most of the season. He and Billick came up with the notion of making him a “senior consultant” rather than a coach because it meant he could sign a contract that would expire December 31—two days before the end of the regular season. That meant that any team wanting to interview Fassel for a head coaching vacancy at the end of the regular season would not be restricted by the NFL’s rules on contact with assistant coaches should the Ravens be in the playoffs. It was a dream deal for everyone: Fassel got to keep his hand in without being taxed by the hours most assistant coaches have to put in. Boller got a tutor who had worked with Elway and Phil Simms and Boomer Esiason and Kerry Collins. The Ravens got a former head coach for almost nothing, because anything the Ravens paid Fassel cut into how much the Giants had to pay him. Only one person might have had a complaint about the hiring: offensive coordinator Matt Cavanaugh.
“The o
nly person this isn’t fair to is Matt,” Billick said. “If our passing game gets better and Kyle improves, Jim will get the credit. If we don’t get better, Matt will get blamed anyway. In a sense, he can’t win.”
Matt Cavanaugh smiled when Billick’s no-way-Matt-can-win theory was put to him. “There’s one way I can win very easily,” he said. “If we win games, go to the playoffs, make the Super Bowl, I win. If people don’t want to give me credit, that’s fine. Just as long as we win games. That’s always the best answer.”
Or so it would seem. In 2000 the Ravens had won a Super Bowl and people talked about an offense that managed not to lose games. In 2003 the Ravens had their best season on offense under Billick and Cavanaugh and people were screaming for Cavanaugh’s head. “When Steve [Bisciotti] came in to tell me about his conversations with Brian, he said to me, ‘I know you’re going to be under a lot of pressure this coming season.’ I told him that wasn’t really true. Look, I’ve been cut, I’ve been traded, I’ve been injured, I’ve had things thrown at me, and I’ve had people screaming for my head around here the last few years. I’m really okay with it. I enjoy doing what I do. If I’m not doing it here next year, I feel confident I’ll be doing it someplace else. I know I can coach.”
Cavanaugh’s “I can handle whatever comes” approach probably dates back to his upbringing. He grew up in the working-class town of Youngstown, Ohio. His dad was a salesman, the prototypical tough-love dad, a disciplinarian whose four kids knew the difference between right and wrong from a very young age. Dan Cavanaugh was a two-pack-a-day Lucky Strike man and someone who liked to drink with his buddies after work and was, according to his son, “always the life of the party.” It was only later, when he was an adult, that Matt Cavanaugh realized that his dad was an alcoholic. “It wasn’t anything I thought about when I was a kid,” he said. “Where I came from, people drank after work. It didn’t seem to me to be anything that unusual until I was much older.”
Next Man Up Page 12