Next Man Up

by John Feinstein

  The Ravens were able to get a field goal on their next drive, but not without a price. With a first down on the Browns’ 28, Boller swung a quick pass in the flat to Sanders, who, seeing a little daylight, tried to take off before he secured the ball and dropped it. Sanders clapped his hands together in frustration, then reached down and grabbed his right foot in pain. He hobbled off the field and headed right to the bench, pulling his shoe off almost before Tessendorf or Andy Tucker and Leigh Ann Curl could get to him. He pulled off his sock and pointed at the second toe. A quick examination revealed a dislocation underneath the toe. Sanders asked the doctors if it was possible to tape it in such a way that it wouldn’t slide and cause him pain when he tried to run or stop or cut. Neither doctor was terribly optimistic, but they agreed to try.

  “He’s going to see if he can run on it at halftime,” Curl said. “But I think he’s down for the night.”

  The only person who might have felt worse than Mike Nolan was Billick.

  The rest of the half went better. The offense was able to move the ball, just not into the end zone. Stover kicked two more field goals, including a 36-yarder at the gun that gave the Ravens a 12-10 lead. The tension on the sideline was apparent in the last minute, when Zauner suggested that Billick call a time-out and Billick began screaming at him to let him worry about clock management. Zauner pulled his headset tighter and walked away.

  Everyone was calm during the break. They had handed the Browns seven points to start the game but they were still ahead. The offense was moving the ball between the 20s, but not in the so-called red zone. The defense had been outstanding. The only piece of news during intermission wasn’t good: Sanders tried to run on the sideline before the start of the second half, but as Curl had expected, the pain was too acute. He was through for the night.

  The second half didn’t start much better than the first. The Ravens picked up one first down before Zastudil had to punt from the Browns’ 45. He lofted the ball toward the end zone and Ray Walls and Chad Williams sprinted after it, trying to down it inside the 5-yard line. Walls looked at Williams, Williams looked at Walls. Neither one of them seemed certain about who was supposed to make a dive for the ball. In the end, neither was able to get a hand on the ball and the Browns got the ball on the 20 after the touchback.

  Zauner, who rarely screams during a game, was screaming as they came to the sideline: “Do you guys remember training camp?” he yelled. “Do you remember what we worked on? Do you remember talking about the need to communicate?”

  No one scored in the third quarter, but the Browns, shut down all night, finally got a drive going that ate up more than eight minutes and culminated in Dawson kicking a 29-yard field goal forty-six seconds into the fourth quarter. Playing a game they had to win, against an opponent they believed they should dominate, the Ravens found themselves trailing, 13-12, with less than a quarter left to play.

  Finally it was the struggling special teams that came through. After Dawson’s field goal, the offense picked up two first downs before being stopped at the 48. Zastudil lofted another hanging punt in the direction of the goal line. This time Zauner inserted B. J. Sams, to take advantage of his speed. Sams ran the ball down on the 1-yard line and, leaping in the air so his feet wouldn’t touch the goal line, batted the ball back toward the field of play. Chad Williams, a step behind him, downed it on the 1. Butch Davis challenged the play, claiming that Sams had his foot on the goal line when he knocked the ball backward. It took a while, but referee Walt Coleman finally ruled that the play stood, forcing the Browns to take over on their 1-yard line.

  In Cleveland, in a similar situation—early fourth quarter, the game close, the Browns’ offense backed up—the defense had surrendered a big play, giving the Browns control of the game. Now they dug in and gave up only one yard in three plays, bringing Frost into the game to punt from the very back of the end zone. Punters like to stand 14-15 yards behind the line of scrimmage to give themselves time to catch the ball, avoid the rush, and get the kick off smoothly. Frost had only 12 yards to the back of the end line, so he had to be careful. He had to move to his right to corral the snap, and with Ed Reed bearing down on him, he rushed the kick. It went right off the side of his foot, a clean shank, and flew out of bounds only 7 yards from the line of scrimmage. The offense was in business at the 9-yard line.

  Cavanaugh wasn’t going to try anything fancy at this stage, especially since a field goal would give the Ravens the lead. Jamal Lewis ran right for 4 yards. Then he ran left for 3 more. It was third-and-goal on the 2. This time Lewis went straight up the middle, diving into the end zone. With 7:07 left, the Ravens had the lead back, 18-13. This time, Billick had his math right, knowing that a one-point conversion would put them up by only six. If they could make a two-point conversion, a Browns touchdown and an extra point would only tie the score. He went for two, and succeeded—Boller finding Clarence Moore in the corner. In the midst of the celebration—one of relief as much as anything—everyone noticed a flag. Orlando Brown had allowed himself to get goaded into a personal foul. He was taking a painkiller for an arthritic knee and he had gotten hit in the eye—something he was obviously very sensitive to—and, even though he was wearing a protective face shield, felt pain and responded.

  Billick had been lecturing the entire team on the subject of in-game discipline. They had been struggling with personal-foul calls all season. Now Brown’s outburst would mean Wade Richey had to kick off from the 15-yard line after the 15-yard penalty. “For God’s sake, Zeus, think out there!” Billick said as Brown came to the sideline. “When are you going to learn to keep your poise?!”

  Angrily, Brown started to tell Billick what had happened. “I don’t want to hear it now,” Billick said. “You can’t do that kind of stuff, you just can’t.”

  “Fine, then,” Brown snapped back. “I just won’t play if you feel that way.”

  Billick followed Brown back to the bench “Listen to me, Zeus, you can’t quit on us now. You can’t let them play you for a chump. Get yourself calmed down.”

  The game was now in the hands of the defense.

  Based on what had happened during the game’s first fifty-three minutes, that should have been perfect for the Ravens. The Browns’ offense had not been in the end zone yet and it needed a touchdown to tie. The penalty helped them, Alston returning Richey’s kick to the 41. Jeff Garcia picked up a third-and-10 with a sideline pass to Frisman Jackson. Then he picked up a third-and-3, pulling the ball down and running up the middle to the Ravens’ 35. Another quick-hitter to Antonio Bryant got the ball to the 21. Three plays later, on third-and-9, Garcia scrambled away from the rush and found Bryant again for a first-and-goal at the 5. The clock was down to 1:24. Running back Lee Suggs got nothing on first down. The clock ticked under a minute. Garcia dropped back again and looked over the middle for tight end Aaron Shea.

  Anticipating a possible pass over the middle, Ray Lewis had dropped back to the goal line in coverage. He had told Ed Reed to cover the back of the end zone, that he would cover the tight end underneath. As Garcia tried to force the ball in to Shea, Lewis got his hand on the ball and deflected it into the air. Backing up the play, Reed saw the ball pop into the air and he reached down and scooped it off his shoetops 6 yards deep in the end zone. All he really needed to do was drop to a knee to down the ball and the Ravens would run out the clock. Instinct took over, though, and he took off, running past the stunned Browns before anyone could make a serious attempt to tackle him. He didn’t stop until he crossed the goal line 106 yards later. The return was an NFL record.

  Billick’s immediate concern was that the replay official in the press box might look at the play to be sure that Reed hadn’t trapped the ball. Replays would later show that Reed had caught the ball cleanly, but at the time Billick didn’t know that and the last thing he wanted was an official’s ruling the pass incomplete and giving the Browns two more shots from the 5-yard line. Once the ball was snapped for the extra point, the pla
y could not be overruled. He was screaming at the kicking team to get the kick off as quickly as possible even while the defense was still mobbing Reed.

  “Snap the ball!” Billick screamed as if the clock were ticking down and the kick was to win the game. “Snap the damn ball!”

  The kicking team was apparently unaware of Billick’s concern, because it went through its normal routine. By the time Maese snapped the ball, Zastudil put it down, and Stover kicked it through the uprights, Billick was screaming at Zauner. Even with the kick safely made and the chance of replay now gone, Billick still let Stover have it for not calling for the ball to be snapped more quickly. Stover, having played for Billick for six years, knew the best way to deal with him at that moment was to keep moving.

  “There’s no sense arguing with him at a time like that,” he said later. “Because he isn’t going to hear a word you say.”

  “He’s right about that,” Billick said, knowing that he can be a tad unreasonable at moments like that. “But I did want them to get the damn kick off. I didn’t care if Matt kicked it backwards, it didn’t matter. Just get the ball snapped.”

  The ball was snapped. There was no replay. The touchdown—correctly—stood. And after three hours in the dentist’s chair, the game was finally over. It had taken more than fifty-nine minutes to put the Browns away, but they had finally done it. The final was 27-13. “That’s one of the most deceptive scores you’ll ever hear,” Billick said.

  Perhaps it was because it was close to midnight. Or perhaps it was because they realized they had been fortunate to win. Or maybe it was just exhaustion. In any event, the locker room hardly sounded like a winning NFL locker room. “Why’s it so quiet?” Corey Fuller asked. “We won the game, fellas, we won the game.”

  They had won. They were 5-3 halfway through the season. Billick noticed the quiet, too, but said nothing about it. A win, as Billick always said, was a win. The easy half of the season was now over. Maybe that was why it was so quiet.

  21

  Stacking

  THE MORNING AFTER THE WIN over the Browns, Brian Billick sat at his desk, brow furrowed, a yellow legal pad in front of him. When Billick is trying to think, he writes in longhand as opposed to using the computer. He had decided it was time to make a list of the issues he thought the team was facing and deal with them head-on. On his list, Billick wrote:

  • Everyone knows Anthony [Wright] and Peter [Boulware] are going to be back soon. They’ll need roster spots. Some guys feel the axe hanging over their heads.

  • There’s tension on the special teams. Is it the axe? Is it the fact that Musa Smith was down [inactive] on Sunday? Is Cornell Brown worried about his status with Boulware coming back?

  • Kyle Boller is starting to feel pressure because of all the criticism.

  • Gary Baxter’s worried about his contract. So is Ed Hartwell.

  • Kevin Johnson got only fifteen snaps on Sunday. He already told [receivers coach] David Shaw that he’s unhappy about it.

  • Mike Flynn got only four snaps last night. He’s uptight. So is Bennie Anderson. Orlando Brown isn’t happy, either.

  • Todd [Heap] and Jamal [Lewis] aren’t going to be Pro Bowlers this year. How does that affect their mind-set the last few weeks? Jamal telling the media he needs more carries after last night is probably an indication that he’s uptight about things right now.

  • Both coordinators are worried about their future. A lot of the coaches are wondering how their future might be affected by what happens with the coordinators.

  • Gary Zauner’s feelings are hurt because I yelled at him twice last night.

  The easiest of those issues to deal with was Zauner. The two men had known each other a long time, and Zauner knew that Billick often said things on the sideline that he didn’t really mean. Before the coaches and scouts had their weekly meeting on Monday, Billick called Zauner in to tell him he was sorry he had lost his temper the night before. Zauner understood. He also reminded Billick that there was a reason why he had insisted on wearing a headset that covered both his ears. “I know you’re yelling,” he said. “But a lot of the time I don’t know what you’re yelling.”

  They both agreed that was probably a good thing.

  The noon meeting in the new boardroom would not be as simple. Like everything else in the building, the new boardroom was a far cry from what the team had worked with in the old building. To begin with there hadn’t been a boardroom in the old place. The weekly meetings had been held in the draft room, with coaches often sitting on the floor because of a lack of space. That wasn’t a problem here. There was a massive table in the middle of the room, a fireplace at one end, huge windows looking out toward the practice fields and the parking lot, and plenty of space around the table for those not seated at the table to spread out. The entire team could have met in the boardroom if necessary.

  The poshness of the surroundings didn’t cheer up anyone for this meeting. It hardly had the feeling of a morning-after-a-victory get-together.

  Billick started with the medical report. Jonathan Ogden, as expected, was out for at least another week. Heap was still a couple of weeks away, and it was possible he might not play again for the rest of the season. That was the old bad news. The new bad news was Deion Sanders: the doctors thought he would miss at least two weeks. Given that he was thirty-seven, given that the injury was on his foot—different, though, from the injury that had plagued him while with the Redskins—two weeks might be optimistic.

  They went through the coaches’ analyses of the tape. Billick asked Zauner about Wade Richey’s kickoffs, which had gotten shorter since the start of the season. “He may have a tired leg,” Zauner said. “He’s not been as good in the games as he is in practice.”

  Everyone knew why Billick had asked the question. Roster spots. Richey was clearly in jeopardy.

  Once the coaches were finished, Billick pulled out his legal pad. “There’s a simmering tension in this building,” he said. “Some of it is normal midseason stuff that’s a part of every season. I understand that. But I think we need to address some of the issues that the players and all of us in this room are thinking about.”

  He went through his list while everyone listened. Then he asked for comments. There was a lengthy silence. Not surprisingly, it was Zauner who spoke first.

  “I know there was concern among my guys about Musa being down,” he said. “Bart [Scott] made the comment ‘Which one of us peons is going to get cut.’ I thought they played afraid on that opening kickoff. That’s why we were messed up.”

  Billick understood the insecurity some of the special teamers were feeling because clearly changes were coming. “I’ll go to special teams meetings this week,” he said. “It’s probably a good idea for me to remind them that we value them.”

  He then asked running backs coach Matt Simon if not being in the Pro Bowl was bothering Lewis. Perhaps that was why he had complained about his lack of carries (22 for 81 yards) after the game. “I don’t think the Pro Bowl is bothering him,” Simon said. “For one thing, he knows he couldn’t go anyway, because he’s going to be in jail.”

  They all laughed—uncomfortably—at that reminder.

  “I just think the whole season has been difficult for him,” Simon continued. “But I don’t have any sense at all that he’s pouting. He just wants to play better.”

  Billick turned to O. J. Brigance, whose title was director of player personnel. In reality, Brigance was the team’s troubleshooter. When a player had a nonfootball problem, the person he was most likely to take it to was Brigance. His phone number was the one the players carried with them at all times in case they were involved in an accident or a fight or got into any kind of trouble. He was thirty-five and had been retired as a player for only two years, so he still remembered clearly what life as a player was like.

  “Do you sense the tension?” Billick asked. “Or am I making this up?”

  “No, you’re not making it up,”
Brigance said in his quiet, deep baritone. “The tension is there for all the reasons you’ve brought up. I think getting it out in the open is a good idea. Let them know you’re aware of it and you sympathize even if, in some cases, there’s nothing that can be done about it.”

  “What about right here in this room?” Billick said. “There’s tension here, too, isn’t there?”

  This time the silence stretched on. Billick wasn’t going to break it.

  Finally, Mike Singletary, probably the quietest member of the staff, spoke up.

  No one in the room had a football ré sumé that compared with Singletary’s. In the 1980s he had been the prototypical NFL middle linebacker, the heir to the Dick Butkus linebacking throne in Chicago. He had played twelve seasons for the Bears, had been the heart of their famous defense in 1985, and had been elected to the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1998. He had decided to get into coaching in 2003—eleven years after retiring as a player—and had joined the Ravens’ staff.

  Singletary was probably the most deeply religious member of the coaching staff, someone who always called both Billick and Nolan “Coach” out of respect for their positions of authority within the team. Nolan always asked him to speak to the defense about the upcoming game at least once a week because he knew that the players remembered how great a player he had been and that they had the utmost respect for anything he said about football. His weekly player reports were, generally speaking, the shortest of any, which worked well since those of Jeff FitzGerald, who worked with the outside linebackers, tended to be the longest.

  Now Singletary cleared his throat and broke the silence. “Coach, I think you’re right, there is a lack of cohesion within our staff right now,” he said. “We aren’t the team we need to be going forward. I don’t think we know what we are or where exactly we’re going from here. There are men in this room who feel this tension and aren’t speaking up.”