A part of me thinks this CFL style is where offensive philosophy is headed. Why wait until third down to fight to keep the drive going? Sweetening the pot, most defenses are still in their basic schemes on second down, and so their best pass rushers aren’t even on the field. Why not take a shot when you have the advantage? Sooner or later defenses will adjust and begin using nickel (passing) packages on second downs. And that will be just fine, too, because then every down will be an equal fight for a first down, and third and manageable situations will be history, which they should be.
WHEN THEY DON’T TELL US WHO IS IN THE GAME
NFL football today is about one thing above all else: matchups. In basketball, analysts highlight changes in the lineup all the time, announcing stuff such as “Team A has gone small to cause problems for the much slower Team B.” Why don’t football analysts do this more often? Even well-informed fans can get lost in the different formations and personnel disguises, missing the significance of the constantly rotating matchups that are now the key to most NFL games.
It wouldn’t be that hard to communicate this before every snap. Every personnel group is described with two digits, the first indicating the number of running backs and the second the number of tight ends. If the Patriots come out in 11 personnel, they have one back and one tight end on the field and thus probably three wideouts. The defense would more than likely counter with its nickel package (three defensive backs). The play-by-play guy could just mention this quickly or the networks could just add “11p/nickel” to the “bug,” the on-screen graphic that displays score, time and down, and distance.
Some announcers do a good job of mentioning a two-tight-end set that suggests a running play or an empty backfield that foretells a pass. But it would be nice if they did this on every down. That way we’d know that if Belichick stays in 11 personnel, we should focus on the depth in the defensive backfield. And then if the Pats gain 150 yards rushing from that package, we can rightfully expect the media to ask about the nickel defense’s porous run support. Too often, though, fans watching at home have no idea what personnel group is in the game, and if they don’t know this, how can they understand the point-counterpoint drama going on at field level? Plus, imagine the second-guessing that would occur if fans actually had the information necessary to second-guess.
WHEN THE EIGHT-MAN FRONT GETS WAY TOO MUCH CREDIT
Another thing that drives me nuts: when a commentator offers a simple solution to a complex problem, such as when a team is running the ball well and he suggests that the defense needs to jump into an eight-man front. Yes, the vaunted eight-man front. They mention it as if it were the antidote to every potent ground game. But if the eight-man front always stopped the run, there wouldn’t be any 1,000-yard rushers, right?
In the same way that third and manageable is a misnomer, eight-man run-stuffing fronts aren’t actually made up of eight run-stuffers. Rather, they include a member of the secondary, usually a safety, who has to move up into the box. He’s not a typical run stopper, yet his responsibility is the same as that of those who are much bigger and much better at it. Furthermore, there are eight gaps that need to be defended on any run play, and if the defense isn’t properly aligned at all times to man all those ever-moving, ever-changing gaps, it won’t help if you have an 18-man front stacked in the box.
Al Davis never learned. He loved eight-man fronts. But all Denver had to do to beat the Raiders was stretch their offense with a series of simple bootleg plays, because as soon as the eight-man front lost gap control, it became more like a six-man front. Then the Broncos could run the ball up and down the field. The Raiders never budged: Davis was the only coach who believed in eight-man fronts more than TV’s talking heads do.
WHEN THEY MAKE IT MORE COMPLICATED THAN IT IS
All a quarterback cares about is this: Is the middle of the field open or closed? That’s it. If the middle of the field is open, it means the safeties are playing a Cover 2 shell, and that in turn means that the front will be a seven-man defense. If the middle of the field is closed, however, it means that a safety is covering the middle third of the field and therefore the front will be an eight-man attack. When a quarterback comes to the line of scrimmage, one of his primary presnap reads is to determine where the safeties are. Yours should be, too. Because once you and he pin down that placement, the wheel of possible plays in everyone’s heads can begin to spin. If the read is “open,” that means the middle seam may be vulnerable, and you can think play-action pass to a tight end who releases straight down the field and sneaks behind a slower linebacker. If the read is “closed,” start looking for routes that head toward the sideline.
Once you make that middle-of-the-field read, you can continue to think like a quarterback by determining whether the defense is playing zone or man to man. This one’s even less complicated. Before the snap, take a look: If the wideout or tight end comes in motion, is anyone on the defense following him? If the answer is yes, that’s man. If it’s no, it’s zone. How simple is that?
WHEN THE RECEIVER GETS TOO MUCH CREDIT
On December 13, 2009, Broncos wideout Brandon Marshall set an NFL record by catching 21 passes in a game. I recently rewatched that performance to put that accomplishment in perspective. A couple of things stood out: First, Marshall was targeted a whopping 28 times, and second, his team had just 29 completions total. To say he was the go-to guy is an understatement.
Still, I wondered how many of his catches could be credited to Marshall’s talent and how many were the result of the play design. My conservative breakdown was that 17 catches could have been made by any professional receiver. This is no knock on Marshall; I respect his game, his hands, and his skill in getting in and out of cuts smoothly. But although great hands, speed, or leaping ability sometimes can overcome suffocating double teams or an inaccurate quarterback, more often than not it’s the scheme that gets a receiver open and makes the difference.
Some version of the following happens all the time in the college game: A receiver runs 10 yards down the field, breaks outside, and makes a catch. There’s little man-to-man press coverage in college, so more than likely he’ll have run the route against a soft zone, essentially with no one near him. It might as well be a practice drill. Yet the announcer goes all Dick Vitale, screaming about how talented the receiver is to have gotten so open. Stop. The design of the play got him open.
Or think of a well-designed catch this way: At the end of an NBA blowout, when a player snags an uncontested rebound off a missed free throw, it still counts on the stat sheet even though he didn’t have to work nearly as hard for it as he did for a similar board in the second quarter. The stats don’t make a distinction, but spectators know.
Likewise, when a receiver gets free access downfield and the quarterback hits him right in the hands (running against air is what we call it), credit the scheme, not the receiver.
WHEN THEY SAY SNOW FAVORS THE RUN
Nothing conjures up gridiron nostalgia quite like a frozen field blanketed in white powder. I mean, that’s old-time football right there. Unfortunately, it also means that old-time, outdated football clichés can’t be far behind. Here’s the worst one: If it’s snowing, the running game will have to take over. Nope. For a number of reasons it’s actually just the opposite. On a snow-covered field the passing game has the advantage.
As long as pass catchers can handle the slick, hard balls, the slippery field conditions favor the player who knows where he’s going, not the one who is reacting and trying to keep up. Snow games are like target practice for a quarterback. Running the ball, in contrast, requires dependable footing first and foremost—not least for the blockers, who need a firm base to drive defenders off the ball.
Sure, the ball is harder to catch. But it’s also harder to keep hold of, especially in tight quarters with everyone tugging at it. In the open field it’s much easier to maintain a handle when you only
have to worry about one or two tacklers who are preoccupied with maintaining their footing. It helps if the receiver has perfected the fundamentals of his position and has the key cuts for all his routes locked into his muscle memory so that he can run them in his sleep—or on a sheet of ice. That feel for a pass route lessens the chance of a fall. Of course, that’s the first thing the Patriots practice every spring, with Belichick or one of his coaches standing right in the middle of the defensive backfield ready to pounce and loudly correct a player if he cuts off the wrong foot.
Belichick, as I mentioned before, dabbles in meteorology maybe more than any other coach. He knows what the conditions will be wherever the next game is because he wants to make sure to prepare his team properly. He wants them to have the right shoes. He wants them to have a feel for frozen or wet footballs, so he introduces greased-down or frozen footballs into practice. Sometimes, when the forecast is for rain, he justs dunks the ball in a jug of water before every snap.
So, as with most variables, snow and rain, not to mention sleet and hail, favor the Patriots.
WHEN THEY PLAY BATTLESHIP FOOTBALL
Do you know the game Battleship? Two people deploy their fleet behind a screen and then take turns calling out coordinates for “bomb” strikes in hopes of hitting the opponent’s ships. F-5? Miss. H-5? Miss. G-3? Hit! Followed by G-4, G-5, and G-6 until the ship is sunk. That’s how some football play callers work all the time. They randomly probe for a play that might work, and when they find one, they repeat it again and again, sometimes disguising it with a different formation or look. Needless to say, smart play callers avoid Battleship syndrome.
Probing or guessing from play to play doesn’t allow a team to gain control of the game. Of course, game plans inevitably require adjustments on Sunday. But those adjustments shouldn’t be haphazard attempts to fix what isn’t working or find an opponent’s weaknesses. Teams need to have backup plans long before kickoff. Successful in-game tweaks are born of a clear understanding of what the other side is doing to keep you from accomplishing your goals.
Teams that play the Patriots, for example, know that Brady likes to control the middle of the field with the passing game, so they crowd that area with defenders and challenge him to throw the ball outside the numbers. But the Patriots don’t counter by blindly probing for weak spots with any old out-breaking route. Whatever they do fits into a master plan—say, two throws to the sidelines to open the middle of the field, followed by a draw play.
That’s gamesmanship.
Anything else is Battleship.
WHEN COACHES DON’T GET ENOUGH CREDIT
In 1966, when Robert Evans was appointed the head of production at Paramount Pictures, most people in the industry shook their heads in disbelief. How could a man with so little experience run a major motion picture studio? At that time Paramount was a financial mess, headed toward bankruptcy, and the studio’s new owner, Charles Bluhdorn, believed that only a unique approach that countered the conventional wisdom of his competitors would save the day. That made Evans the right man for the job. Paramount had to evolve or it would perish.
Evans had a simple but revolutionary idea: to move away from the long-standing tradition of blowing most of a film’s budget on A-list actors and instead invest in the talent behind the camera. Evans put his money into directors, screenwriters, and great stories (mostly from books) that could be turned into screenplays so strong that they’d transform solid but less-expensive actors into Oscar winners. During his eight-year stint as studio head, Paramount reemerged as a dominant force in Hollywood behind critically acclaimed hits such as The Godfather, Rosemary’s Baby, The Odd Couple, and Love Story.
Talent “behind the camera” is just as important in the NFL. Some fans assume the level of coaching on every staff is equal—and equally high—essentially canceling the other staff out and leaving the most talented team to win. But the truth is that when the salary cap brought parity to the NFL, it also created an Evans-like shift that put a premium on the talent behind the talent. Just like in Hollywood, it took a while for the paychecks to catch up with the philosophy. I still remember sitting with Belichick in Cleveland going over salaries for the upcoming season. When we came to a left tackle, Paul Farren, who was due to make nearly $500,000, Belichick looked at me and said, “I have a hard time with Farren making more than I make.” Of course he was right.
Ever since then I’ve thought that coaching salaries should at least be in line with the minimum salaries for players. Al Davis loved to hire young offensive coordinators or position coaches he could develop into head coaches, partly because it meant he could keep running the defense but also because it saved him a lot of money. He never thought twice about paying players. But coaches? That was another matter. Davis would not have approved of the way the Raiders are paying their new coach, Jon Gruden. But if $100 million, give or take, over 10 years would give Davis a stroke, it is a clear indication of how much top-level coaching is valued in today’s NFL.
The problem isn’t paying for coaches who can have a huge impact on the success of your team. The problem is paying lots of money for mediocre guys whose impact is negligible at best. Bill Walsh told me—and I told you in Chapter 2—that not all coaches have the same potential impact on the game. A great running back coach might be a player favorite, but he’s not going to have much effect on wins and losses. Some coaches are there to execute a plan, not create one. But there are six staff spots—call them rainmakers—that are in a position to make a significant difference one way or another and should be paid accordingly.
Obviously, head coach is one of them. All three coordinators, too. And the offensive and defensive line coaches. Offensive line coaches are often well paid, and deservedly so, because if they can mold one post-third-round draft choice into a capable NFL starter each year, they have more than earned that salary. The defensive line coach, by contrast, is much like a lion tamer—he might as well be wearing a top hat and coat—because his players come from a pool of what is traditionally the most high-strung and hardest-to-control players. Those giant divas on the d-line need a demanding taskmaster. At least that’s been my experience. The best teams I’ve been with featured that kind of lineman—and that kind of coach.
Despite their importance, many coaches remain undervalued simply because it’s so hard to quantify what they’re worth to a team’s success. To help remedy that, I’ve always wondered whether it would be possible to rank coaches and staffs, to determine what kind of difference they made on a team. I asked some statistics whizzes at the University of California to help me with this idea, and they suggested that I cluster coaches into groups ranked like golf scores (lowest is best). The system we came up with has the top four at each position worth 2.5 points, the next four worth 5 points, and so on. Adding the results gives you a staff total that allows head-to-head comparisons. Obviously, this is not a scientific research project. My coach values are at best only as accurate as my draft grades, but they still can offer some insight.
For instance, let’s say the Patriots, with a Hall of Fame head coach and at least three potential head-coaching candidates on the sideline, have a staff total of 37 points and are playing a staff that graded at 80. (Remember, the lower the score, the better.) That opponent would need to have a pretty significant talent advantage to cover its coaching deficit. Can a team’s roster be talented enough to overcome a 43-point coaching discrepancy? Probably not. That’s why coaching matters, and that’s why in a few years a $100 million NFL coach will be considered a bargain.
If you’re still not convinced, play the “Belichick game” with me. Think of a team, any team, and ask what its record would be if Belichick coached it. If he left New England tomorrow for Miami, would the Dolphins win the AFC East? It’s plausible, right? So don’t kid yourself; a top coach is worth as much as a top quarterback.
Now, I might be old, but I don’t want to
be that geezer who rants and raves about how experience matters. It really does, though, especially on the sidelines. In fact, sometimes Super Bowls are determined by it. Walsh once said to me, “I am a much better coach at 52 than I was at 42; I’ve got a better grasp.” And experience helps the most when game preparation meets game management.
In Super Bowl LI, Belichick felt confident that his team would score a lot of points against the Falcons. It’s not that he didn’t respect Atlanta’s defense; it’s just that after careful review he saw how his team would be able to move the ball, especially late in the game. He was so convinced that it was going to be a high-scoring game, in fact, that he began to think about ways to extend a lead from, say, a 20-point advantage to 21. Being up by 20 is nice, but being up by 21 is way better, especially in a high-flying game, since it means your opponent will have to score three touchdowns to beat you. Belichick’s solution was to devote two five-minute periods in practice before the Super Bowl to work on the Patriots’ collection of two-point conversions.
As it turns out, those plays won the Super Bowl. Entering the fourth quarter, the Pats were down 28–9. After kicking a field goal, they cut the lead to 16 with less than 10 minutes to play. It was still a seemingly impossible deficit for most teams. But not the Patriots. Because they had so much confidence in their two-point conversions, it felt like only a two-score game to them. They ended up using all three of the two-point plays Belichick had them practice—the final one to score the touchdown that won the game in overtime.
Some might call it luck.
The best minds in sports would call it something else.
Branch Rickey, the legendary, visionary baseball man, had a saying that perfectly defines the often misunderstood value of NFL coaching. “Luck,” Rickey used to say, “is often the residue of design.”
Gridiron Genius Page 23