Quiet Strength (24 page)

After our staff met, we decided to rest most of our starters and play a very vanilla offense and defense—a preseason game approach. The young guys would get playing time, and the starters would be protected from injury. We turned our attention to practice for the week.

On Thursday afternoon, January 3, I saw Rich walking out to the field. It wasn’t unusual for him to come out and watch, but this time something seemed different. He walked straight toward me. In a very soft voice, Rich delivered the message from my dad: my mom had died.

My mom had been fighting diabetes for a long time, so I had known this was coming, but I had dreaded it. And yet, it was a relief. The disease had taken a physical toll. Her body had shrunk, and she had been confined to a wheelchair, in constant pain. As sad as her death was, I was overcome with a sense of joy because I knew she was in heaven. All that hit me at once: the sadness of losing my mom coupled with the joy of knowing she was now with God, pain-free. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d experience those emotions simultaneously.

My dad was handling all the arrangements for the funeral, which was to take place the following Tuesday. I stayed in Tampa to coach our last regular season game, certain that my mom would have wanted me to. It was the first time I didn’t care if we won or lost. It wasn’t just because of my mom’s death, although that certainly put things in perspective. Rather, it was because we were scheduled to play the Eagles again in the playoffs in six days.

I later learned that Rich had a slightly different perspective on that game in week 18. We had fallen behind early, and when we did, he said to another staff member, “Doesn’t Tony realize how much harder it is to fire a 10–6 coach than one who is 9–7?” I can’t say I did, because I still didn’t think there was a chance I would be fired. So when our backup players couldn’t hold a ten-point fourth-quarter lead, I didn’t give it a second thought. I was only concerned with preparing for my mom’s funeral and the next week’s playoff game.

Throughout the course of my six-year tenure with the Buccaneers, the Glazers always flew with the team to away games. They sat in first class in our chartered 757 with the assistant coaches. Because there weren’t enough seats for all the coaching staff in first class, Rich and I always sat in the last row of coach. I liked to sit in the back so I could see all the players.

That Friday morning, Rick Stroud of the
St. Petersburg Times
wrote an article, quoting unnamed sources, saying that I would be fired if we didn’t win Saturday’s playoff game against the Eagles. I really didn’t worry about it, but I didn’t want the players to get distracted. So I brought the paper with me on the flight so I could talk to the Glazers. I knew I could ask Joel, given our conversation in Atlanta and his assurance then that I was their coach.

None of the Glazers was on the flight with us that day. As Lauren says, I’m very naive, but that was the first time I felt that something was going on. How could the owners not fly with us to a playoff game?

On Friday afternoon we had a walk-through practice at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. It was cold and gray that day. Warren Sapp and a couple of other players took their shirts off in spite of the cold, trying to do their part to keep the others loose and relaxed.

It didn’t help. For the third consecutive playoff game, we didn’t score a touchdown. We lost 31–9. We couldn’t make a single big play, and in the meantime, we threw four interceptions. Just like that, we were done for the season, and when we arrived back in Tampa, I wondered if those “unnamed sources” in the
Times
were correct.

Sunday came and went, and I didn’t hear anything that would make me think I was about to be fired. We held our exit physicals and met as a team; then the players went their separate ways. Most of them wouldn’t return until the off-season program began in March.

Rich told me that the Glazers were meeting as a family, but he thought we were going to be okay. The Glazers wanted to discuss some changes, but they were looking at continuing things for at least another year. I still had regrets about how I had handled the Mike Shula situation in 1999, so I was concerned about the kinds of changes they might ask for.

On Monday we met as a staff, reviewed Saturday’s game film, and discussed our off-season schedule.

Rich called that afternoon and said the Glazers wanted to make a change. He asked me to come to his house to meet with them.

I knew then that my time with the Bucs had come to an end. Rick Stroud’s article had been correct.

Rich lived in one of the oldest sections of Tampa, in an old, pretty home guarded by a huge oak tree in the front yard. The driveway wound around that tree, which made backing out to the street almost impossible. As I pulled up and saw the Glazers’ cars, I made it a point to note how close I was to that tree so I could avoid hitting it when I left later.

As it turned out, I was backing out of Rich’s driveway about one minute later. The conversation was short and pleasant and lasted about thirty seconds. As Rich had said, the Glazers wanted to make a change. Joel, Bryan, and Ed—the Glazers’ three sons, who had been actively managing the team that year—were all present as they informed me I was no longer the head coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

I thanked them for the opportunity they had given me as head coach. My only question was about what would happen to my assistant coaches. The Glazers said they didn’t know. After all, that would be up to the new coach. Since they had spent the last couple of days deciding whether or not to fire me, they said they had no idea yet who the new coach might be or what he would do with the staff.

Tuesday evening, after my nighttime excursion to One Buc to pack up, Lauren and I went back one more time to make sure I had gotten everything. Once inside, I suggested to Lauren that she go back outside and move the Explorer closer to the back door while I finished. The security officer who had let us in had given us some space, but I knew he was lingering somewhere nearby.

Lauren hesitated. She told me she was worried she wouldn’t be able to get back in.

I tried to reassure her. “I think you’re overly concerned.”

“Really? Your keypad code doesn’t work. The guard used his code and walked us in. And now he’s around the corner somewhere, keeping tabs. Tony, we’re not welcome here anymore.”

She did decide to go move the Explorer closer to the back door, but I knew she was right. Everything had changed.

At the end of my tenure with the Bucs, I really had no one to be upset with. The Glazers owned the team, and they had to do what they thought was best for the Buccaneers. Yes, if it were up to me, I would have preferred that Joel and I not have had that conversation in Atlanta so I wouldn’t have relied on it throughout the season. I would rather have been told that 2001 would be a make-or-break year, that we needed to advance deep into the playoffs and maybe win the Super Bowl if I wanted to keep my job.

At the same time, however, I have never lost sight of the fact that the Glazers saw me as an
NFL
head coach when no one else did. They gave me my first opportunity, and I’ll always be grateful to them for that. So no, there was no one to be upset with. God just wanted me to move on to a different situation. His time for me in Tampa had been completed.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the
LORD
. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”

—Jeremiah 29:11

I
’M A
FOOTBALL
COACH
. I always remember this fact to help me keep things in perspective. When the Glazers fired me, I was terribly disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to stay the course with the organization we had built in Tampa. But I also recognized that I wasn’t dealing with life-and-death issues. It wasn’t as if I were helping women through high-risk pregnancies or helping people through physical problems, as my siblings were. They had what I considered to be critical jobs; I have never viewed my job as that important.

No, I am a football coach. And as a football coach in the National Football League, I know for sure that it’s going to end someday. These days, about a quarter of the head coaching jobs change hands every year, and it’s usually not pretty when it does come to a close.

At the time I was fired, I believed I would have other opportunities to coach in some capacity, but I also wondered if God might be transitioning me out of coaching altogether. Maybe God had something entirely different planned for me. One of the best things to come from being head coach of the Buccaneers was the platform it provided me to speak on topics that matter to me. I enjoy speaking, especially to youth groups, and I’ve always believed that reaching young people is something I should do. We are all role models for someone, but as an
NFL
coach, my sphere of influence was broader than it is for most people. Now I had to consider whether I should start to be a role model in a different way.

I held a press conference the following day in Tampa. People might have expected me to be angry with the Glazers. I disagreed with their decision, but I truly believed that since they owned the Buccaneers, it was their decision to make. Plus, if I trust God that all things work together for good, then I have to believe it—even when it doesn’t feel good to
me
.

Tom Lamphere and I had spoken the evening I was fired. He reminded me of two important points. First, if I had any bitterness in my heart, it would only hurt me. While bitterness is a natural emotion, I knew I needed to pray and let God remove it so I could press on. Second, I needed to remember that this was all ultimately designed for good.

Tom reminded me of Romans 8:28 and the Old Testament story of Joseph, which both have the same message: God is in control of our future, and He’s working for our good—whether we can see it now or not. I knew what Tom was saying was true, and I remembered the story of Joseph clearly from my mom’s Sunday school lessons. Still, it was great to have someone remind me at the very moment that I needed to put my faith into practice. After talking with Tom, I was able to go out and sincerely thank the Glazers publicly for giving me the opportunity to coach their team. That attitude didn’t come from me but from the Lord, and I think it had an impact on a lot of people.

Over the next couple of days, Lauren and I spent some time with our feet up and a lot of time on our knees. I didn’t know why we were leaving the Bucs, but I knew God was closing this door for a reason. First, we needed to determine if we even wanted to remain in coaching. I wasn’t convinced that we should. I believed we had done things God’s way, or tried to, and He was moving us in another direction. My time with the Buccaneers had given me a tremendous following in the community and an ability to rally interest and enthusiasm around things that were important to me.

One of those things was the All Pro Dad organization, which I had founded with Mark Merrill and Clyde Christensen. Our original goal was to try to reach dads everywhere, whether in the city or the suburbs, married or single. Our message was simple: dads—including us—need to spend more time with their kids. In four short years, All Pro Dad had grown into a national organization that sponsored clinics—called All Pro Dad Father & Kid Experiences—in
NFL
cities across the country and sent daily tips via e-mail to fathers around the nation.

As Mark studied family life in the United States, he had learned that two-thirds of African American teens have absent fathers. And I had learned from visiting prisons that the most common factor among male inmates was growing up without a dad in the home. When we put those two facts together, we knew we needed to focus our attention on fathers.

Somehow, through God’s grace, it has grown in all those directions. When we started the organization, we weren’t sure exactly how to go about it—we just prayed a lot. Today, 69 percent of all the All Pro Dad breakfasts we sponsor are in Title I schools, many of which are located in inner-city locales. It has been wonderful to see those children with absent fathers bringing mentors, uncles, grandfathers, or even their absentee dads with them to the monthly breakfasts.

All Pro Dad chapters have grown from an idea in Tampa to a reality in schools everywhere around the country, from Los Angeles to the Bronx. They continue to grow today, and Truett Cathy, founder of Chick-fil-A, has even requested that every Chick-fil-A franchise in the country host an All Pro Dad monthly fathers’ breakfast.

I had been visiting prisons with Abe Brown since 1997. Abe, a longtime coach at Blake High School in Tampa, had founded a prison ministry in 1976 after visiting one of his former players behind bars. I loved walking around Tampa with Abe. The man knows everyone in town and has probably coached half of them. He’s the only person I could walk with in Tampa and have more people know him than me. Even when I was coaching the Bucs, I knew if we were together and someone yelled, “Hey, Coach!” they were usually talking to Abe.

Abe is an unassuming, low-key guy, and yet he has made a tremendous impact on the lives of many people in Tampa, including me. He started by visiting his former player, and when he learned the man had few—if any—other visitors, Abe kept going back, in part because he felt he had failed him as a coach. As Abe kept returning, he met other guys, talked with them, and tried to help them. Over time, these visits naturally developed into a prison ministry.

In 1997, I was looking for ways to use my platform in Tampa, and Abe invited me to visit a prison with him. I was intrigued by that because I had grown up in a prison town. I knew people who worked at the prison in Jackson, and today my sister works there. Although I really wanted to join Abe at the prison, I was a little afraid of going in.

When the day arrived for our visit to Polk Correctional Institution, I was very nervous. I still carried images from my childhood of the hardened men I had always imagined who lived within the walls of the prison in Jackson. Even though I was forty-two years old, no longer a child, I still pictured prisoners as old, belligerent, and calloused. I was coming with a message that there’s always hope, based on the gospel of Jesus Christ, but I had no idea how that message—or I—would be received.