Quiet Strength (35 page)

Our players and coaches were able to bring family and friends to our last walk-through practice at the Dolphins facility on Saturday—to take pictures, see the field, and just enjoy that experience. We anticipated that each player would bring his dad or a brother; we ended up filling
seven
charter buses. I had the privilege of bringing a couple of my high school coaches, including Coach Driscoll, and my brother, Linden, and my brothers-in-law, Loren and Wesley. It was a surprisingly emotional time for a number of us and our guests. My dad would have enjoyed it. Actually, I’m sure he did.

On Saturday night, I addressed the team as I usually did. Calmly.

“Tomorrow night, there is going to be a storm in Dolphin Stadium,” I told them. “We might get off to a slow start and have to claw our way back, but we can do it. We will do it. Do what we do. Don’t panic. Stay the course.

“Remember New England? They overwhelmed us with a tsunami of points in that second quarter. We trailed for fifty-nine minutes in that game, but in the final minute, we showed everyone it was our time. Once again, it’s our time. I believe God has prepared the leaders of our team for this time. Over the last four years, starting in 2003, we have had the most wins in football, yet each season has ended in disappointment. Until this one.

“Guys, it is
our
time.”

I shared with them what had gone through my mind, standing on the podium in Indianapolis after that game. “We have not traveled an easy road, as a team or as individuals. But we have never wavered in our beliefs. Our perseverance put us on this doorstep.

“
It is our time.
Let’s go win a championship.”

On Sunday morning, Clyde and I went out for our usual hour-long walk. But two factors conspired to throw us off our routine. First, we were having a good time reminiscing about all the coaches and players in Tampa and Indianapolis we had known over the years. Some memories made us laugh; others made us more reflective. We were so caught up in the stories, we weren’t paying much attention to where we were going. Added to that, we had switched hotels on Saturday night to a “getaway” hotel in order to escape the madness of the regular hotel. As best as we could figure later, we took a left when we needed to go right. Our one-hour walk lasted almost three.

During that extra time, I gave some thought to my postgame comments, win or lose.

The Super Bowl is great, but it’s not the greatest thing. My focus over the two weeks leading up to the Super Bowl was Matthew 16:26, in which Jesus asks, “And what do you benefit if you gain the whole world but lose your own soul?” Our guys could gain all the accolades and success of this world yet lose touch with their priorities, their principles, and the God who loves them. I knew that if my faith was that central to me, giving me such hope and joy and peace, it would be irresponsible for me
not
to share it on possibly the biggest platform I would have in my life. I had used every opportunity I could to do just that in the two weeks leading up to the Super Bowl. I believe that was one of the reasons the Lord had allowed me to be the head coach there that week.

I also thought about what it meant for me to be one of the first two African American head coaches in the Super Bowl. This was going to be a historic game, and I was so glad to share the honor with Lovie, who coaches the same way I do and shares the same values. We didn’t want the focus to be on us individually, but we also knew how meaningful the game would be to black America. So many had coached in the league before me, yet so few had gotten the opportunity to be a head coach. Times had definitely improved across the league and in society, yet I still felt a burden to do more—to continue to do all I could do to level the playing field for everyone. I knew Lovie Smith echoed that.

Some of my daughter’s professors at Spelman College told Tiara before the game, “This is why we marched on Selma. To see your dad standing up there.” And all those who had gone before me in other walks of life—like my dad—paved the way for me and for those who will come after me.

I wanted to win so I could open people’s eyes to the fact that skin color doesn’t matter and to give other guys a chance when I could. I was proud of my accomplishments, but they weren’t mine alone. I was pleased that children from every segment of society—some with hope, some without—might see that you can overcome society’s racial limitations. Maybe now they would believe in themselves—and the God who created them—to reach for the dreams they held in their hearts.

I was also thrilled for older generations who thought they might never see the day that an African American would ever hold up the Lombardi Trophy. I hoped they would cherish the moment as if it were their dream, whether the winning coach ended up being Lovie or me.

It had also been a great week in terms of some of the other values that Lovie and I shared. Athletes in Action had approached us about taking out a full-page ad in
USA
Today
on our faith. An individual was willing to donate the funds for the ad if we would do it. Lovie readily agreed with me, and
AIA
also set up a Web site that contained the ad content. That site received thousands of hits on the first day it went public.

In some ways,
I thought,
it’s just football.
At the same time, I knew it was a landmark, another step in our nation’s history, and a memorable day for black Americans.

But as excited as I was about Lovie’s presence at the Super Bowl and the joint appearances we had made all week, once the game began, I never had a second thought about Lovie being on the other sideline.

An actual storm hit early in the day on Sunday, and the rain began to fall. It poured all day, making ours the first Super Bowl ever played in the rain. All in all, it was definitely a unique moment in
NFL
history.

Even the pregame introductions were special as we waited in the tunnel. Being introduced as “the
AFC
Champions, the Indianapolis Colts,” was a powerful moment for me.

People sometimes ask me who my bodyguard is with me at big games; it’s my brother-in-law, Lauren’s twin, Loren—not to be confused with my sister Lauren. The same Loren who had trembled with supressed excitement on the sidelines in 1997 in Detroit.

Even though wireless headsets have been used for years, Loren, my “bodyguard,” stood by my side at the Super Bowl as the football storm hit us on the opening kickoff. Devin Hester of the Bears returned the kickoff for a touchdown. One play and we were down 7–0. Just like Bethel Johnson. Would I never learn? Actually, I would. We didn’t kick the ball to Hester again that night.

Once again, we were off to a slow start, which continued for a while on offense. Then safety Bob Sanders changed the feeling on our sideline with a huge hit on Bears running back Cedric Benson, a hit that knocked the ball loose—win the giveaway/takeaway battle, remember?—and changed the momentum of the game.

We scored to tie the game, and then the Bears scored their final touchdown of the game, all in the second quarter. We led 16–14 by halftime, in spite of the fact that Adam Vinatieri shocked us all by missing his first field goal of the postseason. We felt good heading into the locker room with a lead, even though we hadn’t played mistake-free football. And we would never trail again. We just kept plugging away, staying with our plan. Doing what we do.

Our defense was playing really well, but we couldn’t put the game out of reach for a while. We were leading 22–17 early in the fourth quarter, when Kelvin Hayden intercepted a pass from Bears quarterback Rex Grossman and returned it for a touchdown and a 29–17 lead. When Bob Sanders intercepted a pass on the next series, it continued the ongoing theme of the postseason in which our defense, rather than our offense, was making the big plays for us. Time was growing short for Chicago, and we still held a two-score lead.

Later in the fourth quarter, we again chose to have Dominic Rhodes run the ball to run down the clock and ice the game. This time, however, unlike the divisional playoff game in Baltimore, I chose not to kick the field goal on fourth down. I was convinced that our defense would stop them and certain they wouldn’t score twice, and I was determined not to give the Bears any other opportunities to score.

When the clock showed a minute remaining and I knew the Bears couldn’t score twice, I began to think about how the whole journey had unfolded. I thought about how it wouldn’t have been possible without my parents and how much fun it would have been to have them there. I thought about Mr. Rocquemore and the older guys in my neighborhood who looked out for me and kept me on the right track because they thought that I could “do something” with my athleticism. I thought about my Steelers teammates and Coach Noll and all the things I had learned from him. I thought about Tom Lamphere, talking about what it would take to lead a group of men well. And I thought about Jim Irsay and that fifteen-minute phone monologue five years earlier, just when I was thinking God was moving me out of football. Jim had been so sure we could win it all and that I was the person to coach his team.

I couldn’t wait for him to get up on that podium and receive that trophy. I thought of all those things in those few seconds—and then came the Gatorade. Unlike in Tampa, when merely changing the mind-set in the organization warranted a Gatorade bath at 6–10, this was the first time the guys in Indianapolis had showered me with it. Although they never said it, the leaders in Indianapolis recognized that this was the kind of team we had: a team talented enough for their barometer of success to be the Super Bowl.

Stay the course.

Do what we do.

It had finally paid off in the final game. And Loren—along with Ricky Thomas—picked me up to carry me off the field, in true Harris fashion.

After the guys let me down from their shoulders, I thought about how disappointed Lovie must be. I knew he would be gracious, and when we hugged on the field, he was. I told him they had a great team and I was proud of how the week went. “You’ll get one of these very soon,” I whispered in his ear as he grabbed me in a hug. And I believe that.

The next thing I knew, I was doing a Disney World commercial, and then I made my way to the podium. I began to realize just how historic this moment really was. I thought of other African American coaches who might have done this had they gotten the chance. And I said a prayer thanking God for allowing me to have this experience of winning.

Getting to the podium was not easy; the place was a madhouse. Lauren had been sitting in the stands rather than in a suite, and although security told me they would be able to get her down to me, I wasn’t so sure. When I looked around, however, she was suddenly there. We went up to the podium together, and then Tiara joined us. As we watched the celebrations all around us, we just kept looking at each other and repeating, “We did it. We did it. We did it.”

I used to receive painful letters—not very often, thankfully—when I was the defensive coordinator of the Vikings and still opened my own mail. The letters may still come occasionally now, but if they do, they are intercepted before they ever hit my desk. They usually arrived with no return address and contained insensitive racist words of hate. As I held the Lombardi Trophy after winning the Super Bowl, I hoped the people who had written those letters were watching. I hoped their hearts had changed.

I didn’t want to be an icon. I wanted to provide hope. I wanted my experience to open people’s eyes to the opportunities available to all of us. Not necessarily just opportunities in football—although I’ll certainly keep looking for those—but any opportunity to knock down the walls that divide us. That’s how God wants it to be.

As we stood on the podium, I thought of my mom and my dad. Oh, how I wished they could have been there, celebrating in the rain with us. But I carried their memories in my heart. Memories of Bible stories and fishing and of their watching the only other Super Bowl I was in when I was a player for the Steelers in 1978. Miami, both times. Doesn’t God have a sense of timing?

I thought of Jamie, too—the rain on my face mixing with tears. I always tell grieving parents to cherish the good memories they have. I know that Jamie is in heaven, and I wouldn’t want to take him from there even if I could. What remains with me are the memories—warm and wonderful memories. At first they were too painful to think about, but I’ve come to realize that they’re a gift—a healing gift.

And so we press on. We press on with our memories, our hearts buoyed by a God who loves us and wants us to know Him deeply. We press on with our sense that life’s not always fair. And we press on with the knowledge—and assurance—that even though we can’t see all of God’s plan, He is there, at work and in charge, loving us. We press on with the conviction that even though we don’t deserve the gifts and blessings we’ve been given, He gives them anyway. We press on into an abundant life on earth, followed by an eternity with God.

Someday in the not too distant future—no time here on earth is all that distant when measured against eternity—I’ll be reminiscing with all my loved ones, talking of fishing or the Super Bowl or that stray dog that Jamie brought home or just how many children we ended up adopting, or getting fined for my outburst after the Giants game.

And my dad will probably ask me if I still think venting really helped.

Every time I think of you, I give thanks to my God.

—Philippians 1:3

I
was pretty sure I didn’t know anyone in Italy. Lauren and I were walking through Rome in the summer of 2005 when I spotted a guy who looked awfully familiar. As I walked past him, he immediately recognized me.

“Coach Dungy! It’s me! Regan Upshaw.”

Of course it was. Regan was vacationing with his wife and children in Rome, just as we were. We made introductions all around. And then, before I could say anything else, Regan brought up our time together with the Buccaneers.

“Coach, I just want to thank you,” Regan said. “I remember how you were always talking about responsibility and doing things right and the importance of the off-the-field stuff. Every time you said those things, I always thought,
Dog, why are you on me about all this stuff that doesn’t matter?