Quiet Strength (8 page)

There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, “Thy will be done,” and those to whom God says, in the end,“ Thy will be done.”

—C. S. Lewis

A
FTER
we won
THE
SUPER
BOWL
in Miami, the summer of 1979 was much the same as the one before. I was lifting and running, hanging out with Steelers and Pirates, and growing in my faith. That fall, I arrived at camp in fantastic shape. I was healthy, too—no mono, thank goodness. I breezed through the initial cuts and reached the weekend of the biggest cut of camp.

All the cuts had been made but one—the coaching staff still had to get rid of one more player in order to reach the required number. We were hanging out in Joe Greene’s dorm room—Donnie Shell, Mel Blount, Franco Harris, Terry Bradshaw, Joe, and I—trying to figure out what the coaches were going to do. It was apparent that the coaches were having difficulty deciding or working out a trade, because it was taking longer than usual. Finally, there came a knock on the door.

I looked around the room: Shell, Blount, Harris, Bradshaw, Greene … and Dungy.

I stood up. “Well, it’s got to be me,” I said, laughing as I left the room.

As it turned out, I had not been cut, but I had been traded—from the best team in football to the worst. I was headed to the San Francisco 49ers. And in spite of my attempt at humor, I was sorry to go. After doing so well in 1978, I had fully expected to be with the Steelers for many years. I had even bought a house during that off-season, so this move was a shock. But this was the NFL; trades and cuts were always a possibility.

The previous year had really shaped my attitude, though. If this had happened even one year earlier, I probably would have been devastated. Now, however—as would happen many more times in my future—I saw it as God moving me to where He wanted me to go.

I had really enjoyed my time in Pittsburgh. More than being the best team in the
NFL
, the Steelers were a great organization in which to grow up as a player and a person and, as it turned out, to grow in my faith.

Art Rooney, the Steelers’ owner, was unlike any other owner I would ever meet again. If people were visiting the club and he was around, they would have no idea that he owned the team. He didn’t put on airs or expect recognition. He walked to work every day from his home near downtown Pittsburgh, and even when the neighborhood changed for the worse, he refused to move out.

I only played for the Steelers for two years and was never more than a backup when I was there. But when I was traded, Mr. Rooney wrote a letter to my parents, telling them how much he had enjoyed my playing for him and his getting to meet them when they came to games. He wrote that I had been a big part of their Super Bowl win and asked them to continue to come back to Steelers games any time they were in the area.

Mr. Rooney saw everyone who came through his organization as one of his kids. Everything about the Steelers was first-class and all about integrity. In that respect, Mr. Rooney set the tone for the entire organization. He cultivated an environment of caring and closeness, and Chuck Noll reinforced that with his coaching.

With those benefits, however, came responsibility. When new guys arrived, Mr. Rooney always brought them in and explained that they were now Steelers and that they were going to win and have a great time. But then he would continue. “We have a great group of guys here. But you have to understand that this is Pittsburgh. It’s a tight-knit community, and you are now
Pittsburgh
Steelers. Wherever you go, you’re going to represent us as a team and as a community, so govern yourselves accordingly.”

He was the most supportive man I could imagine. When we won, he would come into the locker room and shake everyone’s hand until he had moved all the way through the ranks. When we lost, he’d come into the locker room and sit down and talk with us for a while. He was even known to give cigars to Joe Greene and other guys who smoked them and to shoot the breeze with Terry Bradshaw about horses.

It had been a privilege to play for Mr. Rooney, and I knew I would miss my time in Pittsburgh.

I played the 1979 season in San Francisco. In the meantime, the Steelers represented Pittsburgh just fine on the field, doing the ordinary things better than anyone else and winning their fourth Super Bowl in six years.

In San Francisco, we went 2–14. We opened the year with a seven-game losing streak, beat Atlanta, and then ended our second long streak of the year—six consecutive losses—by drilling the Buccaneers 23–7.

While San Francisco was a different environment from Pittsburgh, it was no less valuable for my career development. It was Bill Walsh’s first year as head coach, and he was beginning to lay the foundation for the Super Bowl teams he would eventually field there. Joe Montana was in his rookie season at quarterback, and other pieces were being added in order to build the team. Years later, I would often draw on Coach Walsh’s teachings as I tried to build the Buccaneers.

Even a 2–14 team wouldn’t have me, though, and I was traded before the 1980 season to the New York Giants. I was traded along with Mike Hogan in exchange for Ray Rhodes and Jimmy Robinson, a trade that would soon launch several coaching careers. Within a couple of seasons, Ray and Jimmy were out of the league as players and into coaching.

As for me, I lasted for most of training camp with the Giants before being released. Three teams in two years. The end of the line for me as an
NFL
player had obviously arrived. Now I had to figure out what I wanted to do next.

Giants head coach Ray Perkins spoke to me as I was leaving training camp in New York.

“Tony, you’re very smart, and you have a good approach to the game. I think you’d make a very good coach someday.” I figured that was his way of getting me out the door without too much conversation, but later I would learn that Coach Perkins just wasn’t the type to make small talk.

I had spent parts of summers working at various Pittsburgh businesses, like Mellon Bank and Heinz, but I hadn’t found anything that I loved. So I headed back to the University of Minnesota to work out and stay in shape in case another team called, volunteering as a defensive backs coach for the Golden Gophers for the rest of the 1980 season. Finally the Denver Broncos called, late in the year, but I had missed so many games by then that I figured I wouldn’t do anyone any good. I declined and effectively ended my playing career.

Immediately after the season, Coach Perkins followed through on his earlier comments, calling to offer me a coaching position. I was very interested, and after talking with him, I figured I was destined to go to New York. In the meantime, Wellington Mara, the owner of the Giants, mentioned to his close friend Art Rooney of the Steelers, that it looked as though they would be hiring a former Steeler—me—as one of their coaches.

Mr. Rooney called Coach Noll, who called me. “If you’re really interested in coaching, I think we can create something for you right here,” he said. I accepted the offer and became a Steeler once more.

In taking that job with the Steelers at the age of twenty-five, I became the youngest coach in the
NFL
. The situation could have been a disaster, but the Steelers made it easy for me to break in as a coach. Even though I was younger than most of the players, and they had seen me come in just three years earlier not knowing anything about defense, those guys were professionals. So many of them were locked into the idea of living for Christ that it didn’t matter who was coaching them. They worked hard and honored God through it because that’s just what they did. Before I knew it, I was doing odd jobs, breaking down film, and essentially acting as an assistant to the head coach.

Chuck Noll always reminded us that “Football is what you are doing right now, but it’s not your life’s work. You’ve got to continue to prepare for your life’s work.” Occasionally it occurred to us that he had been in football for such a long time that it certainly seemed to be
his
life’s work, but I don’t think anybody ever had the guts to say it.

Chuck often preached the importance of time away from the office, and we knew it wasn’t just lip service. Chuck lived out his message. He loved to cook, drive boats, and fly planes. He never wanted to just hang around the office, especially if the work was done. His philosophy was “Get the work done so you can enjoy the other parts of your life.” I was single at the time, so the other parts of my life in Pittsburgh did not include family. But the Steelers organization was certainly a great place for me to learn and to shape a philosophy.

Even though I never did work for Coach Perkins, I have always been grateful for the encouragement and direction he planted in my mind. He had been around me for only a few weeks of camp, so for him to say what he did carried a great deal of weight, despite the fact that he was cutting me at the time. As a coach with the Steelers, I looked forward to going to work my second day on a job—for the first time ever.

It was Father’s Day weekend of 1981, my first year coaching with the Steelers. The phone rang late on Friday night, June 19. It was our chaplain, Hollis Haff, who told me he needed a last-minute speaker for the father-and-son breakfast at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Sewickley, just outside of Pittsburgh. Each year, one of the Steelers players or coaches spoke, but this year’s speaker, lineman Ted Petersen, had gotten sick.

I didn’t feel like getting up early—I had just walked in from an all-day, out-of-town football clinic. I think Hollis could read my mind. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but we’ve done this every year, and they’re really counting on us to have someone there. Ted’s sick, and I wouldn’t even ask, except …”

I told Hollis I’d do it as a favor to him.

The next morning I showed up at St. Stephen’s to meet with the senior pastor, Dr. John Guest. I made the appropriate apologies on behalf of Ted and the Steelers, and Dr. Guest asked if he could sit with me during the meal. “I’ve got a bio prepared on Ted, but I’m afraid I don’t know anything about you,” he said. “At least if we sit together while we eat, I could put together a reasonable introduction.”

During breakfast, I shared with Dr. Guest what I planned to say to the group. Thanks to my mom’s training, I never have been afraid to speak in public, and at that point, I was always ready to talk about my faith. Because it was an event for father and sons and I didn’t have any children of my own, I talked about a subject I knew something about and that most boys are interested in: athletics. In these types of settings, I often used 1 Corinthians 9:24-27 as my starting point. In that passage, Paul talks about competing and running to win. I told the group that we always have to be sure the prize we’re after is worthwhile. I explained that while the Super Bowl is a great goal, if it’s all we’re after, we’ll be disappointed when we get there.

When I finished speaking, Dr. Guest approached me again. “I’m not sure how to say this, but there’s a girl in my congregation here that you’ve really got to meet. I know this sounds strange since I’ve only been with you for an hour, but I think you two would be perfect for each other.”

I did my best to gently blow him off. “Hmmm, that’s interesting. Maybe … sure, we could do that sometime. Okay. Thanks.”

As I left, Dr. Guest could tell that I wasn’t taking him seriously. He called Hollis Haff later to get my phone number.

“Tony, I know you think this is crazy, but I’m serious,” he said when he called. “You really ought to meet this girl.”

I was thinking,
This church has five thousand people, and there are no single guys she can get attached to? What must she look like?

Dr. Guest called me three or four more times over the next couple of weeks, asking if he could simply introduce me to this girl. “That’s all I want to do. I’m just so certain that you will click and this will be perfect.”

Meanwhile, I was not quite so certain. “Maybe you could just give me her number,” I suggested. I thought that would get him to quit calling me and make all this go away.

“I’m sorry, Tony, but she’s not the type to take kindly to you calling her directly. I really need to do it this way—to introduce you.”

All the while, Dr. Guest was apparently trying the same tactics with the girl he wanted me to meet, and he wasn’t getting any further with her. I later learned that she was even less interested than I was. She was thinking,
Here’s a guy who played for the Steelers and now coaches with the Steelers, and he can’t get a date in Pittsburgh? What kind of a nerd must he be?

She was closer to the truth than I was. I was quiet and shy, and I wasn’t particularly interested in dating. I was more interested in finding a woman I could marry, and I figured that day wouldn’t come for a while yet.

After weeks of putting Dr. Guest off, I finally agreed to meet the girl. The Steelers were leaving to begin training camp on July 20, so I told him I would only be free the following day, Saturday, July 18. Dr. Guest then called the girl and pitched the idea that I would like to come by and meet her. She reluctantly agreed.

When I got to her house and she opened the door, I was stunned. Lauren Harris was
beautiful.
She reminded me of the way my mom looked when I was a young boy. She had a pretty smile and a thin, athletic build. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t already dating someone. She was dressed conservatively, like a schoolteacher, although at the time she was actually taking summer classes herself.

Lauren was pretty reserved, at least at first, not yet knowing this man the minister had sent to her door. And I was
nervous.
Her parents were both there, and her dad, Leonard, was gregarious and very friendly to me right from the start. He seemed to be moving a hundred miles an hour as he raced around, trying to get to work. I would later learn that this was par for the course for him. Her mom, Doris, looked as if she could have been Lauren’s older sister. She sat down in the kitchen with us, and we talked for a while, getting acquainted.