The Score Takes Care of Itself (17 page)

My show of contrived anger directed toward the New York “demon”—the media, not the New York team itself—was effective only because it was so atypical of my usual cold-blooded perspective on opponents; namely, that they were “Nameless, Faceless Objects,” simply anonymous prey to be dispatched. And the New York Giants were easily dispatched that particular Sunday afternoon.

Bill Parcells, when he was head coach of the New York Jets, once created a “demon” out of his own team. Disgusted with the effort the Jets were displaying in the final practice before a crucial
Monday Night Football
appearance with the New England Patriots, Coach Parcells angrily stormed off the field in a rage and took all of his coaches with him.

Veteran Jets players were forced to lead the team through the final hour of practice. Everyone got the message implicit in Parcell’s show of disgust with them. The players picked up the level of performance and intensity which ultimately created a 24-14 victory over the Patriots at Foxboro, Massachusetts

Afterward, Parcells said there was no intent on his part to stir up the emotions of his team, no connection between his actions and the outcome of the game, nothing contrived at all. Of course, the ability to say that with a straight face is proof of Bill’s exceptional acting ability.

Leaders who regularly employ this tactic of demonizing opponents destroy its effectiveness because it’s soon recognized as a ploy to stir up emotions. As soon as that happens, it’s ignored. Nevertheless, it had value in my system because it was used sparingly and performed convincingly.

I often wonder what would have happened if Bob Costas or some other announcer had happened to drive by just as I was delivering my speech in that desolate Meadowlands parking lot.

A strike in 1987 by the Players Association tested the judgment of everybody in the NFL—owners, players, union officials, management, and, of course, the head coach of each team. This was not the first time I had been called upon to deal with a strike. Earlier, during my disastrous fourth season at San Francisco, the league had faced a players’ strike. In addition to our reeling from the aftereffects of winning our first Super Bowl, the suspension of games that year turned everything on its head and created one of the worst seasons I ever had in football. I simply was unprepared for events.

My own choices through that strike-shortened season had not been good. This time around—’87—I wanted to make decisions that would benefit the organization in what was going to be a tumultuous time. It was particularly challenging because nobody really knew for certain what was going to happen.

Owners had decided to continue playing—no suspension of games or the season—with teams consisting mostly of replacement players. Many in the league assumed that games played during the strike wouldn’t actually count; many considered them virtually exhibition games. I didn’t make that mistake. This time around, I intended to use whatever logic and resources were available so that when the strike ended, the San Francisco 49ers would be standing tall amid whatever wreckage ensued.

We all knew going into the season that a strike was imminent. It was only a question of when. Consequently, in training camp we invited a disproportionate number of players to join us, knowing that many of them wouldn’t make the regular “prestrike” team. What we were interested in, however, was scouting individuals as potential replacement players. I also recognized that having them with us in camp would familiarize them with the 49er system in the event that they were called back during the upcoming strike.

By the end of training camp, we had a virtual replacement roster in order. Assistant coaches had spent lots of time with them, teaching them the 49er way of doing things. When the strike was called by the players’ union, we were as ready for it as an organization could be. Most other teams couldn’t make that claim. In fact, in our first “strike” game—the one in which I “demonized” the New York media on the way to Giants Stadium—we faced a New York organization coached by Bill Parcells, who had made assumptions completely the opposite of mine. His organization apparently didn’t believe the strike games would count and didn’t make contingency plans in case the games mattered. It was a big mistake. We won that game—beat the Giants handily on the way to a 13-2 regular season record. (We later lost in the NFC play-offs to the Minnesota Vikings.)

The lesson I had learned in fumbling through the earlier strike was useful this time around; namely, don’t assume because of odd circumstances that everything will somehow sort itself out. Rather, play for keeps all the time. The clock never stops running; there is never a “time-out” when what you do is somehow less meaningful.

Leading into and during the 1987 strike, I made a conscious decision that the NFL season was going to be played in a different and complicated new way—that a new set of rules and assumptions was going to be utilized—and I did my best to figure out those rules and assumptions to the advantage of our organization. The season was extremely trying, but the results were excellent. I had learned my lesson the first time around.

From a very early stage in my development as a leader, I found myself at odds with the common practice of abusing individuals emotionally, physically, or psychologically. When I came into the NFL as a very low-level assistant with the Oakland Raiders, I was deeply affected in a negative way by how roughly people were treated. Oakland was not the only team with a heavy-handed approach. A boot-camp mentality was the prevailing paradigm for NFL coaches. For reasons I can’t clearly define, it struck me as Neanderthal, clumsy, and a counterproductive way to achieve maximum productivity.

Having said that, I also recognized that a leader needs a very hard edge inside; it has to lurk in there somewhere and come out on occasion. You must be able to make and carry out harsh and, at times, ruthless decisions in a manner that is
fast
,
firm
,
and fair
. Applied correctly, this hard edge will not only solve the immediate difficulty, but also prevent future problems by sending out this important message: Cross my line and you can expect severe consequences. This will have ongoing benefits for your organization.

In my second year as 49er head coach, I was presented with a difficult situation that required action but could easily have been put off because of the situation. One of our top players, left tackle Ron Singleton, had decided during the off-season that he deserved not only more publicity and attention, but also much more money—almost twice as much as he was being paid on his contract. He had a good point: At 6 feet 6 inches and 287 pounds, he was responsible for protecting the blind side—the back—of our right-handed quarterbacks—Steve DeBerg and Joe Montana. It was a crucial position, and Ron was doing a good job. And he knew it.

To further his cause, Singleton hired an agent, somewhat unusual at the time but fine with me, and began trying to renegotiate his contract with the team.

I felt that his demands were out of line with the relatively frugal salary schedule of our team (the lowest in the NFL) but nevertheless found myself in a tough situation, because he was an outstanding member of an offensive line that was exhibiting real potential.

However, the problem wasn’t the attempt to increase his income. The fatal flaw in behavior was the unfortunate tendency he and his agent had of playing the race card. They argued that racism was built into the 49er organization, that we were unwilling to negotiate seriously and give him more money because he was an African American. This was absolutely false. Everyone was treated the same, especially when it came to money; specifically,
nobody
got paid very much, including me (my first-year salary as head coach and general manager in the National Football League was $160,000, probably the lowest in the league—and I had to fight for that).

Additionally, Ron was verbally abusive to certain staff members, a very serious breach of my Standard of Performance, which demanded respectful behavior toward all others on the 49er payroll.

Things came to a head after an unproductive contract session, when Ron left my office and proceeded to walk through our locker room making disparaging remarks about me and the 49ers, throwing in several racially charged comments for good measure, right in front of our equipment manager, Chico Norton, to whom he also made dismissive remarks. A few minutes later, news of what was going on filtered back to my office.

Immediately, I called in R. C. Owens, a former 49er player and cocre ator of the “alley-oop pass,” who worked in public relations for us, and asked him to go to Mr. Singleton’s locker and clear it out: “Shoes, shirts, socks, everything. Put it all in a box and deliver it to his house.” In less than an hour, R.C. had placed the cardboard box and its contents on the front steps of now ex-49er Ron Singleton.

Word of my decision circulated fast. Everybody knew what had happened and why. It sent out a vitally important message: There are consequences—at times harsh consequences—for ignoring the spoken and unspoken code of conduct that was part of the standards I had established. Ron Singleton was not exempt from my code of behavior just because he was an important component of our future. People got the message: If a top player such as Ron Singleton could be fired for breaking some fundamentally important element of my Standard of Performance, so could anyone.

The “cardboard box” incident became a focal point, a reminder throughout the 49er organization of the hard edge, the severe action I was willing to take if circumstances dictated, if I was pushed too far. It served me well over the years.

From time to time, leaders must show this hard edge. They must make those around them somewhat uneasy, even ill at ease, in not knowing what to expect from you, the leader. The knowledge that there is this hardness inside you can have a very sobering effect on those who might otherwise be sloppy—those who occasionally need to be reminded of your policies and practices.

Members of your organization should be empowered by the expertise and motivation you offer—the Standard of Performance you have defined—but also by their very clear understanding of the consequences of taking you too far.

There’s a positive aesthetic to my persona; it’s an image that can be misleading because it suggests a professorial—soft—attitude; a reluctance to bring down the hammer. But inside I have a hard edge, a willingness to mete out punishment and take action that may hurt individuals. It doesn’t reveal itself often, but it’s there. And those within our organization learned to respect it. You will benefit if that same understanding exists within your team.

Leadership is expertise. It is not rhetoric or cheerleading speeches. People will follow a person who organizes and manages others, because he or she has credibility and expertise—a knowledge of the profession—and demonstrates an understanding of human nature.

With rare exceptions, San Francisco 49er football players did not attain some new level of performance because of my pregame or halftime talks (although I felt pleased with myself and it satisfied me to give those inspirational speeches, especially if someone said afterward, “Great job, Bill.”).

After years of coaching, I knew that by the time our players went through the tunnel and under the goalposts onto the field, my inspirational words were history—forgotten.

On the field, the 49ers depended totally on the regimen and skills they had learned. My teaching and the great teaching of the 49er assistant coaches was the decisive factor in competition, not halftime speeches or homilies delivered standing on a chair in the locker room.

Furthermore, once the game started, the players responded to me not on the basis of my sideline shouting (seldom done), but because I could function under stress. I was clearheaded and made sound decisions. They saw it and knew it and responded like professionals.

The same is true elsewhere. Whatever great excitement you may stir up in your employees with a rousing speech about a big quarter or blowing away a sales quota starts to evaporate the minute they exit the conference room.

The true inspiration, expertise, and ability to execute that employees take with them into their work is most often the result of their inner voice talking, not some outer voice shouting, and not some leader giving a pep talk.

For members of your team,
you
determine what their inner voice says. The leader, at least a good one, teaches the team how to talk to themselves. An effective leader has a profound influence on what that inner voice will say.

The great leaders in sports, business, and life always have the most powerful and positive inner voice talking to them, which they, in turn, share with and teach to their organization. The specifics of that inner voice varies from leader to leader, but I believe all have these four messages in common:

Quarterback Joe Montana’s historic career included four Super Bowl championships (three Super Bowl MVP awards) and was due in large part to the fact that in addition to having talent he was a natural-born leader. The manner in which he accomplished all of this is worthy of examination as it offers invaluable insights on the essence of leadership.

At first I was puzzled by Montana’s effectiveness as a leader, because he didn’t have the swagger of a Joe Namath or the rough-and-tough attitude of a Dan Marino. He didn’t stand out as what sociologists call the alpha male—a man whose aggressive competitive instincts are readily apparent, like his great teammate in later years, Steve Young.