The Score Takes Care of Itself (20 page)

(Obviously, there was also constant interaction every minute during practice and at other times during the day, but often it was in the context of preparation or planning. Not informal, casual “How’s the family?”- style interaction.)

This was similar in a way to the approach of Dave Packard and Bill Hewlett, founders of Hewlett-Packard and charter members of Silicon Valley. They called it “management by walking around.” Both men were constantly circulating and talking with their employees in the labs, production areas, and research facilities, recognizing that personal communication was often necessary to back up written instructions.

Dave and Bill were not alone in this approach. Silicon Valley has many billion-dollar companies whose CEO will work directly with a maintenance person when it’s important, or sit down momentarily with middle managers and help them do their job. There is no stratification or pecking order where they try to figure out where everybody fits socially. There just isn’t room for a hierarchy.

Jack Welch, former CEO of General Electric, called it “boundaryless” communication and worked hard to remove barriers to the flow of information within the corporation. Everybody is in the loop and expected to participate.

As a former boxer, I’d suggest that if your left hand doesn’t know what your right hand is doing, you’ll get knocked out. Your right hook must be in sync with your left jab. For this to occur, your brain must communicate so your hands can collaborate. The same principle applies in business and in sports.

Even though I had virtually complete autonomy through most of my ten years as head coach of the 49ers, I was never called
Coach
Walsh. In fact, everyone in the organization was addressed by their first name, including me. I wanted no barriers such as rank or title to clog up productive interaction, no chain of command to produce a sense that instead of a real team we were just a collection of isolated individuals on a totem pole of power belonging to small independent units.

Rank, titles, or inferred status can impede open communication in an environment where people thrive on helping one another. Here’s just one small instance that demonstrates how the absence of such barriers manifested itself in our organization.

At halftime during a midseason game with the New Orleans Saints, I told our offensive team that if we got near the Saints’ thirty-yard line I was going to call a specific pass play that I’d been saving for the situation. Sure enough, early in the third quarter we got to the Saints’ twenty-seven-yard line, but in the heat of the moment I forgot about the play I’d promised in the locker room to use.

Steve Young, our backup quarterback, who was standing close by, immediately leaned over and reminded me of what I had said earlier. I listened; we scored. (This example demonstrates two important points: (1) Young understood and practiced communication and collaboration. He felt free to speak up even though it might be embarrassing to me since in the heat of the moment I had completely forgotten what I said earlier, and (2) Steve was selfless, team first, in bringing forth information that his “rival” quarterback, Joe Montana, would use successfully.)

I wanted no separate divisions where people felt that the only thing that mattered was their specific area of responsibility, that somehow their welfare was separate from that of the rest of us. Steve was like that—a team player.

Thus, the defensive coordinator understood that doing his job was not all that mattered—that the welfare of the offense was not somehow another island of no concern to him. Everyone understood the only welfare that mattered was the organization’s. If our ship sank, we all drowned.

For that to happen—for individuals to merge their own interests with those of the team—good communication must exist in an open atmosphere where intellectual interaction is a given.

Former UCLA basketball coach John Wooden has always urged, “Be more concerned with finding the right way than in having it your way.” When you reach the point where someone in your organization comes up with an idea better than the one you’ve been extolling for weeks or months and it makes you happy, you’re an authentic communicator and collaborator.

A leader who just wants to hear “yes” is like a child who only wants to eat candy. Soon the youngster’s teeth are gone. Likewise, a leader who wants people standing in line to agree with him or her will soon be history, having sailed into the sunset as captain of the ship of fools.

This involves setting aside your ego, resisting the temptation to let the world know how smart you are or
think
you are. If you’re doing your job, the team will recognize your abilities. In turn, you must recognize their talent and bring forth their potential in a collaborative way.

A sales manager who resists input from his or her sales team automatically limits its potential; a manager who holds forth at the conference table might as well be sitting there alone; a football coach with small ears and a big ego will soon be watching the game on television at home instead of from the sidelines.

“Listen and learn” isn’t a bad motto; neither is “Listen and lead.” In most organizations the leader’s example sets the tone for everyone else. One of the greatest and most neglected skills in leadership is the ability to listen. If someone told me that leadership is as easy as one, two, three, I’d reply, “Only if the one, two, and three are as follows:

Fourteen of the assistant coaches who worked with me at San Francisco went on to head coaching jobs in the NFL or at the college level. I believe a big part of the reason for this extraordinary upward mobility was that they were fully included in the communication and collaborative decision-making process during their tenures with me. They were also good listeners.

They did well because our organization valued communication and collaboration; I did well for the same reason. Everybody can be a winner when “Be a Good Listener” is at the top of your leadership mission statement. Good collaboration begins with big ears.

Great leaders are not necessarily predictable people. One of the best I’ve ever known is Pete Newell, who for many years was head basketball coach at the University of California-Berkeley. Among other things, his team won the national championship—March Madness—in 1959, and he was later voted Coach of the Year. His teams were consistently competitive, well taught, and among the nation’s best.

Coach Newell did lots of things right, but I was particularly intrigued by his ability to keep individuals sharp and on their toes—to keep them from falling into a mental comfort zone, which can occur when the person in charge becomes too predictable. This comfort zone is dangerous because it creates an often almost imperceptible lowering of intensity, focus, and energy, which leads directly to reduced effort, additional mistakes, and diminished performance.

Watching Pete’s Golden Bears during practices at their gym in Berke ley, I saw that he could suddenly become very worked up, severe, and critical—lashing out without warning or apparent cause. He would spot some minor miscue, and suddenly
everything
would change. It was something to witness—out of the blue, lightning and thunder from Newell over seemingly nothing situations.

And then just as quickly—usually, but not always—his verbal and emotional squall would pass. When he had addressed the little “issue” that had set him off, Pete would become lighthearted and even engage in humor as the practice resumed. But it was evident the players were now on edge and would subsequently ebb and flow with his demeanor, attitude, and emotions—looking to him for a response and reacting to his behavior.
He
was the focal point the others responded to.

Of course, the little “issue” that had set him off—for example, a pass that he declared not crisp—was often an excuse to fix the larger concern, which was usually the level, or lack thereof, of intensity, energy, and attention.

Players were kept on their toes because Pete Newell was somewhat unpredictable. They knew that a toughness lurked within and that he was willing and able to bring it forth if he felt it necessary. It kept them on their toes.

Effective leaders often have this quality. They understand that if you’re
predictably
difficult or
predictably
easygoing, others become
predictably
comfortable. In a highly competitive environment, feeling comfortable is first cousin to being complacent.

Personally, when I sensed from time to time that our team or staff was getting comfortable, I wasn’t afraid to exercise whatever acting skills I could summon. During a practice that was lacking high energy and laser-like focus, I might suddenly just let my emotions boil over, throw down my clipboard, chew out an assistant coach (they knew what I was up to), and exhibit the emotions and language I’d seen Pete Newell display so effectively: “I can’t take this anymore! We’ve got to pick it up or I’m gonna make some changes here, because
this
has got to stop!” The players didn’t even know what “this” was. It didn’t matter.

What I was doing in that instance was for effect, something to shatter their comfort zones. Having jarred their attention, given them a jolt, I’d get right back to business. Rarely would I get personal or do any damage. It was a somewhat contrived outburst that served like the snarl of a tiger when you get too close to its cage. Used sparingly, it is an effective leadership tool.

The people around you must feel somewhat on edge with you at times because they know there’s another side of your personality—ill at ease because they don’t always know what to expect and have come to understand there’s a toughness within you. Ideally, those you lead are driven to excel by the expertise, example, inspiration, and motivation you offer—the Standard of Performance you define and personify—but sometimes you have to snarl to remind them of the consequences of straying from your standards.

This is part of the tough (at times severe) side of leadership necessary to eliminate a comfort zone, which can creep into an organization and keep it from pushing on to higher and higher levels. One of the tools I used to accomplish this was to emulate Pete Newell—to shake things up with a somewhat contrived show of temper that comes from nowhere and disappears just as quickly.

There are times, of course, when a snarl must be replaced with a bite, when you are not acting, but instead taking serious action. One year during practice at our training camp in Rocklin, California, a rookie lineman, a muscular and swaggering guy trying out for the squad, broke through the offensive line and got to Joe Montana. At that point, he knew what to do, namely, nothing. You do not make contact with our quarterback during practice drills or plays.

This fellow didn’t follow the rule. Apparently to show us what a great tackler he was—or maybe he was just stupid—he proceeded to deck Joe with a vicious hit. It’s not overstating it to say this guy put our whole season on the line for an instant. I fired him right there, before Joe even got back up on his feet. “Get that son of a bitch out of here,” I yelled at an assistant coach. “Right now. Don’t even let that son of a bitch take a shower!”

Sometimes you snarl; sometimes you bite; sometimes you smile and give a thumbs-up. There’s a little bit of the actor in all good leaders.

Leadership requires poise under pressure. An organization that wit nesses its leader at loose ends when troubles arise will look elsewhere for strength and direction. Knowing in advance what I would do in various situations—for example, scripting a game—was insurance that I could stay poised when it counted. Here’s a good example of how it stabilized my thinking and behavior in a high-pressure, pivotal game that was played under arctic conditions and afforded the winner a trip to the Super Bowl.

The 49ers had arrived in Chicago during an arctic cold-snap to face the Bears at Soldier Field in a game that would decide the NFC championship. Local fans and media had started proclaiming the Bears “the Team of Destiny” because, after preseason media reports suggesting the team was fading, they had gone 12-4 during the regular season.

Having won Super Bowl XX three years earlier, they were now a game away from a return trip, and Chicago had begun to celebrate early. Why? Because their opponents were coming in from the West Coast, meaning they were “wine-sipping, Brie-eating, effete athletes,” as one popular Midwest image of the 49ers had it. Adding substance to that characterization was our tough 10-9 midseason loss to the Bears in a game at Chicago.

During the warm-up in freezing conditions, Chicago’s big and seemingly less intelligent linemen were parading around in short shirtsleeves and strutting their stuff like tough guys. Some of the 49ers looked over and wondered, “What’s wrong with them? They’re gonna freeze to death.” But the posturing continued, a little psychology to intimidate or embarrass us. (The previous season, in San Francisco, the Bears had lost to the 49ers 41-0. Immediately after the final gun, Mike Ditka, a tempestuous, in-your-face coach, had reacted to our cheering fans by hurling his gum into the stands on his way to the locker room. Of course, he got three hundred pieces of gum thrown right back at him. Somebody even filed assault charges for being hit by Ditka’s wad of gum. The Chicago media, of course, played this up in the days before our NFC championship game.)

Now I was in Chicago with their screaming fans, the wind howling with a twenty-six-below-zero windchill and the entire season at stake. In addition to all the play-off pressure and other distractions, there was this: Right behind our bench was a Cyclone fence holding spectators back. Standing at the fence was an inebriated Bears fan with a big megaphone that could have called across the Great Lakes. The guy had picked his spot carefully, because his plan was to ride me mercilessly during the game.