The Score Takes Care of Itself (22 page)

During practice at Cincinnati, I would devote a specific amount of time exclusively to the wide receivers, at other times just the quarterbacks, then the entire offense; later I would work alone on offensive schemes and then teach them to others. I was always teaching or thinking about how to be more effective as a teacher.

Today four different coaches would be hired to handle these jobs, but I was lucky in being able to do them all—no administrative duties, no executive responsibilities, no financial issues as I assumed with the 49ers. Just plain, old-fashioned teaching. I was a kid in a candy store and loved it all—every single minute of it.

When my results were productive, it was even more satisfying—Bruce Coslet became an outstanding tight end and later head coach of the Cincinnati Bengals; Bob Trumpy became an All-Pro tight end; Chip Myers, Isaac Curtis, and Charlie Joiner were All-Pro wide receivers; Virgil Carter maximized his quarterbacking skills, Ken Anderson led the NFL in passing and was an MVP. But the deepest satisfaction was in the process of teaching itself. Witnessing the evolution of their abilities and seeing it applied in the context of our organization—and on the field during games—was the source of great gratification.

That Cincinnati experience was as much fun as I’ve ever had in football, maybe as gratifying as Super Bowl championships or financial rewards, because I had the opportunity to do more hands-on teaching than I did later on. It was just great fun. Although before the pressure and huge expectations got built up, the 49ers’ experience in the first few years was thrilling too. Both were so fulfilling for the same reason—teaching, helping people achieve higher and higher levels of performance in the context of competing (and often prevailing) in my profession. I suppose you could conclude that for me the process of getting to the top was much more gratifying in many ways than the process of trying to stay on top.

Interesting enough, many executives have told me they experience the same pleasure in developing and advancing the skills of their own employees. Companies led by good teachers, those with passion, expertise, communication skills, and persistence, do very well.

Looking back, perhaps the lesson I would draw is this: If you don’t love it, don’t do it. I loved it—teaching people how to reach in deep to fulfill their potential, how to become great. And when you do that with a group, you, as the leader, enjoy the thrill of creating a great team. For me it was like creating a work of art. Only instead of painting on a canvas, I had the great joy of creating in collaboration with others.

Bill McPherson, Assistant Coach, San Francisco 49ers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Starting day one as head coach and general manager of the San Francisco 49ers, Bill Walsh came in and started cleaning out the building of people—fired everybody that he could fire, like assistant coaches, staff, and office personnel. He couldn’t fire the players all at once, but he was quick to start getting rid of them, too, the ones who didn’t meet his performance or attitude standards.

Within two years, much of the team he had inherited was gone. The Super Bowl champions his third year only had a few of the original hold overs. He had cleaned house.

One coach he kept on from the prior administration, Mike White, he knew from when they had been assistant coaches together, and Bill liked his expertise and attitude. But there weren’t many, hardly any at all. He wanted people in his new organization who did it his way, and believe me, he had a crystal clear concept of what “his way” was.

I knew Bill going back further than anybody in the organization when he hired me that first year—back to his days coaching football at Washington High School, and before that when I had seen him as a boxer.

Later, I was an assistant coach at Santa Clara College and he was coaching a semipro team called the San Jose Apaches. They were such a low-budget operation they didn’t even have their own football field to practice on—they worked out at nearby Wilcox High School. In fact, they didn’t even have their own projector to watch game film on. Bill would come over to Santa Clara College and use ours and while he was there basically give us his “chalk talks,” just casually explain his philosophy when it came to football. It was evident that his mind was extraordinary. He was a mismatch for the ragtag team he was in charge of—like a Formula 1 race car on a dirt track.

Nevertheless, I was surprised years later, when we began to work together at San Francisco, to see how comprehensive his knowledge was. He just had the whole thing thought out in his mind. Those staff meetings were really something, because it was apparent he knew exactly, precisely, what he wanted to do, which included exactly what he wanted
us
to do. And to make sure we did it, he gave us his big red binder playbook with all of his complex formations in it.

But it wasn’t like any regular playbook I’d ever seen. He had gone out and had it printed up almost like a textbook; routes and
X
’s and
O
’s were neat and clean—
professional
, not hand drawn and messy. Nobody had done it like that before. That’s what characterized everything Bill Walsh did: professionalism, first class.

Bill liked order. If he walked into an office and saw a picture hanging crooked, he’d go over and straighten it. That sounds silly, but it goes to his desire for precision in how things looked and were done—a picture on the wall had to be exactly right, and a play on the field had to be exactly right.

That same attitude applied to media relations and the message the media got from the 49ers organization. One man gave the media the message: Bill Walsh. The coaches who worked with him were not supposed to talk to reporters about the team. Bill did that; Bill controlled the output of information to the media.

He was a master at making us feel that we were persecuted by the outside world—discounted or ridiculed. Bill had a hundred different ways to get the team cranked up about having to
prove
to the media or other teams that they were wrong to dismiss us.

He didn’t like showboating or anything that suggested somebody was better than anybody else in his organization. Mutual respect among all employees was big for him, and boy, if he saw evidence to the contrary, he’d go off. One of his assistant coaches owned a Corvette with a personalized license plate that drew attention to himself—that this guy was a coach with the 49ers, which suggested, “I’m a big shot.”

Right away Bill spotted it in our parking lot, and that night during our coaches’ meeting, he lit into it: “Somebody in this room has a red Corvette with a stupid license plate on it. I want the #@*!*% license plate off that car before you come in here to work tomorrow.” He was livid. “Whoa,” I thought to myself, “this guy is tough.” Of course, that’s what Bill wanted me and the other coaches to think.

He was a great motivator because he had such a grasp of all the techniques to keep individuals plugged in and paying attention. He could really read a room—he’d love you up, but then, if you screwed up, watch out. You were always on a short string, on the edge of your chair, because he kept you guessing. He could turn it on and turn it off at exactly the right times. We were nervous about getting too happy and even more nervous about getting down in the dumps, because we knew Bill would tolerate neither.

He’d say to us coaches, “I’m going to yell at you in front of the players once in awhile. When that happens, don’t get upset with me. Your players will work even harder for you because they’ll feel sorry for you.” Bill used that one in training camp. However, most of the time he wasn’t doing it for effect.

I remember him spotting an assistant coach allowing a slant pattern to be run just a little bit off the exact route Bill had designed. It was just a few inches off, but from the other side of the field he saw it and started running all the way across the practice field, shouting to do it right.

Bill would get incensed if you messed with his plays. He knew they would work, but only if they were done exactly right. That’s why it was so important to him when he began hiring his assistant coaches at San Francisco that we be good teachers. He wanted things taught properly—his offense, of course, but then the defense, the special teams, the staff responsibilities. I think he felt those plays he was designing were very special, like a new invention that was guaranteed to work, but they wouldn’t work unless the coaches were good teachers.

He didn’t want puppets, however, guys just taking orders. He would even throw out some radical schemes on plays for us to consider, just to shake up our thinking. He wanted input, but once the decision was made, he wanted it carried out precisely.

Bill would be there at practice with three-by-five cards and one of those little golf pencils in his back pocket. If he pulled out a three-by-five card and starting writing, you just hoped it wasn’t about something you’d done wrong, because he’d let you know about it that night.

Bill raised the self-image of the organization. Players, for example, eventually had lockers with their pictures and names on them and plaques under their names listing any awards they had won—MVP, Pro Bowl, and others.

He had a brilliant mind coupled with a steel will. When it came to leadership, running the whole show, Bill was very strong—no question about who was in charge of things. But he had another side to him that was harder to understand. Several times during his ten years with the 49ers, he got so discouraged, depressed maybe, that he was on the verge of calling it quits, giving up.

After his fourth season, which was miserable, he instructed John McVay, vice president for football administration, to tell all of us coaches to go to the East-West Game and look for jobs. [Editor’s note: The East-West Game was an all-star game with top college players that drew a large group of coaches from NFL teams.] Why? Bill was intent on quitting, and that meant we’d probably get fired by his replacement. He changed his mind, but a lot of us were asking around about jobs at that game.

Bill put so much into his coaching and leadership that he became drained emotionally over time. He never let down, even for a second, but I think the fun kind of went out of it for him after the second Super Bowl championship.

But through it all, you really wanted to fight for him. And we did.

The most important attribute of any organization is the way it treats its people, its commitment to the individuals on the team. San Francisco owner Eddie DeBartolo insisted on a first-class operation—travel, accommodations, and more. He was willing to spend money and spent lots of it over the years. But money alone doesn’t determine whether an organization is first class.

We had no money initially. What we had was an organizational philosophy, the internal culture I installed, which was first-class in its treatment and respect for people. From the first day I took over, we treated people right. More than money, that’s what made the San Francisco 49ers a first-class organization internally. I had extremely high expectations—the Standard of Performance—of everyone on our payroll, but in return they could expect fair and decent treatment from me. And they got it.

Some critics claimed the 49ers won Super Bowl championships by spending exorbitantly on salaries and perks. Those critics ignore the fact that we won our first Super Bowl championship with the lowest salaries of any team in the entire NFL. As mentioned, my own pay as head coach and general manager—typically two separate jobs—was $160,000, and I had to fight to get that, even though it was at the bottom end of the salary scale for head coaches in the league.

In those earliest days, when I was building a team that would become highly competitive in just three years, it wasn’t money talking; it was dedication, expertise, and intelligently applied effort. It was sacrifice and commitment to our people. In turn, I got the best those people had to give our organization.

Additionally, Eddie had a gift for connecting with players and staff and showed his appreciation and friendship in small ways that made a big impression—a birthday card to a player (or a player’s child); a note of condolence when something bad happened to an employee; social events such as special dinners for staff members and their wives, who became football widows during the season because their husbands worked such ridiculous hours; personal contact with and a true interest in the lives of the people on his payroll.

Eddie spent big money along the way, but these smaller expressions told people in the organization, “You’re part of a family here,” and they responded. He was really good at that because he meant it. Money may buy you the best car in racing, but it won’t go very far (or fast) unless you treat it right. The same goes for the individuals on your team. The highest-paid, most talented people that you can go out and hire will not perform to their potential unless they feel as if they are part of something special—a family that treats them right.

The bus carrying head coach Paul Brown and most of the team from the hotel to the stadium took a wrong turn and got lost. It became apparent that the guy behind the steering wheel didn’t know what he was doing and was going around in circles. Brown was livid. He stormed up to the driver and barked: “Fella, I’m not mad at
you
. I’m mad at the SOB who hired you.”

Brown understood organizational accountability—where the buck stops. He knew that an organization is only as good as the people who work there and that the leader determines who works there.

I came to appreciate and utilize this fact after an unusual situation developed soon after I joined San Francisco as head coach. Within hours, we began diligently looking for a new general manager—the guy largely responsible for determining “who works there.” Unfortunately, nobody we wanted wanted us. Miami’s George Young, Seattle’s Dick Mansberger, and Baltimore’s Ernie Accorsi were among those who perfunctorily turned me down when offered the job as 49er GM.