The Score Takes Care of Itself (27 page)

Bubba was eating like a bird at the training table, but the dinner bell didn’t really ring until he got back to his dorm room.

All of this was a good lesson for me: Willpower was not a commodity I could simply hand out like a couple of aspirin tablets.

Whether it’s a 350-pound tackle, an employee, or a child, we must try our best to encourage, support, and inspire, but eventually—ultimately—people must do it for themselves. No one else can do it for them, including you, regardless of whether you’re a head coach, CEO, manager, nutritionist, or doctor. A closet floor covered with KFC boxes reminded me of that.

Nevertheless, I’m happy to report that Bubba Paris has gotten a certain amount of control over his weight problem and is leading a much healthier lifestyle—too late to extend his successful football career, but hopefully in time to extend his life.

Coaches and scouts in the National Football League view the raw speed demonstrated in the forty-yard sprint as a litmus test of a receiver’s potential, a tried-and-true tool in deciding whether to draft him. Do a good time in the forty and you’ve probably got a job; less than that and you may have to look for another line of work.

I took a somewhat different view. I valued blazing speed but also prized what I call “functional” speed—how fast a player can move with a ball in his hands
after
he’s in stride. To my thinking, that’s how it’s usually done in a game. Because of my unconventional philosophy, I was able to see the potential in a young man who became the greatest receiver in NFL history.

The night before a 49ers game in Houston during my sixth season as head coach, I was watching a local television station’s sports highlights in my hotel room. One of the games it covered involved a tiny college in Itta Bena, Mississippi, called Mississippi Valley State.

The school’s top receiver was a kid named Jerry Rice who seemed to find a way to get open, catch the ball, and gain yardage with ease. I think he scored four or five touchdowns in the game, in spite of the fact that he would not have won a medal in the Olympic hundred-yard dash. Once he hit full stride, however, Rice was something truly remarkable. He had functional speed, fantastic moves, and hands that were as sure as a surgeon’s. Plus, Jerry Rice had the heart of a warrior.

And I knew I could design plays that got him open and put the ball in his hands. I can still remember the excitement I felt thinking about it as I watched him during that sports highlights show in Texas. Believe it or not, I was in the minority when it came to recognizing Jerry’s potential.

He was not considered a top-flight prospect by some prominent scouts around the league, and even in the 49er organization, because he had a “mediocre” forty-yard time—not much better than 4.6 seconds. They considered him a possible fifth- or sixth-round draft pick because he lacked so-called blazing speed off the blocks. I was strongly advised not to waste our number one draft choice to pick him. That was the conventional wisdom.

I knew better, looked beyond his so-so time in the forty, ignored the advice I had been given, and focused on his outstanding speed and moves from fifteen to fifty yards. I was one of only a few who felt this way about the promising receiver, because a trade with New England moved us up enough in the draft to acquire the still-available Jerry Rice with our number one pick. Two other wide receivers were chosen ahead of Jerry by teams that didn’t see what I saw in him. And that’s how the San Francisco 49ers acquired the services of the greatest receiver, perhaps the greatest player, in NFL history.

Here’s my point. Occasionally, when striving to go beyond conventional results, you must go beyond the conventional and against popular opinion. This means trusting your own judgment enough to be resourceful, innovative, and imaginative. It means resisting the herd mentality.

To put it another way: Conventional wisdom often produces conventional results. Conventional thinking didn’t produce Jerry Rice.

Enemies take up your time, energy, and attention—commodities too valuable to squander frivolously. This is especially true in a profession as public as professional football, because everybody takes potshots at you all the time; it’s easy to acquire a long list of individuals with whom you want to even the score.

That’s why I instructed everyone in our organization—players, staff, and all others—to do everything possible to get along with people who interacted with us, even when it might appear they were treating us unfairly. We simply couldn’t afford to waste resources fighting needless fights, whether with fans, media, vendors, sponsors, other teams, or anyone else, including squabbles among ourselves. You can quickly find yourself doing nothing but chasing so-called enemies.

“Hostile relationships are toxic. Cultivate good relationships,” I cautioned. “Be available; avoid making enemies; don’t close off communications.” I taught those in the organization that it was necessary to initiate communication after a conflict, even if the other person had misunderstood you or wrongfully ridiculed you. And to understand that regardless of the cause of the animosity, negative relationships have
ongoing
negative consequences.

I felt that positive or at least nonadversarial relationships were a tangible and significant organizational asset. I worked hard at following my own advice about having “no enemies,” and it paid handsome dividends.

For example, Al Davis, owner of the Oakland Raiders, was a pivotal figure in the evolution of the NFL. He is a man of tremendous ability from whom I learned a great deal when I was one of his assistant coaches. Early in his career he was an outstanding and innovative coach (later general manager); his knowledge, creativity, and charisma made him one of the best. Additionally, Al had tremendous expectations of himself and everyone around him.

Similarly, as an owner he had great results—Oakland Raiders championships in Super Bowl XI, Super Bowl XV, and Super Bowl XVIII.

But Al Davis could be the devil personified if you crossed him or got on his bad side. I did not want his wrath and made very sure that our relationship was very workable. I simply didn’t look for a fight, even when Al might test my patience, and he was pretty good at doing that. Among other things, my approach meant that we had a positive and productive connection. I could call Al on the phone and make a deal in a second (as I did in the Cedrick Hardman trade). We got along fine over many years and through a variety of challenges.

Howard Cosell, one of
Monday Night Football
’s biggest stars, was a different story and tested my “no enemies” policy when I met him for the first time.

Months before a chance meeting in New York, I had announced with great irritation during a Tuesday press conference that San Francisco had not been mentioned once on the previous evening’s
Monday Night Football
halftime highlights show. The reason? The network, and Howard, didn’t want to remind viewers that we had crushed Dallas, 45-14, the day before. And Dallas was playing the Los Angeles Rams in an unusual Sunday-night game on ABC-TV in just six days.

I was offended and told reporters, “The football elitists, jockstrap elitists don’t consider us in the comfort zone. There are power sources, influence sources in the National Football League, forty-five-year-old men who are football groupies who prefer that we not exist so they can hold on to their football contracts and associations or power groups. It’s a business, and they [ABC] need the Los Angeles-Dallas game to be a big [ratings] game. It’s obvious; it’s blatant. It’s a disservice to the public.” I was letting off steam because I viewed the omission as intentional and part of the NFL’s view that San Francisco was a backwater of professional football, a team that didn’t matter. Nevertheless, once I made my statement, I moved on and thought it was over. But it wasn’t over.

Many months later, I was at a cocktail reception in Manhattan and spotted Cosell across the room. I went over to him, assuming he’d want to say hello to me as much as I was looking forward to saying hello to him. I was wrong.

Cosell had not forgotten my “jockstrap elitist” remarks from months earlier and was still incensed: “Who are you,
sir
, to confront someone like me or the people I represent?” he barked in my face as his cigar smoke curled around us. “You are nobody! You are nothing!”

Scores of people witnessed his public browbeating of me. I retreated and disappeared into the crowd (which was buzzing about what it had just witnessed), too astonished and embarrassed by what he had done to utter any defense or apology or mount an attack. Obviously, I was very angry.

But later, after considerable thought, I decided it was appropriate to follow my own “no enemies” policy and write Howard a conciliatory letter explaining that my comments had not been aimed at him, but rather at those at the network who were in management and production. Further, I explained that if he had taken the comments personally I sincerely apologized for any discomfort they might have caused him. Believe me, this was not an easy letter to write.

Howard was appeased. He sent me a friendly note and the following season joined me for dinner in San Francisco before the 49ers’ upcoming appearance on
Monday Night Football
while I was head coach. Howard and I cemented our new friendship over martinis at a steak house in downtown San Francisco.

From that point forward, Howard Cosell was a Bill Walsh booster, supporting my cause in all areas, even at times when I was being held up to great public criticism. He had been transformed from an adversary into an advocate.

It was made possible because I was committed to a personal and organizational “no enemies” policy. Everyone on the 49ers payroll knew I expected them to do the same. Over the years, the benefits to us were significant. We simply didn’t get bogged down, distracted, or consumed with firefights that amounted to nothing. Or at least we minimized that number.

It’s a maxim that one enemy can do more damage than the good of a hundred friends. I believe it’s true and worth remembering the next time you get upset with someone and mutter, “I’ll fix that so-and-so.” While you’re getting even, they’re getting ahead.

You must be astute enough to avoid becoming the loser in such situations. By being sensitive to the inherent hazards of a hostile relationship, you can give yourself a chance to win the person over to having at least a neutral association with you.

The reality of the situation is that regardless of the reason behind an extremely adversarial relationship, such a relationship can have negative consequences. Conversely, by minimizing the forces working against you, you do away with resultant distractions and free your mind and conserve your energy to focus on your work.

I was thrust into an organization that was a loser in need of a turnaround. In that situation and under the best conditions—and what I faced was far from the best—you need time to install your ideas and make them work. In one sense, you’re trying to keep your superiors from doing anything rash because they want results
now
, while simultaneously working with those under your supervision so they don’t give up or mutiny. Here’s how I tried to deal with the former, namely, ownership.

Two years before I was hired, Eddie DeBartolo paid $17 million for the San Francisco 49ers. He then turned the organization over to his son, Eddie DeBartolo Jr. Obviously, both men wanted a winner, but it wasn’t happening. Over their first two seasons, the team’s record was the worst in the league: 7-23.

I came aboard in year three of their ownership and immediately added fourteen additional losses to the books, which meant after three years in the NFL the DeBartolos’ football team had a cumulative record of 9-37. The 49ers were bad and appeared to the uninformed to be getting worse. I honestly believe that in those days if we’d given away free tickets to games, we still wouldn’t have been able to fill the sixty thousand seats in Candlestick Park.

Obviously, I felt I could turn things around, but I needed to buy time. I did it, in part, by keeping Eddie Jr. in the loop; fully informed—perhaps overly informed—on every single phase of the operation.

This included providing him with a budget manual (thick), an operations manual (thick), a personnel manual (thick), an overall set of job descriptions that included the specific job of each player and my evaluation of that individual (thick), and a detailed listing of my performance goals and expectations (even thicker). On and on and on. Paper. Paper. Paper. The information was not frivolous “filler,” but substantive and sizable.

I wanted the owner (and his advisers) to understand that I was applying maximum effort and paying attention to every single solitary detail of the family’s massive financial investment. I believe the voluminous detailing of my efforts and plans bought me precious time. The hands-off patience Eddie Jr. afforded me in the beginning contributed greatly to winning our first Super Bowl championship. He was a terrific boss to work for during my early years as head coach and general manager of his team. I believe this was due in some measure to the fact that my ongoing effort to keep him totally informed gave him comfort.

Positive results—winning—count most. But until those results come through your door, a heavy dose of documentation relating to what you’ve done and what you’re doing, planning to do, and hoping to do may buy you just enough extra time to actually
do
it.

Whether they read it or not, flood your superiors with information that is documented—projections, evaluations, reports on progress, status updates. Then ask for periodic meetings. In a very professional way, force them to understand that you’re doing everything you possibly can and that it’s documented; in fact, they’re holding it in that large folder in their hands. Open and honest communication with your superiors, both written and verbal, is a valuable tool in keeping them from coming to the wrong conclusions.