Monte, Rod, and Lovie were all on board at One Buc and ready to get to work. I didn’t let them meet as a staff for the first month, though, because we still didn’t have a defensive backs coach, and I wanted the defensive staff to be complete before they started meeting together. Rich McKay started coming by a little more frequently, with an increasing sense of urgency about the status of my staff. In the NFL, there’s a tremendous amount of pressure to hire a staff quickly. The concern is that the longer you wait, the greater the chance that the best coaches will be under contract somewhere else. I was bound and determined to have the right staff, but I wasn’t pleased with the delay either.
After this went on for a month, I knew I had to push Herm. I played my last card by appealing to the one thing I knew would get him—his passion. I told Herm that this was what we had always talked about, starting with a clean slate and doing it our way. This was our chance. Our chance to show the NFL how to win.
Herm remembers it differently. He claims that I finally called and said, “You owe me.”
Either way, he came. What he may have owed me I’m not sure, but I’m glad one of those approaches worked. Herm became my assistant head coach and defensive backs coach. He also became our resident bad cop, a role I think he enjoyed.
Finally Joe Marciano called back. He had lined up a suitable replacement for himself in New Orleans, and Jim Mora had agreed to let him come to Tampa. I couldn’t believe it, but it was worth the wait. In fact, the whole situation was remarkable. Two coordinators, Monte and Joe, had been under contract to the same club, which allowed both of them to make lateral moves (not promotions) to the same opposing club in the same conference. I’ve never heard of another such thing, before or since.
Looking back, I truly believe the Lord brought that staff together. Since that time, all those guys have gone on to do some terrific things in the NFL and elsewhere. People have given me far too much credit for their success. There is no other way to explain the way this staff came together except to say that God orchestrated the process.
Herm had been one of the final pieces of the staffing puzzle for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. To celebrate his arrival, we went to lunch. Herm swears it was Miami Subs—and he’s still miffed that he had to pay. He says I’m cheap.
I’m not really cheap, although I did learn the value of a dollar from my dad. Once, when he was shopping for a television, my dad must have driven to every electronics store in Jackson, East Lansing, Ann Arbor, and Detroit. I finally pointed out that the twenty dollars he was going to save by his comparison shopping was more than consumed by the value of his time and the gas he used shuttling around southern Michigan. My words fell on deaf ears. And that wasn’t the only time he did that. Although we had cars that were new to our family, they were never truly new, always used. I think because my dad grew up during the Depression, he was conscious of carefully stewarding his resources. My dad did not waste anything, including money. Therefore, he was careful not to waste the things with which he had been entrusted.
As for me, I’m fairly frugal, just like my dad.
The fact that Herm ended up buying his own lunch at Miami Subs on his first day as the Bucs assistant head coach was simply because the establishment that he picked was cash only, and I usually didn’t carry cash. We ordered, and when I stepped to the counter to pay, I realized that I couldn’t use my credit card. I began feeling my pockets, even though I knew I wouldn’t find any cash in them. Herm had to pay for his own lunch.
And my lunch too. He’s never let me forget it.
Despite my excitement at being head coach of the Bucs, the team’s headquarters at One Buccaneer Place quickly brought me back down to earth. For the first two or three days, One Buc looked great to me because I was so excited to be a head coach. But after a couple of days, when I started really looking around and trying to figure out where I would put coaches and hold meetings—well, it was a letdown. In the words of Bucs defensive tackle Warren Sapp, One Buc was “its own third-world country.”
One Buc was a low, one-story stucco building. It had been built in 1976 just outside the flight path at Tampa International Airport. It was only several hundred yards from runway 18L/36R, one of the two main runways for the hundreds of flights in and out of Tampa every day. Its location was both a blessing and a curse. Being so close to the airport was very convenient for our scouts, for visiting free agents, and for our whole team when we traveled to away games. But the noise of flights taking off and banking in our direction was sometimes deafening. I guess there was one positive side effect of the noise: we never had to pipe in crowd noise when practicing for away games. However, the acrid smell of jet fuel that often blew into our building made us all certain we were shaving years off our lives.
We had no parking lot for visitors . . . or players. Some players used the small parking lot that belonged to an old public golf course across the street, but most opted to park in the grass beside the road in front of the building. They took their chances with traffic and occasional tickets from the airport police. Every so often we’d hear the screech of tires—too late—as a car unsuccessfully navigating the two-lane road sideswiped one of our parked cars. A small, wooden guard shack stood next to the sidewalk leading into the main entrance.
Inside, One Buc had a reception area for the few visitors we did have. The greeting area was relatively large—relative to the size of any other room in the building, anyway. Beyond that reception area, however, the uniqueness of One Buccaneer Place could be found. I was one of only two coaches whose office did not also serve as a meeting room. As the assistant head coach, Herm merited his own office. Actually, that wasn’t the reason. There just wasn’t room in his meeting room for a desk, so we cleaned out the tiny storage closet in the back of the meeting room and somehow wedged a desk and filing cabinet within its walls. However, his unique closet-office mandated an open-door policy, as the door could not be closed unless the desk chair was removed.
Frankly, I was never particularly bothered by One Buc. Once Herm got the grounds staff to strategically place rattraps behind our desks—and to check and empty them as necessary—One Buc seemed fairly hygienic as well. I often thought of my dad teaching in the “separate but equal” days. He always told us it didn’t matter what his building looked like; his job was to help his students learn just as much as the students in the other building were learning. Herm and I vowed that we would win a championship in that building. There were already enough excuses for the losing culture at One Buc, and we were determined to change that. We had to. That’s the nature of the business if you want to be around for any length of time.
Chapter Nine: Do What We Do
Champions are champions not because they do anything extraordinary but because they do the ordinary things better than anyone else.
—Chuck Noll
“I DON’T YELL A LOT. In fact, yelling will be rare,” I told the Buccaneers at our first team meeting. In addition to the change in coaching staff, I felt the culture of One Buc needed an infusion of fresh ideas. With that in mind, I believed this opening team meeting would be critical to setting the tone.
“When I get mad,” I continued, “I usually talk at the same volume I’m talking now. And when I get really mad”—I paused—“I
whisper.
So if my voice at this level won’t get your attention, and you believe you need someone to yell at you to correct you or motivate you, then we’ll probably need to find you another team to play for so that you can play your best.”
In that first meeting, I outlined several basic tenets that would become our hallmarks:
• Top 5 in the NFL in giveaway/takeaway ratio
• Top 5 in the NFL in fewest penalties
• Top 5 in overall special teams
• Make big plays
• Don’t give up big plays
These basic tenets were not exactly rocket science; in fact, they are exactly the same principles I would later use with the Colts. Some people think of me as a defense-minded coach, or they think I somehow changed who I was as a coach when I went to Indianapolis. But the reality is, I’m a former college quarterback who played defense in the NFL and coached under Chuck Noll, Marty Schottenheimer, and Denny Green. I learned that it doesn’t matter how you win. You play to your team’s strength, whether it’s offense, defense, or special teams. I believe the best way to achieve success in each of these three areas is by attention to detail and a commitment to the fundamentals—doing the ordinary things better than anyone else.
I then began to talk about our future. Going back to something Mr. Rooney had always taught us in Pittsburgh, I said, “We expect to win a Super Bowl. But if that’s all we do, it will be pretty shallow. We need to not only win but win with players who positively impact the Tampa Bay area.”
I told them that I expected our team to live and play by the concept “Whatever it takes,” then ended with a second basic phrase, which I posted in our locker room: “No excuses, no explanations.”
Overall, I thought it was a good, positive meeting that clearly outlined the frame of mind we needed to embrace for the future of the organization and for the future of our lives.
When the meeting was finished, Herm felt the need to make sure everything was even more clear, so he selected some of the team leaders, including John Lynch, Warren Sapp, and Derrick Brooks, and then he read them the riot act, reiterating everything I had just said, but in a much more animated manner. It was his first act as bad cop. Herm was so good in that role that I’m sure I never even knew about some of the issues faced by our team. Herm was my first line of defense. I’ve heard that he was known to tell guys, “We can either resolve this now and get it behind us, or we can get Tony involved. I don’t think any of us want that.” Very few things hit my desk.
When I was in Minnesota, Denny Green had been a big proponent of creating what I call “artificial adversity,” making things tougher on the players than they had to be. He believed this was an essential foundation for handling the turbulence of a season or game. As coaches and as players, he wanted us all to be comfortable enough with our routine to know what to expect and when. When we would have an upcoming Monday night game—and thereby an extra day available to practice and plan the game—he often gave us that extra day off or had us work on something that turned our attention away from our opponent.
“After all,” he reasoned, “if the coaches and players start to think that we need an extra day to prepare for a big game, what happens when we hit the playoffs and only have the usual number of days or, worse yet, a short week?” If players got too comfortable in their routine, what would happen when that routine was disrupted? “Players might begin to wonder, ‘Can we win a big game without an extra day?’ Sure we can—if we’re efficient and disciplined.”
Denny knew that football, like life, is unpredictable, but it was our job to train the team to remain disciplined even in unusual situations. As I thought about how to prepare the Bucs to handle any situation we might face, I went back to some of Denny’s tactics. Once we had become locked in on a schedule, he often created a disruption to that schedule just to see how guys would respond. During the preseason of my first year with the Vikings, Denny announced that we were going to Cleveland on the day of the game. He said we would get off the plane, head to the stadium, and play. This was unusual; most teams travel to an away game at least a day before the game—sometimes arriving even two days early if it’s an especially long trip. But Denny wanted to see how the players would adjust—who would adapt and who couldn’t. His larger point was that there were always going to be moments of adversity and confusion during a game or a season, and players either adjusted or they crumbled. He wanted to know as much as possible ahead of time about the innate character of his team. On that occasion, the players grumbled a little, then flew into Cleveland and beat the Browns 51–3.
During our first training camp in Tampa, we were headed to Jacksonville for a morning scrimmage with the Jaguars. Taking a lesson from Denny Green’s playbook, I told Herm I wanted to disrupt the schedule and bus our guys to Jacksonville.
“Herm, the guys might think that we’re just looking to save some money by driving up there”—the Glazers were still trying to shed the frugal reputation the team had gotten from the prior owner—“so I’ll need your help. I want everyone to understand that I think it’ll be good to disrupt their schedules.”
“I think that’s smart.”
“Good. We’ll leave at five o’clock.”
“Five? You don’t want to meet at the hotel that night? Just get up there, have dinner at the hotel, and then do bed checks?”
“I mean five
in the morning.
We’ll have a wakeup call at four, leave at five, roll in there, and scrimmage with Jacksonville.”
Herm didn’t mind. He usually gets up at 4:30 anyway. But the players hated it. We emerged from the buses a little on the groggy side, just as I thought we would, and were destroyed by the Jaguars during the first practice of the morning. We were beaten physically and mentally. We got a little better in the afternoon. I told our players that I liked our improvement, but we could have done better. The players couldn’t believe it. They thought they had done well—
under the circumstances.
But that was my point. We couldn’t let circumstances matter. If things got unusually tough, for whatever reason, we still had to function and get the job done.