The Score Takes Care of Itself (8 page)

The key to performing under pressure at the highest possible level, regardless of circumstance, is preparation in the context of your Standard of Performance and a thorough assimilation by your organization of the actions and attitudes contained within your philosophy of leadership. With that comes the knowledge that you—and they—can step into that high-pressure arena and go about your work while the score works itself out. Rather than feel that somehow I had to get a supreme effort from our personnel—“try harder and harder”—I trusted that it was going to happen because we had prepared thoroughly.

Some leaders drive their team past being able to perform with poise and presence and into a state of anxiety where they’re not thinking as clearly as they should. They pump them up so much for the “big game” that they can’t perform well; it’s like a balloon that bursts when you blow too much air into it.

By focusing strictly on my Standard of Performance, the 49ers were able to play the bigger games very well because it was basically business as usual—no “try harder” mentality was used. In fact, I believed it would be counterproductive.

I might do even less strategizing for a Super Bowl game, because in the midst of the extreme pressure I placed a premium on fundamentals, the skills and the execution ability the team already possessed as a result of our concentration and hard work going all the way back to day one of training camp and the previous training camp and the one before that.

Consequently, the San Francisco 49ers could function under tremendous stress and the forces that work on individuals in competitive situations. They were able to function under all the media hype and the absolute intensity of the circumstances we were in. In that kind of environment—
your
version of a big game—you must reach back and rely on your ability to do things at a high level. There isn’t much time to meditate or think things through. The pressure of the situation can just wipe that all out, and you’re left with the raw bones.

When you get to Wimbledon you’re not thinking, “Now I’m gonna play well.” You’re operating on nerves, depending almost completely on your game, how good it is. For us it meant I had to be sure our Standard of Performance was so good that our opponents were the ones who would be distracted by the intensity or importance of the game or what they might have to do to win.

So while the opponents had to elevate their game, we did too, but it was a very natural culmination of all our previous work. It’s similar to a wave that gathers force for many miles out at sea and eventually crashes down with tremendous power on the beach.

Over the months—and years—the San Francisco 49ers acquired the skill and proficiency to play right through extreme pressure and prevail. In golf and tennis I am unable to do that. But in my professional world—football—I became a master at it.

John McVay, Vice President for Football Administration

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’d been in football a long time when Bill Walsh (and owner Eddie DeBartolo) hired me during his first few weeks at San Francisco. My résumé included being an assistant coach at Michigan State University, head coach at Dayton University, and assistant and then head coach of the New York Giants in the NFL and working in the old World Football League doing every job imaginable with the Memphis Southmen. Bill figured I brought something to him because of all that experience.

Technically, I was his vice president/director of football operations, or as I told people, “I’m in charge of everything that nobody else wants to do.” Bill and I got along pretty good.

Over the next ten years, I was heavily involved with contract negotiations, player personnel, scouts, equipment—everything except his coaching. I had a front-row seat for how Bill, in conjunction with Eddie, made something—a dynasty—out of nothing.

What I saw when I arrived at San Francisco to work with him was organization and management that I had never seen done at the level Bill Walsh did it. It was comprehensive, meticulously detailed, and practical. At least, after awhile that’s what I saw. Until Bill got it up and running the way he wanted it, things were rough. He had his work cut out for him.

Bill was a great observer and student who had the good fortune to work not only with the Oakland Raiders and San Diego Chargers but with one of the NFL’s great masterminds, Paul Brown at Cincinnati. Brown was ahead of the rest of the league when it came to organization of time and management of people. I believe Bill liked what he saw at Cincinnati and then extended it, refined it in his own way, so that he developed an advanced organizational philosophy in his mind.

He liked tight management principles and wanted things
clear
and easily understood. This was important because Bill’s overall system was complex. For it to work, people had to understand it. Consequently, he was explicit in his instructions: “Here’s what we’re going to do and here’s how we’re going to do it.” Bill was very demanding in that respect, not just of players but of everyone in the organization.

He had written a series of lectures for each department detailing what he expected in all ways—appearance, attitude, performance, and more. He had it written out in detail for scouts, assistant coaches, equipment men, groundskeepers, and trainers. Even secretaries got specific and lengthy instructions from Bill himself. Did I mention the players? That’s when he really got going.

Here’s how comprehensive
and
detailed, big picture/little picture, he could be: I came to work my first day not wearing a tie. Bill liked to distinguish between coaches (no ties) and administration (ties). I was in administration, but I told him, “Bill, all of my ties have New York Giants helmets on them.” He smiled and said, “John, I guess you’re buying a new tie today.” The small detail of wearing a tie was connected to his big concept of being a first-class operation, not just in point production, but in appearance and behavior, which he believed preceded scoring touchdowns; and he spelled it out word by word. I bought a new tie.

Meetings were held, and he would take an hour or two with every employee so they knew
exactly
what he expected of them, what he wanted them to do and how he wanted them to do it. He made it very clear. There was no confusion in their minds as to what he expected. And because he had such a marvelous background and such a keen eye for running things, he expected a lot. That included respect for one another within the organization—no cliques or hierarchy.

After he established his “organization”—got people in place and on the same page—he allowed department heads to function and intervened only if he became dissatisfied with something. Bill had set up an outstanding support mechanism of talented people, and he really had nothing to worry about except football. Of course, that was plenty to worry about, especially when he was taking over a 2-14 team.

Having said that, I will also say this: Bill Walsh was the king. And
we
knew it. He was the one in complete control. And
he
knew it. But the interesting thing about it was that he didn’t act like a king, no bowing and scraping required. Bill wanted to be called Bill; everyone was on a first-name basis, but within that informality he simply did not allow for casual execution of your job. There was intensity and urgency, a focus all the time, a tight ship. He was friendly, but he held himself in a certain manner so that you knew he was in charge.

And why not? He took over a lousy situation. Eddie DeBartolo, the owner, needed somebody to come and grab that puppy by the throat and say, “Shape up or you’re out of here!” Bill did it without always stomping and screaming. He was demanding and tough, but people loved him even though he was insistent, a real stickler not only about playing football but about raising the image of the franchise from within.

That’s where he started—by raising the self-image of the San Francisco 49ers organization. In football that’s tough to do when you’re not winning games. My tie was a good example. What the heck did it have to do with a Super Bowl? Bill saw the connection. It was one of the tiny things—thousands of them—that he put in place that were part of eventually winning.

Communication within the organization was extremely important to Bill, especially between coaches and players. Even though our headquarters at 711 Nevada Street in Redwood City, California, weren’t so good, he saw the cramped offices where we were almost sitting on top of each other as an asset.

When somebody was talking on the phone or having a conversation, everybody could hear what was going on. In a strange way, it meant that everybody on the staff was in the loop. In fact, eight years later when the DeBartolos built an ultramodern and spacious facility, Bill was very worried that it would not only create a “country club” mentality but hurt our communication process. We couldn’t hear one another’s phone calls anymore!

Bill Walsh was not afraid of talent. He hired assistant coaches who were extremely good, and he did it with the expectation that they would move on—up to head coaching positions. And in fact, about fifteen of them did. He didn’t feel that you sold your soul to the company store. While you were a 49er, you were expected to give it your all, but Bill was very enlightened in the way he supported the lives and careers of employees beyond just what they could do for his team.

One thing that truly amazed me was his eye for talent when it came to football players. It was a gift that is hard to explain or overstate. He could see what others couldn’t spot. Joe Montana, Jerry Rice, Steve Young, and more are among superstar Hall of Fame NFL players who didn’t have a line of people knocking on their doors when Bill came calling. He was uncanny in that way.

Here’s a good example. Early in Bill’s coaching at San Francisco, he was desperate for good players and would hold tryouts for anybody and everybody. We had truck drivers coming in with high-top work shoes; big bruisers from local bars tried out. We were so lean on talent that Bill gave everybody a look.

One day it was ninety degrees and we had over a hundred prospects on the field going through the workout, trying to make the team, and I was standing up on the fire escape platform with Bill looking over this herd of guys. He said to me, “John, who’s that blond kid down there?” At first I couldn’t even tell who he was talking about. He pointed again: “Him, that kid over there with blond hair.” I checked my chart. “Bill Ring,” I replied. “Sign him,” Bill said. That was the end of the discussion.

Bill Ring gave us six productive years and helped us win Super Bowl XVI and Super Bowl XIX, even though others thought he wasn’t NFL material. Bill picked him out of a large pack of players with hardly a glance. He was simply unbelievable in the way he could spot potential in a person and then develop it.

He was extremely precise in how he ran not only the nonfootball end of things but the on-field execution. I doubt any coach in the NFL was bringing the precision to it that Bill did—drawing up plays almost to the inch and then teaching the players to perform with that same exactness. And that Standard of Performance permeated the whole organization in people’s attitude and how they—we—did our jobs.

Bill Walsh was ahead of the times in many ways, but there was one thing he didn’t like: He hated to fire someone. At times, he had to make brutal personnel decisions, and I think it hurt him inside knowing his action would change another person’s life, and not necessarily for the better. Consequently, when it came to firing people, he was quick to assign that task to someone by the name of John McVay.

I saw him work himself so hard over those ten years, and the toll was increasingly terrible. It didn’t have to be. Bill just had so much trouble letting up, getting out from under the increasingly crushing pressure of expectations that got sky-high as the decade rolled on. Burnout is what they call it, I guess; but who can argue with success?

Creating gold from dross is alchemy; making lemonade when you’re given lemons is leadership; making lemonade when you don’t have any lemons is great leadership.

Here’s a little example of it: Post-it notes are a multimillion-dollar product that began as an accident when a scientist working in the laboratory unintentionally created a glue that didn’t stick very well. Obviously, nobody was looking for a glue that didn’t stick, but then a creative leader saw a way to turn it into lemonade—Post-it Notes.

I witnessed a football version of Post-it Notes many years ago when I was an assistant coach with the Cincinnati Bengals. See if it applies to your own resourcefulness in evaluating situations and figuring out what to do with “glue that doesn’t stick.”

Early in the second half of our game with the Oakland Raiders, Bengals tight end Bob Trumpy (later a well-known announcer) came out of the huddle and lined up on the wrong end of the line of scrimmage—the left instead of the right side, as the play called for.

Trumpy recognized his mistake almost immediately and tried to correct it by sliding over to the right side before the ball snap. The Raiders were utilizing a complex pass defense at the time, so when they saw Bob shifting from one end of the line of scrimmage to the other—legal, but not done—all hell broke loose.

Oakland defensive backs began frantically flapping their arms and screaming, running around and creating havoc as they tried to react to the bizarre movement of Cincinnati’s wandering tight end. Three of them actually collided in the middle of the field. The whole scene was kind of funny, although nobody was laughing on either bench. We lost yardage on the play, and when Bob trotted to the sidelines with a sheepish look on his face, he muttered to head coach Paul Brown, “Sorry, Coach. It won’t happen again.” He was wrong.