|
Whether or not coaches in the NFL display more commitment than in any other profession
is an arguable point, but at the very least they are a major part of the debate.
Put another way, if they aren’t like Superman when it comes to the strength of
their commitment, they definitely know where the phone booth is.
NFL coaches have been known to turn in some superhuman efforts in the commitment
department. It is not unusual to hear of these men returning to work faster than a
speeding bullet despite health concerns or family emergencies that would sideline the
average man for much longer periods of time.
When it comes to getting to work, NFL coaches are more dependable than the mailmen who
are known for delivering their product rain or shine.
Here are two such stories.
Bobby April:
Coaching with a heavy heart
The phone rang in in the hotel room of Rams special-teams coach Bobby April.
Heartbreak calling.
April answered the phone and listened to the voice on the other end of the line. His
life would never be the same.
April had just arrived in his San Francisco hotel room during the middle of the
afternoon the day before the Rams were to play the 49ers last September.
The voice on the other end of the line was April’s daughter Jamie, who told him
that his father had been in a car accident. His father had been driving when he had a
stroke. In the car accident that ensued, the automobile April’s father had been
driving was totaled.
Beyond that, there were no more details. April felt in the dark. He couldn’t reach
his wife, who was at a function with the other coaches’ wives.
He made a call to let the Rams’ organization know what was happening. Several
members of the club came to his room, including president of football operations Jay
Zygmunt and head coach Mike Martz.
"I didn’t know what was going on, but I was definitely going to coach in the
game no matter what, because I just thought that’s what my dad would want,
that’s what my family would want," April said. "I had an obligation to the
players. It was just one of those things that I thought was the right thing to do."
Then the waiting game began. April was in contact with his family and his father’s
doctor all through the night. At around two or three in the morning, a call was placed to
April at the hotel. Due to the late hour, the hotel operator didn’t put the call
through. Instead, hotel security went to April’s room, started banging on the door
and woke him.
"What’s going on now?" thought the startled April.
The hotel security asked if it was OK to put the call through. The call still could not
provide a final answer on how April’s dad would fare.
It wasn’t until 6:30 that morning that April got the definitive word.
His dad, 71, had died.
Although his dad had suffered a heart attack several years earlier, April certainly did
not see the death of his father coming. A long hospital stay might in some way prepare a
child for the death of a parent, but April’s dad had been driving his car, minding
his own business when tragedy struck.
"It was unexpected," April said. "No one was anticipating any kind of
early death like that."
Now his dad was dead, and April had a game to coach less than six hours after receiving
the terrible, final news.
Still, April was determined to coach in the game. His father probably would have agreed
with the decision, and not just because of his love of the game.
"He grew up in a part of New Orleans right under the New Orleans bridge, and in
the 1930’s it wasn’t the greatest deal in the world probably," April said
of his father. "But it was an inspiration to see the way guys had to come up in that
time, and how they had to overcome things and persevere and keep working. Work two jobs,
work three jobs if you had to, and it was an inspiration to me."
Learning of his father’s death was "gut-wrenching," April said.
"You’re basically racked with emotional pain."
April went downstairs to the Rams’ pregame meal, and it seemed almost impossible
to believe that he would be able to carry out his plan to coach in the game.
As he sat at breakfast, he said, "I can’t make it. I don’t know how
I’m going to do this. I’m just exhausted. I can’t even hardly think right
now. I don’t know."
Eventually, April worked his way back to his room. Phone calls were made regarding his
dad. Then it was time to go to the stadium for the game.
April got on the team bus. As it was making its way to the stadium, he was thinking:
"This is ridiculous. I’m just exhausted. I’m whipped. I’m going to
hurt our team more than I can help it."
Shortly thereafter a similar thought went through his mind: "This is ridiculous.
This is crazy. What am I doing?"
When the bus got to the stadium, however, April underwent a transformation. It was as
though Bobby April the coach picked up Bobby April the mourning son by the bootstraps and
said, don’t worry, I’ll get you through this.
"When I got to the stadium, and this will sound corny to anybody, I got to the
stadium and either I hit a second wave or God just infused me with an energy to go do what
I needed to do," April said. "I don’t know what it was, but I got there and
I was refreshed, I was ready. When I went into the game, I could think clearly. As clear
as I ever could. … I was really sharp, focused on the game. … I was really able
to do it. I just was hit with an infusion of energy, and I was able to not be distracted
while the game was going on. I don’t know how that happened because like I said, I
didn’t think I could do it."
Most of the Rams’ organization was unaware of what April was going through.
"We really didn’t tell the team," April said. "No one really knew.
There were coaches on our staff, like Bobby Jackson, I was right next to him in the locker
room throughout the whole thing, and he didn’t even know my father had passed
away."
Everyone would eventually find out in a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie. The
Rams won the game 30-26, and in the locker room afterward Martz presented April with a
game ball and announced to the team what had happened to the special-teams coach’s
father.
Afterward, April tried to get a flight to New Orleans in order to be with his family,
but no flights were available, so he flew back to St. Louis with the team. The next
morning, Monday, he flew to New Orleans and handled the funeral arrangements. The wake was
held on Tuesday. On Wednesday, April buried his father.
By Thursday morning, April was back at work.
Throughout the entire ordeal of losing a father with whom he was so close, April
displayed a commitment to his job you probably wouldn’t see in too many other
professions.
"Commitment is probably a good word to use, but I know for me personally I would
frame the word and the meaning (as) ‘gratitude’ more than anything," April
said. "So grateful to be a part of this, because all of us came up with dreams of the
highest level of football, and even if we didn’t play it to be able to coach it.
"And there’s an identity that you derive, and you’re grateful to just be
a part of it, and your family is a part of it, and your dad’s a part of it, and your
wife is a part of it, and your kids are a part of it, and your nephews are a part of it.
And you’re so grateful that the exuberance of (what) you do spills into their lives;
that the obligation you have to that thing that has brought so many great aspects not only
to your life but to the life of so many that you have a relationship with — your
obligation and the gratitude you have to fulfill all of those things is just overwhelming.
You can’t help but have a commitment. I mean you’ve got to be a real rat not to
have one."
April is so in love with the game that you half expect him to salute the football every
time he sees it much like a soldier salutes the flag.
"Being a part of football for me has been my whole life," April said.
"We played in the Super Bowl when I was with the Steelers, and a guy asked me what
was my greatest moment in football, and I said the time as a sophomore and the first time
I ran onto the field at Chalmette High School and the fight song was playing. As a player.
As a football player. As a sophomore in 1968. Running onto the field and hearing that
fight song. Just (from the) very beginning of my life I had such an attachment and such a
desire to fulfill that dream of playing for that high school and then to actually
experience it, I mean to this day it’s just a highlight."
Asked if he is saying this is a bigger highlight than coaching in the Super Bowl, April
sheepishly said, "Welllllll, you know, I’m not going to, I’m just saying
emotionally, no, playing in a high school game is not bigger than the Super Bowl. But
emotionally to get to that point where you’ve accomplished something and maybe your
very first accomplishment as a person, it just sticks in there. And that’s your
foundation. And that’s how you feel about this game and being a part of this game.
And from that point at 15 and now I’m 48, over the years you’ve been molded and
you’ve been refined and you’ve been nourished to grow closer and closer to the
game and have it be a bigger and bigger part of your life, and it kind of never ceases. It
never ends, the attachment to it. And again, I go back to gratitude. You’re so
grateful that you are a part of it."
April’s father was a part of his son’s football life every step of the way.
"He watched me practice I think every day I practiced, because we lived right near
the school, and he would get off of work and go sit in the stands and watch," April
said.
"When I went to the Super Bowl when I was with the Steelers, he flew out and went
to the game, and it was a highlight of his life. It was a great moment in his life.
"He just loved football."
He loved football. He loved his son.
Two passions combined.
No wonder his grief-stricken son chose to coach in last season’s road game against
the 49ers so soon after receiving such terrible news.
Dan Reeves:
Tremendous heart on display
Typically, an NFL head coach’s schedule compromises for no one or no thing.
His daughter has a ballet recital at the same time as his Sunday afternoon football
game? A coach’s schedule refuses to bend, and the child’s performance,
regrettably, must be missed by dear old dad.
His son needs help with his math homework after dinner is over during football season?
A coach’s schedule displays no flexibility, and his wife handles the matter.
The list goes on and on.
An NFL coach’s schedule can be as uncompromising as a diehard Republican in a room
full of Democrats.
Every once in a while, however, a coach’s schedule must cry "uncle."
Dec. 13, 1998 was such a time for Falcons head coach Dan Reeves.
After trying to ignore symptoms of a heart problem because he didn’t want anything
to distract the team during its 27-17 win over the Saints, Reeves finally said something
to the team doctor.
Three blocked arteries were discovered. Reeves would need quadruple bypass surgery.
The coach’s schedule said this was really lousy timing. The Falcons were having a
miracle season and owned a gaudy 12-2 record at the time. Surgery? Who has time for
surgery screamed the coach’s schedule?
Deal with it, said the heart.
For once, a coach’s schedule lost an argument.
Major surgery waits for no one. Reeves would have to go under the knife Dec. 14.
"It stunned everybody," QB Chris Chandler said. "It shocked everybody
that it even happened, because he looked so normal in New Orleans the day before
surgery."
Reeves was still thinking like a coach instead of a patient, so he did what coaches do
best. He called a meeting. He told the team about the surgery that was to follow.
C Robbie Tobeck said, "The silence was deafening. He comes in, and I got a nervous
stomach. You’re nervous for him and shaky."
The surgery took place, and Reeves was released from the hospital Dec. 18 at which
point he held a news conference and met with his team a day later. The coach’s
schedule was trying to take back control, to regain some of its lost turf.
"You could tell the pain he was in," Tobeck said of Reeves meeting with the
team. "But he wanted to be there and be part of us and send us off. What an amazing
thing. He’s just a tough guy and a tough competitor."
Instead of meeting with his team, Reeves probably should have had a meeting with a
couch, a blanket and a TV remote control at home.
That day he had a setback. His heart rate accelerated and he had to return to the
hospital for a five-day stay.
"I don’t know exactly what happened," Reeves said. "I didn’t
do anything to hurt myself, but all of a sudden my heartbeat got all out of whack."
The medical community probably has a fancier, more difficult to understand diagnosis,
but the explanation for Reeves’ setback seems obvious: acting like a coach.
Some Falcons insiders speculated that the setback was caused by Reeves trying to do too
much too soon — a common response by a coach.
After the Falcons beat the Lions 24-17, the Falcons had a 13-2 record and only one
regular-season game left before the playoffs.
Had Reeves learned his lesson? Did he back off and spend all of his time resting?
Not entirely. Coaches are like Marines. They are hard chargers.
Doctors had originally told Reeves not to have any contact with the team during the
week. By Wednesday, the doctors relented and Reeves talked to his players from his
hospital room by speaker phone. He congratulated them on winning the NFC West title.
Safety William White called it "inspirational."
DE Lester Archambeau said, "You could tell how important we are to him. That means
a lot to us as players."
Unexpectedly, Reeves showed up a couple hours before the regular-season finale against
the Dolphins to speak with his players. They were still his players, no matter how much
his heart tried to sabotage him. The coach’s schedule was fighting back once more.
And the schedule said, "No more sitting on your butt all day long."
Reeves went back home after his talk to the team. His work was done.
"He did a great job motivating us for this game," QB Steve DeBerg said.
"… That was a special thing for Dan to come in and talk to the team."
The Falcons crushed the Dolphins 38-16 that day to give them a 14-2 record heading into
the playoffs.
The Falcons’ first playoff game was against the 49ers, and by now Reeves was
starting to pick up the pace. A mere three weeks after undergoing heart bypass surgery
— THREE WEEKS! — he was back to his normal routine. His schedule was calling the
shots again.
"When you think about what he’s gone through, it’s amazing that
he’s planning to join us as quickly as it has been," Chandler said. "When
you think about all we’ve got to do is play a football game and he went through major
heart surgery, I think it gives us a lot of motivation."
Reeves was gone for such a short period of time that OT Bob Whitfield referred to it as
"an in-season vacation."
The fast return didn’t remove concerns about whether Reeves’ was moving too
quickly.
"It’s going to be very emotional to have him back," CB Ray Buchanan
said. "At the same time, Dan has to be very careful with his heart condition in a
playoff atmosphere."
The next two games would certainly test Reeves’ repaired heart. Against the 49ers,
the Falcons had to hang on for dear life to win 20-18. The following week, the Falcons
beat the heavily favored Vikings 30-27 in overtime.
The heart worked just fine, surviving these pair of nail-biters that practically
stopped the heartbeats of the healthiest of fans.
The Vikings game was especially heart-stopping. The Falcons were trailing 27-20 with
2:07 left in the fourth quarter when Minnesota PK Gary Anderson came on the field for a
38-yard FG attempt that would have put the game out of reach. Anderson had not missed a
kick all season.
No good. Wide left.
The Falcons still had a heartbeat. They tied the game with less than a minute remaining
in regulation and won on PK Morten Andersen’s 38-yarder in overtime.
"The emotion that I had on the sideline when the field goal went through …
against Minnesota, to be a part of that and just running five weeks prior to that of going
through a bypass surgery, you (have) got to feel like you are the luckiest human in the
world," Reeves said.
By now, Reeves was a changed man. Sort of.
"I think he clearly has a different perspective," defensive coordinator Rich
Brooks said. "For him to change completely — I don’t think so. Dan is
successful, in my opinion, because of the way he is. If he has a total metamorphosis as a
coach and all of a sudden becomes a Melvin Milquetoast on the sideline — he
isn’t going to do that. It isn’t him."
And while he was back, Reeves was not all the way back, no matter how much the
coach’s schedule had wrestled control away from his heart.
By the time the Falcons were ready to line up against the Broncos in Super Bowl XXXIII,
Reeves was at 90 to 95 percent. He was still a couple of weeks from being back to full
speed.
Whatever speed he was at looked blazing fast, all things considered.
"For him to come back so fast and contribute so much to this football team has
been great," offensive coordinator George Sefcik said.
WR Terance Mathis said, "Every time I see him, I just want to thank him. What he
means to this team, this is a guy who had his chest opened up. He had a quadruple bypass,
and three weeks later he’s on the sideline. This is a guy who loves his team. He
loves being around his guys. He could have just hung it up and been watching. But he
didn’t give up on himself. You want to play for a guy who will sacrifice almost his
health."
Although Reeves didn’t get back to 100 percent health until after the Super Bowl,
his astonishingly fast recovery was completed from a football standpoint the Wednesday
before the Super Bowl — less than seven weeks since he went under the knife for
quadruple bypass surgery.
"He was getting on somebody at practice (that day)," Tobeck said. "and I
heard the comment, ‘Coach Reeves is back, I don’t think his heart’s
bothering him at all now.’ "
Part 7: Variety is the spice of life
Part 6: The hiring game
Part 5: The glass is half full
Part 4: Difficulties of the profession
Part 3: Coping with defeat
Part 2: The player-coach relationship
Part
1: Setting the tone
Series index |
