by Sean Payton
We stayed up late that night. The next morning we were up and at it again. And the whole next day. The interview seemed to be going well. The next week, I had a trip planned with my family to Disney World. Al had a couple of other candidates he was interviewing, but he left me with the strong impression that I was high on his list.
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
“I’m gonna go back to Dallas,” I said. “I’m gonna get the family. I’m gonna be at Disney World in Florida Monday through Sunday, and I’ll be available after that. But I planned this trip with the family months ago.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m gonna be in touch with you. I want you to be thinking about your staff.”
When I left Al, I knew I was going to be offered the job. He’d interview a few other candidates. But I’d get the offer.
Now, the whole time, Beth was somewhat guarded. She knows Cindy Gruden. Her husband was in Oakland. She knows Valerie Callahan, Bill’s wife. She’d heard their stories about the special challenges of working for Al. All of us were guarded here.
And yet I was driving a hundred miles an hour, passing the “Danger! Falling Rocks!” signs, pedal to the metal, thinking of nothing besides “It’s an NFL head-coaching job.” I picked the family up in Dallas. We went on to Disney World. And every evening at nine, Al Davis would call. I’d go into the bathroom, close the door and sit on the toilet, and we’d talk about the assistants I wanted to hire. “Who are you interested in?” he’d ask.
Our family had great days together at the theme parks. Then the phone would ring at nine. I’d go back into the bathroom, and there’d be some stress when I came out.
“How did it go?” Beth would ask.
“Well, we were just talking about coaches.”
On Wednesday, we were at the Animal Kingdom when Mike Lombardi called. He’s Al’s general manager. Mike and I had worked together in Philadelphia. “Al wants to speed this thing up and get you out here ASAP,” Mike said.
“Mike, it’s Wednesday,” I said. “I’m here till Sunday.”
“I know,” Mike said. “But he’s adamant that he wants to get this thing going. You’ve got to call him.”
Beth was not happy. “You’re not telling me we’re going to cut this vacation short?” she asked.
“No,” I promised. “I just have to think how I’m gonna present this when I call him.”
We were having lunch at the Rainforest Café. Beth, Meghan, Connor and I ordered, and then I said, “Excuse me. I’m gonna go out and make that call.”
I sat on a bench beneath a giant mushroom and called Al. “Mr. Davis, it’s Sean.”
“Hey, Sean,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing good,” I said. “One of the things we talked about last week in the interview process was loyalty and commitment. I know you have a sense of urgency here. But I feel like I’ve made a commitment to my family that I have to follow up on with this vacation.”
“Ah, I understand,” he said. “I understand. When can you get back here?”
“Sunday we get back to Dallas,” I said. “I can get on a flight to Oakland on Sunday night.”
There was relief at the table when I got back. We enjoyed the rest of the week. And Sunday morning, before we flew back home, we set up one of those breakfasts with the Disney characters. Ours was Winnie-the-Pooh.
After breakfast, we checked out of the Disney hotel. We flew back to Dallas. I got the family settled at home and got on a flight to Oakland. Again, Al had dinner brought in. It was sandwiches this time. Breakfast with Winnie, dinner with Al. Just another day in my life.
We didn’t leave the complex one time in the five-day interview process. Two days before Disney, three days after. More questions, more topics. Team travel, assistant coaches. “Tomorrow morning when you get in, I want you to look at the St. Louis Rams film against the Carolina Panthers,” Al said. “Tell me what you think of that game.”
At this point, I was beginning to feel some pressure from Parcells—“Hey, what are you doing? I need to know.” And rightfully so: Bill needed to know if I was gone.
“Have you been offered the job?” he asked, direct as ever.
“Coach, I haven’t.” Not in so many words. Not yet.
The plan was for me to get a flight out of Oakland on Tuesday. “Do you feel good about everything?” Al asked me.
“I do. I just need to get home and talk to my wife.”
“Michael’s got your agent’s name,” Al said.
“Great,” I said. “I just need to talk to Beth, and you’ll have Michael call Don Yee.”
By the time I reached the airport, I had five messages from Parcells. As I walked toward the gate, I saw an ESPN screen with a Raiders logo and my face. “Report out of Oakland is Sean Payton is being hired as the Raiders’ new head coach,” the anchor said. All of a sudden, Parcells wasn’t the only one calling me. My phone was now a constant buzz.
Beth got through. “I thought you said we were going to discuss this,” she said.
“We are,” I told her.
“Well, I’m seeing where you’ve been named head coach of the Raiders, or it’s imminent,” she said.
“There’s been no offer,” I said. “Honey, I’m on my way. I’m at the airport. I’ve gotta connect in Denver. I’ll be home. We’ll discuss it tonight.”
“All right,” she said.
By the time I changed planes in Denver, the offer had already arrived: a written contract proposal faxed to Don Yee.
When I got back to Dallas, the kids were asleep. Beth and I sat up in bed and talked for two hours.
“This is what they’re offering,” I told her.
Was it time to leave Dallas? Was I ready as a coach? Was Oakland the place for me? Beth was skeptical. I was skeptical. But I was still driving a hundred miles an hour, trying to keep the skepticism out of my head. When we went to bed Tuesday night, the decision was, “Hey, we’re gonna do this.” Wednesday, we went out and I bought a black suit with a silver tie for my press conference. When I got to the Cowboys complex Wednesday morning, the equipment guys were packing up my locker and putting my stuff in a box. Bill was in Florida.
I sat at my desk and called my friend Jon Gruden. By then he was head coach in Tampa Bay and knew everything I was weighing. I spoke to John Fox, who was at Carolina, and to Bill Callahan, who was heading to the University of Nebraska, and then the phone rang. It was Parcells. He was calling from Florida.
“Listen,” he said. “I want to talk to you for a minute like you were my son. Not like I’m the head coach and you’re the assistant.”
Our prior discussions had always been coach to assistant.
“These other people that you’re close to in the industry, what do they think you should do?” Bill asked.
You have to understand, Bill has a good relationship with Al. So does Jerry Jones, the Cowboys’ owner.
“What about Gruden?” Bill asked.
“He doesn’t think I should take the job. Absolutely no.”
“Fox?”
“He doesn’t think I should take the job.”
“What about Callahan?”
“He doesn’t think I should take the job.”
“Well,” Bill said, “put my name behind those three. You’re gonna get your chance. This isn’t the right one, kid.”
And we hung up.
In two minutes the phone rang at my desk.
“Sean, this is Jerry Jones. How you doin’?”
“I’m doing well,” I told the Cowboys’ owner. “Just got back from the interview.”
“I know,” he said. “Listen, before you tell me anything, I want to visit with you. I’m over at my house. I’ll send a driver over. Let’s talk a little bit.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
We sat in the library of Jerry’s house in Highland Park. It was just a chat. Not about being persuasive. Just assessing where we were.
He didn’t make any commitment about my
future if I chose to stay. He didn’t name some amount he would pay me. He did not say, “You’re going to be the next head coach” or anything like that. What he said was: “I do want you to know we think a lot of you. And should you decide to stay, you’ve got a bright future here.”
If Jerry’s the last guy you see before you make a decision, you’re probably staying with him. It was very simple: “You’re highly thought of in this organization, and I don’t want to lose you. But if you go, we’ll wish you well.”
It was just what I needed to hear. I got in the car to go home. We rode at a normal rate of speed. I called Beth immediately.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
“Driving the kids,” she said.
“Let’s stay in Dallas. I don’t think I should take this job.”
Beth was quiet for a moment, and then she started to cry.
I got back to the office. I called Don Yee. He began to update me on the contract back-and-forth. I stopped him midsentence.
“Get us out,” I said. “We’re gonna stay in Dallas. For the record, let’s not say this job was ever offered.”
Don called Oakland. I called Parcells. “Hey, Coach, I’m staying,” I said.
I called Jerry Jones. “Mr. Jones,” I said, “I appreciate the time today. We’re gonna stay in Dallas.”
Jerry’s son Stephen came to the office. He had a new contract for me. Three years, a million dollars a year. It was absolutely the right decision I made.
I say that with all due respect to the Oakland Raiders and Al Davis, an extremely talented football man. But I don’t know truly that I was ready for that job.
Luckily I had two more years with Bill Parcells. That was two more years to learn about football and learn about myself. I was very glad I had that time. When a head-coaching opportunity finally arrived for me, it called on every ounce of strength and experience I could possibly muster. Not only would I be coaching a struggling NFL team, but I’d be doing it under circumstances that no one had ever done it before.
6
MOVE WHERE?
ALL THE BLUE TARPS.
That’s what I saw first as the American Airlines flight from Dallas prepared to land at Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans. On the roofs of many of the houses—what was left of them—were these bright blue plastic tarps. They seemed to be covering everything. When I got off the plane, the airport was eerily quiet, almost empty, motionless. It was different from any airport I’d ever seen. You know what it felt like? It felt like they had only one flight a day here, the one I’d just gotten off of. The airport was whatever the opposite of bustling is.
Mickey Loomis, the Saints’ general manager, was there to meet me. It was just a ten-minute ride from the airport to the team offices and practice facility on Airline Drive. But as we rode in Mickey’s car, the blocks we passed didn’t look much busier than the airport. This was early January 2006, four months after Katrina. The floodwaters had finally receded. People were trickling back. But most of the houses still looked empty. The stores and the restaurants were hit-and-miss. Cars were still up on people’s lawns. Everything just seemed very still. The grass and the weeds were growing. There were trailers here and there. But you certainly didn’t hear a lot of construction noise.
As Mickey and I pulled into the parking lot, I glanced at my cell phone for any sign of a text message or a voice mail from 920, the area code for Green Bay, Wisconsin.
Nothing.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t heard about Katrina. I’d seen the pictures on television and read the newspaper accounts. I knew about the people on the rooftops and the families in the Superdome. I knew FEMA had stumbled. I knew about the Lower Ninth Ward. I knew the failure of the levees was worse than the storm. But all that media coverage had still failed to prepare me for this: the immensity of the devastation and so much quiet. When I arrived from Dallas for my official Saints interview, New Orleans looked like a third-world country with most of the people gone.
I’d been to the city before. For coaching conventions. For a few games. Always in on a Thursday, out on a Monday, with hardly any rest in between. I always had a great time in New Orleans. But for me, it was one of those cities like Miami or Las Vegas. You were happy to visit, but not in your wildest imagination could you think of living there. And that was before Katrina.
After my third season in Dallas with Parcells, I felt like I knew the modern canons of football. I had confidence in my own coaching abilities. I had firm thoughts on how to win. I believed I was ready to coach my own NFL team. Thankfully, some other people agreed. Though I’d stepped back from the Al Davis offer in Oakland two years earlier, now the time seemed right. Several teams were looking for new head coaches in early 2006. I’d flown up to Green Bay and had a terrific interview with the Packers. That’s a great organization—a team I had followed since I was a kid. I felt optimistic about that possibility and was expecting to hear something soon. The Buffalo Bills had expressed interest in me as well. I’d also had a nice-to-meet-you dinner with Mickey in San Antonio. Now, with this trip to New Orleans, that preliminary conversation was being elevated to a formal interview.
The Saints were displaced like everybody else in or near New Orleans and the Mississippi Gulf Coast. The day before I got there, the team had returned to Airline Drive from its Katrina-year headquarters in San Antonio. Mickey showed me around the sprawling facility—the indoor and outdoor practice fields, the locker and weight rooms, the executive and staff offices. I could see that plenty of work still had to be done. There’d been damage from the storm and the flooding. The National Guard had used the place as a temporary headquarters. They’d been landing helicopters on the practice field. They treated the offices more like a field command center than an executive suite. The building got three years of wear and tear in three hard months. Clearly, the top-to-bottom fix up still had a ways to go. Walls had to be painted. Carpets had to be pulled. Tarps were hanging everywhere. The furniture was half assembled. As Mickey began to introduce me around, I didn’t say anything, but I did think to myself: “They’re running an NFL team—from here?”
They’d set up a makeshift meeting area in one of the breakout rooms. Besides Mickey, I met with Greg Bensel, the team’s vice president of communications. I saw Rick Mueller and Russ Ball, who’d been at dinner with us in San Antonio and dealt with player-personnel issues. And that afternoon I had a chance to sit down with Mr. Benson. As far as I could tell, no topic was off-limits. I was struck immediately by everyone’s openness. The previous season’s 3-13 record. The need to hire a new head coach. The unique challenge of rebuilding a football team in a city that itself needed rebuilding. The uncertainty about the team’s long-term future in New Orleans.
Visiting with Mr. Benson could not have been more different from my Al Davis interview. No game-day strategies. No run-front defenses. And no cheeseburgers. Mr. Benson asked me about my family and told me about his.
Mickey and the others didn’t try to sugarcoat anything. When the storm hit, Mickey told me, he had just laid the foundation for a new house in Metairie. Now he was actually sleeping at the complex. The task at hand was immense. It was all a little surreal, to tell you the truth. And, honestly, I wasn’t taking any of it to heart. It just seemed interesting and huge. My basic reaction was: Man, these guys have their hands full! I was most likely going to Green Bay. This was their problem, not mine. I was just here for an interview.
When we finished our various meetings, Mickey drove me downtown to the Renaissance Hotel. At least it was open. I had about an hour and a half to relax before dinner. We were meeting at seven at Tommy’s Cuisine. I went up to the room. I took off my coat and loosened my tie. I was relaxing on the bed, almost dozing off. The cell phone began to vibrate. I had a message from 920, Ted Thompson, the Packers’ GM. Ted got right to the point. “Hey,” he said, “the process has gone well. We’ve decided to go in a different direction, and I wanted to let you know as soon as possible.
It hasn’t come out yet. Please don’t say anything until we announce it.”
I wanted to cry.
I appreciated the heads-up. But damn! I really thought there was a good chance I was getting the Packers job. Without a doubt, Green Bay is where I wanted to go. Knowing the tradition. Coming from the Midwest. Growing up around all that. And Beth too—I knew she could see herself in Green Bay, despite those winters that never end. In that one short voice mail, the Packers job was gone. But I had no chance to reflect on the deeper meaning. It was almost seven. I had just enough time to look in the mirror and straighten my tie. But for the very first time, on my way out to dinner, one thought did creep into my mind. It was more like a sigh followed by a question:
“Oh, man, could I really be going to New Orleans?”
I liked Mickey Loomis from the first time we met. In an industry of loud egos, he had a quieter style. At the time, he’d been with the Saints for six years and before that he’d spent fifteen years with the Seattle Seahawks. He’d worked for successful guys like Chuck Knox and Mike McCormick. I think I have pretty good instincts and intuition. My first impression was dead-on. Trustworthy. Steady. Intelligent. Patient. He was like that in my early meetings with him, and that’s how he is today. He has never once glossed over anything.
We talked at dinner about all the issues the Saints would be facing that year and beyond. The issue of getting players to come. The issue of recruiting coaches. All of it was right out on the table. He said, “We’ve got to discuss this A to Z—all of it.” That’s Mickey. This was a team that had obviously gone through a lot. They had played their home games in San Antonio, Baton Rouge and East Rutherford, New Jersey. Their stadium was on the injured-reserve list. They had challenges no other NFL team had ever experienced. 3-13 was only the beginning of it. There was just a huge amount of chaos they needed to deal with. Clearly, they had to make a change at quarterback. It was time to move on from Aaron Brooks. And there were real questions about where the team’s permanent home would be. They’d be back in New Orleans for the 2006 season, if they had somewhere to play. But how long would the team stay? I don’t think anyone had all the answers. Mickey didn’t pretend to. He told me what he knew. He told me what he didn’t. Sometimes the answer was just: “We’ll have to see.”
