Home Team

by Sean Payton

  In our short time together, this quick get-to-know-you visit, I wanted to get a personal feel for the injured San Diego quarterback. I wanted him to get a feel for us. So we toured the facility on Airline Drive. We sent Brittany to see the antiques stores and the funky shops on Magazine Street. After lunch I volunteered to drive our guests around to look at houses. I wanted Drew and especially Brittany to see that New Orleans wasn’t a total disaster zone. There were places they might actually like to live.

  I headed straight to the Northshore. That’s where Beth and I had bought a spec home from a builder. It’s an upscale suburban area across Lake Pontchartrain on the far side of the twenty-four-mile Causeway Bridge. Some people find the drive mind-numbing, but I didn’t really mind it. In hindsight, the Northshore was probably not the place for Drew and Brittany. Uptown was more their style. But I remembered how Beth reacted the day our Realtor first drove her across the lake. “That’s easy,” she informed me. “I know where we’re living.” I was thinking the Northshore would seem safe and nonthreatening to a couple of out-of-towners arriving so soon after the storm.

  I drove Drew and Brittany across the causeway. We pulled into a subdivision and a couple of gated communities. I showed them our half-completed house. Then we turned around and drove back over the bridge. And I got horribly lost.

  Somehow I got off at the wrong exit. I was on I-10 in the right direction. I just made a wrong turn. I didn’t exit at Clearview like I was supposed to. I ended up on a road that goes parallel to I-10, which made no sense at all. In my defense, I hadn’t been in New Orleans very long by then. I didn’t know all the roads. I had to call Mickey for directions. He was trying to figure out where we were. I thought I was running north-south, but I was driving farther west. The whole thing was becoming embarrassing.

  I looked in the rearview mirror. Brittany was dozing in the backseat. Everyone was getting tired. This wasn’t exactly the impression I was hoping to make.

  “Listen,” I finally admitted to Drew. “I have no idea where we are right now.”

  He just laughed.

  I knew I was blowing the afternoon schedule. I thought to myself, “I might as well drive them to Miami right now.”

  But that winding drive did give me some extra one-on-one time with Drew. I talked about our plans for the offense. He told me about his rehab routine. We got some more hang-out time together. I didn’t want him to leave saying, “I didn’t have enough time with the head coach.” He was certainly seeing one side of the head coach now, navigating incompetently across unfamiliar terrain. I hoped he wouldn’t read too much into that: This is who I’ll be playing for?

  There was nothing more important to us than finding the right quarterback—and getting him here. At first, we thought we might find a good one in the college draft. We had the second pick that year, after the Houston Texans. That’s the nice part of 3-13, the only nice part.

  But the track record for new coaches drafting quarterbacks early—it isn’t good at all. Chris Palmer with Tim Couch in Cleveland. Marty Mornhinweg with Joey Harrington in Detroit. It’s been one disappointment after another. Once in a while, there’s an Andy Reid drafting a Donovan McNabb. But given the history, you’d really have to love someone to take that chance. John Fox was faced with that choice when he became head coach of the Carolina Panthers. He passed on Harrington and grabbed defensive end Julius Peppers instead. He was immediately glad he did.

  Over the years, there have also been some talented quarterbacks already in the building who the Saints had allowed to leave. Jake Delhomme went off to Carolina while the Saints stuck with Aaron Brooks. Marc Bulger went to St. Louis and was the Pro Bowl MVP in 2004. That said, we were on the quarterback hunt.

  We’d begun by evaluating three college quarterbacks who might be available in the draft. Jay Cutler, who was coming out of Vanderbilt. Vince Young from Texas. Matt Leinart from Southern Cal. It was the end of February. But we hadn’t gotten too far into that when word began to spread: Drew Brees was not re-signing with the San Diego Chargers.

  After the 2005 season, the Chargers had offered Brees an incentive-based contract where most of the money was not guaranteed. He read the incentive-based offer as a sign of no confidence by the Chargers and demanded the type of money a top-five “franchise” quarterback would receive.

  When the Chargers refused to budge, Brees began looking for another team. The New Orleans Saints and the Miami Dolphins expressed the most interest.

  It’s an amazing concept now: Drew Brees as a free agent in the winter of 2006. Bum-rushed out of San Diego. Told his quarterbacking services were not required. Dumped on the open market like some afterthought eBay item that might or might not generate a couple bids.

  Actually, it was amazing even then.

  Brees, who’d just turned twenty-seven, was an undeniable talent. He’d led Purdue to three bowl games, including the 2001 Rose Bowl. Some college commentators had wondered: At six foot one, was he too small to be a top-level quarterback in the pros? But he was drafted by San Diego at the start of the second round in 2001, and in three years he brought the Chargers into the play-offs. In 2002, he took over from Doug Flutie as starting quarterback. Although Flutie jumped back into the starting role for part of 2003, Drew was leading the offense again in 2004. That year, he was named NFL Comeback Player of the Year. And it wasn’t just what he was doing in the numbers. Everywhere he went, on and off the field, Drew Brees was known as a leader—the kind of quarterback who makes a whole offense want to play for him.

  But there was a real issue. In the last game of 2005, he injured his throwing shoulder when he dove on a fumble in his own end zone and 325-pound Denver Broncos tackle Gerard Warren landed on him. Drew was flown to Birmingham, Alabama, for arthroscopic surgery. On January 6, Dr. James Andrews repaired a 360-degree tear of the labrum and a deep, partial tear of the rotator cuff. The renowned orthopedic surgeon called Drew’s busted right shoulder “one of the most unique injuries of any athlete I’ve treated,” telling Sports Illustrated: “Lord, I was just hoping to give him a functional shoulder. An average athlete would not recover from this.”

  But if the Chargers were not re-signing Brees, what possibilities did he offer the Saints? That’s what Mickey and I were asking ourselves. If the injury was as scary as Dr. Andrews was saying, would the surgery work? What would the recovery be like? Did the Chargers know something we didn’t? We had no doubts about Drew’s native ability or the intensity of his work ethic. But how soon, if ever, would his precision and his strength be back?

  We also knew we weren’t the only team that was thinking about him. The Miami Dolphins were looking closely. And the early word in the NFL was that Drew, who’d loved the San Diego lifestyle, could happily see himself in the South Florida sun. Didn’t anyone ever warn this guy about the dangers of UV rays?

  One thing we knew: We had to take some risk here. With so much stacked against us, the Saints could not afford to be a play-it-safe team. We were recruiting players other teams were overlooking. We’d put coaches in jobs they’d never done before. And Drew Brees, the more we thought about him, seemed like just the kind of quarterback we might want to take a chance on. This was as much a judgment of Drew’s character and work ethic as of his abilities. Digging into his background, I could tell. He’d always been a winner. Physically gifted, hugely competitive, intensely focused. Good things just happened to him. Drew was the boy who knocked over three bottles at the carnival and won the big stuffed animal for the girl. In his two years as starting quarterback, his team at Austin’s Westlake High had gone 28-0-1. He was an avid teenage tennis player, challenging and beating a young Andy Roddick. He had giant hands and could dunk a basketball. Success just followed him around.

  Even though he had a risky shoulder, how could we not make a run at Brees?

  I was excited. But I was guarded too. I knew better than to get ahead of myself. I knew the injury was an issue. I knew the Dolphins wanted him. I didn’t want to feel the w
ay I had at Miami University when Ohio State swooped in and grabbed a hot recruit.

  We were lucky to have Pete Carmichael as our quarterbacks coach. Having worked with Drew in San Diego, Pete had some insights into Drew’s way of thinking. And Drew had some comfort with Pete.

  Other than our little traffic mishap, I felt like the visit went well. That evening, we had dinner at a back table at Emeril’s. Emeril Lagasse, the restaurant’s renowned chef, was in New York that night, but he left a gift for Drew. It was a copy of one of Emeril’s cookbooks with a note inside: “If you come to New Orleans, I’ll come to your new house and cook your first meal.” Now there’s a chef who knows how to make a newcomer feel welcome!

  In speaking to Drew, Mickey and I took the same approach Mickey had taken with me. We were completely frank with Drew about the team and New Orleans. “Here are the problems. Here are the logistical issues. And here are the opportunities.” And I think we put on an absolutely excellent show.

  The offensive coaches—Pete, Johnny Morton, Doug Marrone—created a thoughtful PowerPoint presentation of our goals for the offense. They showed video cut-ups of Drew’s own plays and then similar plays I’d run in Dallas and New York. We wanted Drew to feel like New Orleans was a place he’d fit in. We wanted him to feel like we really wanted him. We had to lay it all out because, honestly, we didn’t have a track record to point at. I was a first-year head coach. We hadn’t been at this for four or five years. We weren’t able to say, “This is what we’ve done already. We’ll keep doing it.” All we had was our vision and ourselves. We were really selling ourselves. Joe Vitt, Pete Carmichael, Doug Marrone, Johnny Morton, Gary Gibbs, Mickey Loomis, Mr. Benson and me—everyone in the process struck a single, unequivocal note: We want you. We want you a lot.

  But hovering over the whole situation, there was still a strong dynamic of uncertainty. How could there not be? There was uncertainty everywhere. The uncertainty of the Saints. The uncertainty of the city. And the uncertainty of Drew’s shoulder. What happens if another storm blows in? What happens if the shoulder blows out?

  We were living with that uncertainty every day. Three weeks earlier, I was at the CVS, waiting in line. Six weeks earlier, Drew was on Dr. Andrews’s table. He knew about uncertainty too. Maybe that would give us some kind of edge. Here’s the thing we were certain about: We wanted him, and we were willing to take a chance.

  I knew the Dolphins. If they were keen on Drew, they’d make a formidable case. They were going to be thorough. Drew was going to visit Miami right after he left us. Jason Garrett was coaching the quarterbacks there. I knew he and his wife, Brill, would give a great Miami tour. There was a lot more stability with that team and that city than we could offer. But in the end, the Dolphins were less decisive than we were, and that made all the difference in the world.

  It turned out that the doctors in Miami had some qualms. Maybe they lacked the faith that we had—or the willingness to take a chance. For whatever combination of reasons, their doctors ultimately gave Drew a lower recovery score than ours did. The contract they were willing to offer him reflected that. Frankly, it wasn’t in the same ballpark as ours. They bet against the shoulder. We bet for the man.

  I knew the two of us, working together, could complete each other—and create greatness.

  My understanding. His skill.

  When we were putting together our contract proposal for Drew, Mickey asked me the same two questions he likes to ask when we are weighing a potential hire: “Coach, do you want him?” And if the answer is yes, “Where do we have to be with our offer to separate ourselves from anyone else?”

  Because of all the uncertainty that we came with, we knew we had to be an extra step, maybe two extra steps, above the competition. Working with Drew’s agent, Tom Condon, Mickey proposed a long-term deal that would make Drew the Saints’ franchise quarterback and in many ways the public face of the team. I give Mickey a ton of credit for his ability to craft a contract that would work well for both sides. I like to joke: “My job is to set the table. His job is to pay for the meal.” Our offer included $10 million in guaranteed money the first year and a $12 million option the second year.

  There was a boldness to our offer. When you take that approach, you risk someone saying later, “Boy, the Saints overpaid there.” It could happen. Sometimes, it has. But when you’re in the position we were in at the start of 2006, taking a chance is part of the equation. A chance is what we took.

  Several days after Drew’s Miami visit, I got the call. He was signing a six-year, $60 million deal with the Saints. I was thrilled. At that point, we celebrated every little step forward, and this was a big one. The victories didn’t come so easily back then. I felt like I had won when I hired Joe Vitt. This was something special. This was something we could build on. There were plenty of roadblocks yet to come. There were lots of things that still weren’t going the way they should. I still had that team official nagging me about the car program. But, one by one, we learned to handle those challenges. We celebrated each victory and moved on.

  11

  GETTING REGGIE

  REGGIE BUSH WAS DEVASTATED.

  It was the night before the 2006 NFL Draft, and word was leaking out. The Houston Texans, who had the first pick, were taking the big defensive end Mario Williams from NC State. It wasn’t a crazy choice on Houston’s part. World-class defensive ends—they don’t show up often—cause turnovers and win football games.

  But to Reggie Bush, this was a dis of major proportions.

  Reggie was the best college running back in America. He’d won the Heisman Trophy. He was versatile and strong. He could carry, catch and return both punts and kicks—a genuine triple threat. He’d been a key part of two national championship teams at the University of Southern California. He was supposed to go first in the draft. It wasn’t just that Reggie had his heart set on Houston or even the nice ego rush of being number one. Reggie and his team of advisers were fully aware of which team had the second pick.

  We did.

  Reggie was at a hotel in New York City. His agent, Joel Segal, was there. So was his marketing agent, Mike Ornstein. Reggie’s whole entourage was there. And not one of them sounded the least bit pleased. Mickey and I were in Mickey’s office. We took a call from New York.

  Now, I’d never met Mike Ornstein before. I’d seen him around Dallas with Parcells. I just knew he did some stuff with Reebok, and he was handling Reggie’s marketing. I started with no presumptions about him either way.

  Ornstein got right to the point.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “look. The Texans are gonna take Mario. Reggie does not want to play in New Orleans. He wants to be in a bigger market. This is not who you want to draft. You need to understand: This kid doesn’t want to come there.”

  Ornstein had some crazy idea about a trade we might cobble together with the Jets and some other team. Somehow, he said, we’d be better off that way. He assured us we didn’t want a player who didn’t want to play for us.

  I glanced at Mickey. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. I leaned closer to the speakerphone.

  “Fuck you,” I said and hung up the phone.

  Now, we were as surprised as anyone that we had a genuine crack at Reggie Bush. In all our predraft scenarios, that possibility had not been discussed much.

  The weekend before the draft, Kenny Chesney was playing at the Cajundome in Lafayette. Beth and I, and Mickey and his fiancée, Melanie, drove out to see him. We talked draft possibilities there and back. Not a word about Reggie. On Wednesday, we drove to the Lower Ninth Ward for a Habitat for Humanity project. President Bush was there that day. “Who are you selecting?” he wanted to know. I told him we figured Houston was taking Reggie, and we still weren’t sure. Friday night, as the draft was getting started at Radio City Music Hall in New York, five of us went to dinner at Emeril’s.

  That’s become an annual tradition for us before each college draft. Rick Reiprish, Rick Mueller, Russ Ball, M
ickey and me—the college director, the pro director, the cap guy, the GM and the head coach. We weigh the players we’re looking at. We obsess over every imaginable choice. We line up our contingencies. But, really, the work has been done. The hay is in the barn.

  As I sat down at the restaurant table, I knew something the others did not. Their BlackBerrys hadn’t lit up yet. Just before I’d come in, I’d gotten an early heads-up from a reliable NFL insider about Houston’s real intentions that night.

  “Hey,” I said, as I pulled up my chair. “Texans aren’t takin’ Bush.”

  “Aw, you’re nuts.” “You’re crazy.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m telling you, they’re not taking Bush,” I said.

  The other four were all so sure of themselves, someone proposed a bet. Twenty dollars a man. I’d be out eighty dollars if Reggie went to Houston.

  I knew this was the easiest eighty dollars I would ever make. I knew that, at that exact moment, Houston was in contract discussions with the Williams camp. But no one believed me until I got up to use the restroom and, I guess, the BlackBerrys began to buzz. I got back to the table. Sitting next to my water glass were four twenty-dollar bills.

  That would cover my blackened redfish and wine.

  We finished dinner and drove back to the Saints complex on Airline Drive. We were almost giddy from the possibility of Reggie as a Saint. Or was it that nice bottle of Caymus? Either way, we began to get our heads around the prospect of drafting Reggie Bush. What a great addition to the backfield! Reggie and popular Saints running back Deuce McAllister, a backfield one-two punch! Love him on special teams! And how excited the fans would be!

  We parked our cars and headed up to Mickey’s office. We had our speakerphone call with Ornstein, our New York friend. A few minutes later, Mr. Benson came in. With the owner were his granddaughter, Rita Benson LeBlanc, and his grandson, Ryan LeBlanc. They were eager to analyze all the possibilities. There was some discussion of whether we should trade away the Reggie pick.