Getting to Us

by Seth Davis

  The 2010 season was a disaster from the start. In mid-September, a wide receiver named Chris Rainey was charged with felony aggravated stalking. He had been arguing with a former girlfriend and sent her a text that read “Time to Die Bitch.” The story became a major problem because Rainey was the twenty-fifth player to be arrested or face charges since Meyer had become head coach. The run-ins with the law had become so frequent that the year before, the Orlando Sentinel set up an online database to keep track of them all. Many of the charges were misdemeanors such as underage drinking and disorderly conduct, but there were some more serious offenses as well, such as domestic violence by strangulation, aggravated assault, aggravated stalking, and larceny. Meyer had taken action against the players, ranging from extra running to suspensions to dismissals, but the accumulation of incidents was a bad look, to say the least. “After a while, enough’s enough,” Meyer conceded following Rainey’s arrest. “It’s not a dirty program. We follow the rules and some guys make some mistakes and we’ve got to correct those mistakes.” (In September 2010, Rainey pled guilty to a lesser charge of misdemeanor stalking. After he underwent anger-management counseling and performed ten hours of community service, the charges were dropped.)

  The litany of arrests was especially problematic because everyone knew Meyer had his fingers in every aspect of the program. He bragged about the discipline instilled by his culture, and he exalted the concept of “no gray areas” preached by his father and Earle Bruce. Those proclamations rang hollow as his team’s rap sheet lengthened. It was more than fair to ask whether winning had become so important that Meyer was willing to abide bad behavior.

  Not surprisingly, Meyer does not agree with that narrative. He acknowledges that the arrests were problematic, but he also defends his decisions to stand by his players and help them learn from their mistakes. “It used to really kind of eat me alive when someone would say ‘This program lacks character’ or ‘Just get rid of a kid. Make an example of that player,’” he told me. “Think about that for a minute. I have three children. If someone ever makes an example of my kid, that person will lose that fight. So we’re never going to do that. It’s our job to set a road map for the kid to be successful and have a productive life. At all costs.”

  The Gators experienced a predictable post-Tebow hangover and limped to a 7–5 record, the worst in Meyer’s six seasons there. Between losing Tebow, the press scrutiny, and his withering physical condition, Meyer found himself unable to get the Gators to Us. The losing crushed him, and many of the same old problems with sleep and eating returned. “That year was ridiculous,” Shelley says. “I kept thinking, Life doesn’t have to be this way. I know it doesn’t. So why is it?”

  Two weeks after the regular season ended, Meyer announced yet again that he was retiring from coaching, citing health and family concerns. This time there would be no walking back. He hung around long enough to coach Florida to a win over Penn State in the Outback Bowl on New Year’s Day, and then he walked away at the age of forty-six with five years and $20 million remaining on his contract. Speculation immediately centered on whether he would return to the sidelines—and if so, when—but though Urban didn’t know what he was going to do, there was no question what Shelley’s preference was. “I really thought he was done. I was really hoping he was done, too,” she says. “Because I was done.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When I discuss the “knowledge” dimension of the PEAK profile throughout this book, I’m usually referring to the sport-specific kind. But in Meyer’s case, the time he spent away from coaching enabled him to accrue different kinds of knowledge: intellectual, emotional, psychological, spiritual. His sabbatical taught him the importance of living a balanced life and conserving energy, which replenished his persistence. Having to face his own weaknesses and limitations deepened his empathy. The time off gave him a chance to reevaluate what was important to him, which reset his authenticity. And he learned so much from books, travel, and conversations that he could apply down the road. The sabbatical made Meyer a better husband and dad, and certainly a better coach, one who possessed an even greater ability to get his teams to Us.

  The first thing leaving coaching allowed him to do was sit still. This was never his forte. Shelley long suspected he had at least a mild form of attention deficit disorder. He has never been the kind to relax on a beach during a vacation. When he watched his son’s baseball games, he had to walk around the ballpark and do push-ups and sit-ups between innings to keep his mind busy.

  The best part about not coaching was the time it allowed for Urban to spend with his kids. He took Nate on a three-week trip to Cooperstown and helped coach his middle school football team. He drove to Atlanta several times to visit Nicki, who played volleyball for Georgia Tech, and he also went to see Gigi at Florida Gulf Coast. They were no quick in-and-outers, either. He would stay for three or four days, trying to make up for lost time.

  Meyer also rediscovered his faith. He had grown up Catholic, and he treated himself to extensive Bible reading, went to church (Shelley made him turn off his cell phone so he wouldn’t be tempted to send text messages), and spoke with clergymen. He took his daughters to Rome and Israel and loaded up their itinerary. They went to the Vatican and saw the pope. They went to Jerusalem and retraced the steps of Jesus.

  Perhaps the most valuable knowledge he acquired was through conversations with other coaches. These men are so locked in to their own world that they rarely get the chance to really spend time and share experiences. Urban met with Oklahoma football coach Bob Stoops, who has been one of the better coaches at balancing life and work. He sat with Chip Kelly at Oregon, Mack Brown at Texas, Brian Kelly at Notre Dame. He heard from countless peers who could relate to what he was going through. When he first announced he was stepping away, he got a call from Duke basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski, who took a leave of absence himself in 1995 because he returned from back surgery too soon. The two had never spoken before. After Meyer retired for good, he visited Krzyzewski in Durham so they could continue the conversation. “I realized through all of this that I’m not the lone wolf out there,” Meyer says. “And it’s not just coaches. There’s CEOs and doctors and teachers. Everybody deals with this at some point in your life. It’s work/life balance, health issues, the regret of neglecting your family.”

  Meyer was about two months into his sabbatical when he confessed to Shelley that he was feeling the desire to coach again. She tried to shut down the conversation, but then their world was rocked on May 30, 2011, when Ohio State coach Jim Tressel resigned following a long-running scandal that involved dozens of players receiving illicit benefits, primarily from a local tattoo parlor, that Tressel failed to report to the NCAA. The school said it would appoint one of Tressel’s assistants to serve as interim head coach for the coming season and then look for a permanent replacement once the season was over. That bought everyone some time, but media speculation that Meyer would be a candidate immediately ran rampant.

  When the season got under way, Meyer traveled to campuses in his work as a game analyst for ESPN. This allowed him to continue visiting coaches, see how other programs did things, stay connected to the game—and still be home for Saturday night dinner. During one of those assignments, his broadcast partner, Todd Blackledge, gave him a book called Lead . . . For God’s Sake! It’s a novel about a coach who loses his perspective and becomes depressed. With the help of a spiritual janitor, he manages to rediscover why he coached in the first place. Meyer identified with the protagonist on a primal level. It made him reflect on what he loved so much about the job when he was making $6,000 a year and working his tail off at Illinois State. “I really felt this was our ministry opportunity. We weren’t here just to win games but make impacts,” he says.

  Meyer found the author’s email and wrote to say how moved he was. The author, Todd G. Gongwer, wrote him back, and his cell phone number was in the signature o
f the email. Meyer called him right away, and the two struck up a friendship. He has since given the book to dozens of colleagues and friends, and he wrote the foreword for the most recent edition. Today Lead . . . for God’s Sake! sits prominently on the coffee table in his office.

  As October turned to November, everyone knew that a major decision loomed. Urban, however, had other things on his mind. His father was in failing health. Bud had lived a joyful, energetic life in the years after Gisela died. Both of his daughters were living in Cincinnati—Gigi had taken a job as a vice provost at the University of Cincinnati, and Erika was working at a data analytics firm—so he was able to spend lots of time with his kids and grandkids. Without a team to coach, Urban could fly home pretty much at a moment’s notice. For the first time in forever, he and his dad were able to have long, lazy talks, with no distractions to occupy his mind.

  Bud died in a hospital on November 11, 2011. In the end, it was his lungs that gave out. Urban held him as he passed. His two sisters were also there. “It was the only November of my brother’s life when that could have happened,” Gigi says. “God works in mysterious ways.”

  Meyer did not see a professional therapist during his time away from coaching, but he did develop a support system of friends, family, and pastors who were able to provide the counsel he needed. The whole experience altered his perception of the work his wife had been doing all those years. “He definitely realized that anxiety is real,” Shelley says. “It can cause depression. It can cause stress that you can’t manage.”

  A few days after Bud died, Ohio State athletic director Gene Smith called to see if Urban was interested in the job. He definitely was, but first he had to clear it with his family. As the children and Shelley discussed their concerns, Nicki proposed they draw up a contract. If Urban were to go back into coaching, he would have to follow its eleven provisions, which Nicki wrote out on a pink sheet of paper. They included: My family will always come first. I will go on a trip once a year with Nicki—MINIMUM. I will sleep with my cell phone on silent. I will not go more than nine hours a day at the office. I will trust God’s plan and not be overanxious. I will continue to communicate with my kids.

  Urban signed, and on November 28, 2011, he signed again to become the new head football coach at the Ohio State University. Today, the pink contract hangs framed on a wall in his office, where it serves as a daily warning against the dangers of running too hard, too far, too fast.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Meyer took over at Ohio State, he was more equipped than ever to get his teams to Us. He returned to the sidelines with a better understanding of the need to stop wasting energy on things that were out of his control. Shortly after taking the job, he was attending a fund-raiser and met a local man named Tim Kight, a former pastor who had founded a leadership consulting firm. They struck up a conversation, and Meyer later invited Kight to his home to talk some more. Kight conducted seminars for dozens of sports teams, including some in the NFL, that centered on the formula E + R = O. That is, Event plus Response equals Outcome. Kight’s message is that while we cannot control outside events, we do have a choice in how we respond to them. That response will help determine the final outcome. The message resonated with Meyer so much that he hired Kight to work with his assistants and his players multiple times throughout each season.

  Besides hiring many of his former assistants, such as Marotti, Meyer brought in Tom Herman to be his offensive coordinator. Herman had done wonders running a spread offense as the offensive coordinator at Rice and at Iowa State. It didn’t take long for him to realize that his boss would not brook any slippage. Early in his tenure, Meyer had eaten dinner in the summer with several of the team’s wide receivers and quarterbacks, and as he started quizzing them on various situations in the team’s offense, he was disappointed to hear how little they knew. He called Herman and the receivers coach into his office to let them know in no uncertain terms that they needed to pick up the pace.

  “The message never deviates with him,” Herman says. “Everybody from the strength staff to the video staff to the equipment staff to academics and nutrition—everybody who touches the players there at Ohio State gets the same message and the same expectations and the same goals. I think that’s very rare.”

  Meyer’s favorite word in those early days was juice. He said he wanted energy givers, not energy takers, and nobody gave more energy than him. He managed every detail of the program, right down to having “Hang On Sloopy” playing in the offices. (That song has been played at the start of the fourth quarter at Ohio State’s home games for nearly fifty years.) The Buckeyes would need every bit of Meyer’s motivational spirit, because the program was ineligible to play in a bowl game as a result of the violations committed under Tressel. Yet they pulled off the remarkable feat of going undefeated anyway. It was a stunning accomplishment, and Meyer earned lots of hosannas not only for being a winning coach (again), but for doing so in a way that did not jeopardize his health.

  Shelley, however, was skeptical. The real test, she knew, would come after a loss. It would take twelve more games, but the Buckeyes finally dropped one to Michigan State in the 2013 Big Ten championship game in Indianapolis. Besides snapping the team’s 24-game winning streak, the loss also knocked the Buckeyes out of the hunt for a national championship. After it was over, Meyer was photographed in the tunnel underneath Lucas Oil Stadium, sitting forlornly on a golf cart and eating a piece of pizza. When that image pinballed around the Internet, many observers saw the same old Urban—lonely, depressed, brought to his knees by a loss. Shelley was standing just a few feet away, and she saw something very different, something she liked, a sign of genuine progress.

  She saw he was eating.

  * * *

  • • •

  The team’s persistence would be tested to the extreme during the 2014 season. The Buckeyes entered the fall with a quarterback named Braxton Miller who possessed the perfect skill set to run the spread option. Two weeks before the season began, however, Miller suffered a season-ending shoulder injury. With Miller’s backup, J. T. Barrett, under center, Ohio State lost at home to Virginia Tech in its second game. Meyer held steady. From there, Barrett led the Buckeyes to nine straight wins, but then he broke his ankle in the fourth quarter of the regular season finale against Michigan, which Ohio State won, 42–28. Cardale Jones, a redshirt sophomore who had entered the season as the third-string quarterback, was promoted to starter with the Buckeyes’ championship hopes hanging in the balance.

  The carnage at quarterback was not the only concern. Three days before the game against Michigan, a defensive lineman named Kosta Karageorge went missing. The following Sunday, he was found in a dumpster, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

  With Karageorge’s number adorning their helmets, the Buckeyes rallied behind Jones and walloped Wisconsin 59–0 in the Big Ten championship game. The win was overwhelming enough to persuade the committee of men and women who seeded a first-ever four-team playoff to give the Buckeyes the last slot. They took advantage, knocking off Alabama in the national semifinal game, and then defeating Oregon in the championship. It was Meyer’s third and most unlikely championship.

  There are plenty of explanations for why a third-string quarterback was able to win a title in an offense that was so heavily predicated on that quarterback’s decision making. Certainly Jones deserves a large share of the credit, as does Herman, who worked closely with Jones all season to make sure he was ready if his moment ever came. In the end, though, the championship happened because the Buckeyes had gotten to Us like no other team Meyer had coached. That included how they held it together in the wake of Karageorge’s suicide. “Things happened that just challenged our team, and they answered every test with flying colors,” Meyer says. “It didn’t matter who would’ve come out on that other sideline. That team wasn’t going to lose. It wasn’t because of the spread offense. It
was because we were nine strong. Every unit was playing at maximum capacity. The human spirit is so much more important than the style of play and who’s doing it.”

  There was one period the following season when Meyer started reverting to bad habits. It came after the team lost to Michigan State at home in the season’s eleventh game. Meyer was so despondent that several players came to Marotti to ask him to get the coach out of his funk. He did, just in time to oversee a 42–13 shellacking of Michigan. That wasn’t enough to get the Buckeyes back in the playoff, but they did get invited again in 2016. Urban watched the selection show from the maternity ward at Riverside Hospital, where Nicki was giving birth to his first grandchild.

  Ohio State lost to eventual champion Clemson in the semifinal. Losses are never fun—and there have been scant few of them—but Meyer has learned how to process them in a way that allows him to function. For the most part, he has followed the terms of the pink contract, although everyone knew the clause about working nine-hour days was not going to be followed. He has been a stickler about staying in touch with his daughters, and he has managed to get to most of Nate’s baseball games. Nate committed to play for the University of Cincinnati, so he won’t be moving far away anytime soon.

  Which is not to say Meyer has drastically changed the way he operates. Once in a while, his mood will darken or he’ll seem distracted, and his assistant will send Shelley a text asking if everything is okay. He remains both a delegator and a micromanager, fueled by his inability to leave well enough alone. The oft-said quip among his staff is, “If it ain’t broke, Urban will fix it.” It’s as if he has to live in chaos and turmoil to be happy.

  He has, however, adapted in the way he deals with his players. He knows they are not equipped to take nearly the same abuse he and his buddies did back when they played high school football in Ohio under the shadow of Woody Hayes. He is a much more wise and empathetic coach than he was even just a few years ago. “I understand the player’s journey much more now, and the player’s journey now is more complicated,” he told me. “You know, when I first started coaching you dealt with the high school coach and the family. Now you’ve got social media and all kinds of pressures. If you’d have told me ten years ago I would need a sports psychologist, I would have said no, but you certainly need that now. My staff and I have nonstop conversations not just about the physical well-being but also the mental well-being of our players.”