by Pete Carroll
Certain members of the team were certainly watching to see how I would handle this relationship. Terry was a special individual. While he would be the last one to arrive at meetings and the last one on the practice field, he was the first one to talk to a child who was sick or a fan who was wearing his jersey. One day, while in my office discussing a previous incident, Terry said he didn’t want to practice and told me that he was going to sit out that day and go home. Sensing that he hadn’t had fun on a football field in a while, I asked him if he would drive over early to our practice field with me and just throw the ball around. He obliged, and we simply began to throw the ball back and forth. Then he and I began to run around the field like we were playing in the park, not concerned about the business of the NFL. Before long, we were sweating, laughing, and enjoying the game of football . . . and Terry ended up practicing that afternoon.
I like to think that in moments like that I reached Terry and helped him. But ultimately, I couldn’t alter his mentality and our relationship was never what I wanted it to be. Nonetheless I was grateful for those moments, as he was one of my favorite players in New England.
Heading into our second-to-last game of that season, we had to win in order to gain a wild-card play-off berth. Drew Bledsoe was hurt, and Scott Zolak was going to quarterback our team against the formidable 49ers—the team whose image I’d been hired to replicate. It was an incredible challenge but one that our squad embraced. They threw themselves into the competition. The game was incredible, as Scott threw the ball better than he had in years and defensive back Willie Clay intercepted a Steve Young pass, intended for Jerry Rice, late in the game to preserve a 24-21 win. This was a huge moment for us, as we clinched a play-off berth and did it without Drew and three of our top players. I knew firsthand that my former players and fellow coaches hated to lose but I like to think that at least a few of my close friends within the 49ers’ organization were somewhat proud of our success that afternoon. In any case, the Niners lost that game with the same style and class that they showed during their previous winning seasons.
I wish I could say the same about how we handled our own defeat the following week. The next week would be our final regular-season game, and the outcome would have no effect on our team’s standings in the play-offs. We were playing legendary coach Bill Parcells and the New York Jets. They beat us 31-10, and while it hurt, as all losses do, I was ready to get our team prepared for a play-off run. That is, until the postgame player interviews. One of our top defenders told reporters that we had been “outcoached.” The Boston media ran with it, and within a day it leaked out that the ownership was going to review my status at season’s end.
We returned to Boston to prepare for the play-off game against the Jacksonville Jaguars. The story around town was focused not on our game but on my job status. It was a terrible distraction for the entire team. I can remember stating that the front office needed to make some sort of comment to quiet the rumors that were growing each day, but the Kraft family was on vacation out of the country and couldn’t be reached. Finally, on Friday, Robert Kraft made a statement saying my job was secure, but it was too late—the media already had their story, and we had a mounting distraction.
During the game we had a chance to take the lead in the fourth quarter, but we dropped a short touchdown pass and had to settle for a field goal. On the very next possession, the Jaguars’ QB, Mark Brunell, threw a bomb to Jimmy Smith to put the game out of reach. Our season ended, and the frenzy calling for my job in Boston began.
Regardless of what the front office intended, during my third year in New England there was a sense that the writing was on the wall. The lead stories seemed to focus on my job status instead of on the team. Despite all the uncertainty during the off-season, we got off to a great start. We were leading our division at the midway point of the schedule and had arrived at our bye week with a 6-2 record after beating the Arizona Cardinals. Our team was flying high, led by great performances by Drew, and ready to attack the second half of the season, but for whatever reason, our momentum turned south. We never recovered, and I couldn’t find a way to get us back on track.
We went on to lose five of the next six games. The media and fans were not happy with our performance and were not afraid to let us know. As the head coach, I was prepared to take the heat. I was okay with that because it is part of the profession, but it wore on us all.
One night late that season, I was tossing and turning and finally realized that a good night’s sleep was not an option. I flipped on the television and started rolling through the channels until I stopped on the movie The Babe, in which John Goodman played Babe Ruth. I recognized Babe in a Boston Braves uniform at the plate. He had recently been traded from the Yankees to the Braves. He had started the season playing well, but was finishing it playing injured. He was not delivering, and he was hearing it from the nearby fans hanging over the railing. He remained poised and once even smiled at the fans. As he went through his at bat, the count got to 0-2 and the fans got even worse. The Babe just smiled, soaking it all in. On the next pitch he connected, and the ball sailed over the right center-field wall for a home run.
As he rounded third base, trotting toward home plate, the fans turned and began to cheer for him, accepting him. Then it hit me. The New England fans just want to win! In essence, the fans at Foxboro were the same as the ones at Braves Field. Generations had been taught to love their local sports teams and hate anyone or anything that got in the way. That night, I realized that the same fans yelling at Babe Ruth were yelling at me—they just wanted to win!
I woke up the next morning with a deeper understanding of and appreciation for the New England fans. What I realized was that we all wanted exactly the same thing: to win. Once I comprehended that, I knew that the only chance I had of making that happen was to go about doing things the best way I could. I needed to compete every day. I was going to control what I could and enjoy each moment of coaching football. I was going to coach my tail off the next day, week, or month and not be concerned about my future. The owner would make his decision eventually, but in the meantime I was going to have a blast coaching ball.
Entering our final game of that season against the Baltimore Ravens, I decided to change things up. On Saturday morning prior to the game, we had our walk-through at Foxboro Stadium, and instead of going into our team meeting room, where I would typically address the players, I took our guys into the visiting team’s locker room to give them a different setting for what promised to be a very different Saturday-morning meeting. Until this point, I had been careful to keep our routines the same and stay the course, which were the only factors I could really control. However, I wanted to get my team’s attention in a special way, to let them know we were going to compete to the very end of our season.
When I started my speech, I wasn’t sure exactly where it was headed, but in my heart I knew it was likely one of the last times I would be addressing the team at the stadium. I wanted not only to inspire them but also to leave them with something they could take with them long after our days together ended. As soon as I began, I knew that what I was going to talk about went way beyond the next day’s game against the Ravens. I talked from the inner depths of my being, the same place that I had stored much of the emotion of the past three years. I made it clear that despite the storm that circled our organization and, more specifically, my coaching tenure in New England, they could and should play freely tomorrow and worry about nothing else. I let them know that there was nothing anybody could say or do to me at that point that would distract me from giving them my all tomorrow, and I asked, just one more time, that they do the same. As I look back on it now, that was truly a “win one for the Gipper” speech in true Knute Rockne fashion. I wanted to finish that season 8-8 and avoid going out with a losing record, no matter what it took. So, one last time, we were going to compete to the bitter end.
During my three years with the Patriots, there had been plenty of deci
sions that could have been made differently, as with any NFL organization and coaching staff. But that didn’t really matter to the fifty-three men in that locker room. I just wanted them to play well one more time and to compete freely with no distractions.
The next morning I met with Robert Kraft and pressed him to give me a straight answer about my fate. If this was to be my final game as a Patriot, I told him, I wanted to enjoy it.
He told me that I would be fired after the regular season.
Ironically, on that gray, wintry New England afternoon, we went on to defeat the red-hot Baltimore Ravens 20-3. Winning that day with such loyal players and enjoying what would be my final game in New England is still one of my all-time favorite memories on an NFL sideline. Finishing up 8-8 was particularly meaningful to me because we had seized that day.
Leaving the field for the last time, I had no real idea of what was next for me, but I had a feeling that something good was just about to happen.
There I was, with two years remaining on my contract, realizing what an important opportunity I had to reevaluate my career and my life in general. I knew that I didn’t want to be an assistant coach and wasn’t even sure I wanted to put on another headset. I had a number of thoughts running through my mind about what to do next. The challenges and rewards of coaching had been phenomenal, but at the same time it seemed like there was some disconnect between my way of looking at things and the expectations of the profession. I knew what I loved, and I knew what I didn’t, but I just couldn’t quite see how it would all fit together.
Unfortunately, I was still learning how to be a head coach while in New England. As with the Jets, I did not know myself well enough to teach my philosophy to the owner, the front office, and the support staff. After all I had been through, I was still searching for the exact vision and philosophy that would ensure my future success. As hard as it is to admit, I needed those challenges and some adversity to bring forth my truths, soon to be revealed.
I left the NFL knowing that wherever I ended up next, my job would be to coach every part of the organization and be sure that we all had one heartbeat, one voice. I now understand that different cultures could exist in the front and back offices, but to succeed, these elements need to be in sync. A head coach should be able to hire his own coaching staff if he wants a cohesive unit and also have a strong hand in selecting players. Confidence and trust are vital to a successful organization, and leadership must be supported unconditionally—to the bitter end, if necessary.
Ultimately, I learned that success in the NFL depends on all parts of the organization working together to field a championship team. The competition is so intense and the level of expertise so evenly matched that only the strongest survive. The strongest, I firmly believe, are those that are the most unified as an organization.
As I mulled over my next career move and worked my way through a process of self-discovery, I talked to a close network of friends, in both the media and the business world, about the possibilities outside coaching. We explored ideas such as providing around-the-clock NFL coverage, not unlike what the NFL Network does today. I also wrote league-related articles for CNNSI.com and was asked to be a spokesperson for NFL Youth Football.
Although my schedule was active, I began to feel a bit lost, as none of these “side projects” were gaining traction for the next phase of my career. Without a doubt, I had been enjoying the extra time with my family, watching my kids play sports and just being a dad around the house. In particular, having the freedom to travel and watch my oldest son Brennan’s senior season playing tight end for the University of Pittsburgh is one of my most cherished memories.
But I began to feel the squeeze. I was coming up on the final year of my contract in the fall of 2000, and I knew that there would soon be a flurry of job openings in both the college ranks and the NFL. Unfortunately, I still did not have a concrete plan about what to do next.
Before I could start looking at my options, however, I had to think back to the advice of my good friend Monte Kiffin: “You’ve got to have a philosophy.” I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if only I had seriously asked myself about my own philosophy. If I was ever going to get the chance to run an organization again, I would have to be prepared with a philosophy that would drive all my actions.
PART TWO
TH E POWER TO WIN FOREVER
7
PHILOSOPHY AS THE FOUNDATION
Both in New York and in New England, we had so many things working well, but we still couldn’t pull it all together the way it needed to be. I was fairly sure I knew what I had right, but what I needed to get was a clear view of what was missing.
It was during this post-New England period of contemplation and reflection that I found myself rereading the works of Coach John Wooden. I had been digging deep into past influences of all kinds, but this was the one that made it all click for me.
Coach Wooden’s career was legendary, and I had read his books before, but something about the experiences I’d had with the Jets, the 49ers, and most recently the Patriots led me to see things in a new way. What especially jumped out at me was how long it took him to really find his groove. After that first title, in his sixteenth season as UCLA head basketball coach, Coach Wooden went on to win ten out of the next twelve national championships before retiring. He fell just one very close game short of winning nine in a row. For some reason, I had never realized it had taken sixteen years to get his UCLA team to that level.
Coach Wooden’s real breakthrough came the moment he had developed his philosophy in a full, complete, and systematic way. Like Marv Levy, who led the Bills to win all those division championships I had seen hanging in the stadium years earlier, Coach Wooden had figured out how to not just win a game or have one great season but Win Forever.
The wealth of detail that went into that knowledge was incredible. He had figured out absolutely everything about his program—his belief system, his philosophy, his delivery, and a million other details that made that first championship possible. He had figured it out so completely that he could re-create it year after year after year. Even more important, he had done more than just become aware of all those details inside his own mind. He had refined them to the point that he could explain them to the people around him. I think a great part of his genius was that he was able to explain his beliefs and tie them back into a clear vision that brought it all together into a single team effort.
This exciting eureka moment of insight I got while reading Coach Wooden’s book was immediately followed by the less thrilling reminder that with two head coaching failures already on my résumé, not only was I unlikely to get sixteen years to figure all that out for myself—I’d be lucky to get sixteen months.
It was time to get moving.
My life in the next weeks and months was filled with writing notes and filling binders. For years, I had ideas about coaching, always challenging the position groups, defensive squads, and teams that I coached to do things in an extraordinary way. But while I had a sense inside me of what we needed, I hadn’t articulated it very well. I didn’t have the details worked out in my own mind so that I could lay them out clearly and convincingly to anybody else. So, in the fall of 2000, I forced myself to go through the process of nailing it down, and it was the discipline of working at it that made it happen. By December I finally had a clear, organized template of my core values, my philosophy, and—most important—my over-arching vision for what I wanted to stand for as a person, a coach, and a competitor.
Win Forever
Working to Maximize Your Potential
If I ever coached again, I promised myself, I was going to build an organization that could win forever. I would build it on the foundation of a single, basic vision where everything we did was centered on wanting to do things better than they have ever been done before. Rather than thinking of different parts of the team as different groups with different styles, cultures, or goals, I wanted this basic
competitive thought to be the foundation for everything, from the most high-profile performances to the details that no one but us would ever know about.
I knew that in order for any program I developed to achieve this, it would have to come from within me. It would have to be built on my experience, my core instincts, and my beliefs. So I had to start by looking within myself. As I dove into my past and looked around, I realized that whether it was on the court or on the field, as a dad or as a husband, I was always trying to please those around me. I always wanted to do really well at whatever I was doing. Then it hit me. I had always competed to be the best I could be: a great son to my parents, a great brother, a great friend, a great player, a great team member, and now a great husband and father. When I asked myself when I was happiest and most fulfilled and what I stood for, the concept of competition was connected to every one of my responses. Then, in a flash, it hit me: I am a competitor!
That simple realization had an incredible impact on everything that was to follow. It was a great personal truth for me, and from that point forward, everything started to fall in line. It became a way to define myself and it was clear that I needed to make competition the central theme in my approach.
At the base of the Win Forever pyramid, the foundation is the philosophy. I collected all of the things that I believed were important in my life and in football and from that I derived the philosophy for Win Forever. What Win Forever means to me is aspiring to be the best you can be, or as I like to refer to it, “maximizing your potential.” But Winning Forever is not about the final score; it’s about competing and striving to be the best. If you are in this pursuit, then you’re already winning.
