by Jim Trotter
“He’s got his money, but, then again, I can say, ‘I’m playing and you aren’t,’” Junior said. “I mean, it would hurt me to get $1.2 million [a year] and sit on the bench the rest of the year or not be considered as a player they need to have in the defensive lineup to help the team win. I love responsibility, but if I didn’t have the responsibility and still got the money it would be hell.”
The comments angered Papa Seau. Humility is a hallmark of traditional Polynesian culture, and Junior’s self-centered comments brought more embarrassment to the family.
“The one person I look up to is my dad,” Junior told the Los Angeles Times the following year. “He’s my hero. Dad was mad because of all the perceptions out there about me. The only way people knew me was through the newspapers and the media, and I didn’t click. He was giving me the silent treatment and the glare. My dad had sacrificed everything, and I was screwing up. He took it hard when we lost. In high school, if we lost a game, my dad wouldn’t give me any lunch money. If the team lost, it was because I hadn’t done enough. That has been [ingrained] in me.”
His image was taking a beating in the locker room as well as in public. Some teammates felt that the front office and the coaches were coddling and protecting Junior. It was customary on the day after games to review the film en masse or as a defense, but that didn’t always happen if Junior had a bad performance or a major screwup. Whether one thing had something to do with the other is unknown, but the reality was that some teammates wondered privately about it.
“We’re not meeting as a team to go over the film? Junior must have fucked up,” recalled Leslie O’Neal. “It got to the point where there were a couple of games the coaches didn’t grade the film. The way the organization is, they want their guy to be the guy that you think about when people say ‘San Diego Chargers.’ That’s what they wanted with Junior, and they did everything in their power to make that happen. Billy Ray Smith was the guy, then I came in and I became the guy—but they didn’t want me to be that guy anymore, maybe because of my [unfiltered] personality. I felt I got paid to make plays; if you asked me a question, I was going to give you my answer, unlike some people who say what the organization wants to hear. They did everything in their power to put Junior in that role, and once he had that role things got out of control.”
Junior started the final 15 games as a rookie and finished second on the team with 85 tackles. They were decent numbers for most rookies, but not for him. He measured himself by impact plays, and he ended the year with no interceptions, no forced fumbles, no fumble recoveries, and only one sack, which came in the final game. It was unacceptable to him that safety Martin Bayless had three times as many sacks as him and reserve cornerback Donnie Elder was only a half-sack behind him.
“You could see from day 1 that he had the total package, because people built like that don’t run like that,” Burt Grossman said. “But you could see he had no idea how to handle what he had. He was like a 16-year-old with a Formula 1 car. It was just veering off and crashing into everything. When he got it under control, that’s when he became really special.”
7
The Turnaround
THE KNOCK at the front door on a March morning in 1991 surprised Junior. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and his home in the hills of Mount Helix was not someplace you stumbled upon. You got there because you meant to get there.
Junior gazed through the peephole and saw linebackers coach Mike Haluchak standing on the porch. What’s he doing here? he thought to himself.
Junior was still trying to escape the turmoil of a difficult rookie season. The contract standoff, the booing from the fans, the fighting with coaches over which position he should play, the silence from his father, the feeling that he had been nondescript on the field—the memories still lingered in his mind. Now a reminder of all those things was knocking at his door.
Junior opened the door and greeted Haluchak with a half-smile and a confused expression. The coach asked for a few minutes to talk. He had something he wanted to say, and it needed to be said in person, not over the phone. Haluchak thought Junior had the potential to be a transcendent talent, but he knew it would never happen as long as the temperamental star kept fighting the coaches—and himself, to some extent. When the two sat down, Haluchak was succinct. “You have the ability to be one of the all-time greats,” he said.
Junior bristled inside. Why are you bringing this here? he thought to himself.
It was clear that the coaches could see something in Junior that Junior could not—or would not—see in himself. “Give it a chance,” Haluchak said.
If the coach wanted a commitment, he didn’t get it. There was an awkward silence when the two parted company. Haluchak wondered if he had gotten through to his prized pupil, but there was no way to know.
When the door closed, Junior held up a figurative mirror. The person staring back at him was someone he didn’t recognize or like. Never beholden to material things, he was now consumed by them. The young boy who grew up sleeping on the garage floor now had a lavish new $1.14 million home for himself in the hills and a newly constructed home for his parents. The youngster who was raised to be humble now had a Mercedes-Benz coupe with SAY-55-OW vanity plates. The innocent child who was content eating his mama’s home-cooked meals was now feasting at the finest dining establishments, places he’d never even thought about entering in his youth.
Junior had allowed himself to be corrupted by fame and fortune. He realized the only thing worse than being poor was being rich—well, rich with no priorities. “You never realize how much a million dollars is until it’s slapped on you,” he told the Los Angeles Times. “So many people are chipping at you, and they all sound good. I lost myself. The money began to run me. Being at USC, you see all that money flowing around, and I was never a part of it. Now I had my chance. I was trying to be Ralph Lauren instead of Junior Seau from the slums in Oceanside. I had to get back on track.”
For Junior, that meant working. He committed himself to training and studying. Although still frustrated with the team’s plan to use him at inside linebacker, he wasn’t going to let it be quicksand beneath his feet. He had to keep moving forward. He had to make plays. I have to beat myself.
The Chargers opened the season with a 26–20 loss at Pittsburgh. Junior was unspectacular, finishing with just three tackles and no sacks. He was marginally better the next week in a 34–14 loss to San Francisco, recording five tackles and no sacks. Those performances weighed on him. He was supposed to be a difference-maker, yet he had made no significant impact on either game. That began to change in week 3, though.
The Atlanta Falcons, leading by three with just under three minutes to play, faced a third-and-1 from their 44. A first down would all but enable them to run out the clock and preserve a 13–10 victory. Chris Miller took the snap and handed the ball to five-foot-seven, 201-pound running back Steve Broussard, who needed only 36 inches for the first down. He not only failed to get the first down but was dropped for a one-yard loss when Junior burst through for the tackle.
It was the first time in the young season that Junior had made a potentially game-altering play; the stop helped put the Chargers in a good-enough field position to drive for a potential tying field goal. John Carney’s 47-yard attempt sailed wide left, but the silver lining was that Junior had flashed the impact capabilities for which he was drafted. He continued to flash the following week against the Broncos, with nine tackles and another sack. He added this third sack in as many games and five tackles the next week against the Chiefs.
Each big play was followed by a powerful fist thrust that came to be known as his signature move. It represented a metaphoric blow against not only the opponent but also anyone who doubted whether he’d reach his full potential. Junior had finally bought into the system, and the result was a breakout season that earned him the first of 12 trips to the Pro Bowl. His 111 tackles were 50 more than he tallied as a rookie, and his seven sacks were six more than
he had his first year. Haluchak beamed like a proud parent at the end of the season.
“One thousand percent,” he said of the improvement from year 1 to year 2.
Junior’s attitude was also evolving. On most Friday nights he could be found on the sideline of high school football games in Oceanside, where he was able to stay connected to his roots. “See, this is what football is all about here,” he said while watching Oceanside battle El Camino in early November 1991. “It’s fun. It’s one of those things where you just come out and play. It’s free, really. It’s pride, and it’s the honor of representing your school, of representing somebody. I can remember when I had nothing. I was just one of the guys that played three sports and didn’t really know anything about the professional level or the college level. I just cared about getting on the field and playing. I don’t want to lose contact [with that].”
Sullen and often unapproachable as a rookie, he was starting to resemble once again the youngster who had befriended social outcasts in the neighborhood. He smiled more and socialized with kids and fans in his old neighborhood. On this night he even agreed to phone a boy who had cerebral palsy. Nine months later, another youngster from North County got an unexpected call from Junior. It was Chris Fore, an offensive lineman at Fallbrook High who had suffered serious injuries to his left leg and foot in a car accident.
Fore was the passenger in a car driven by teammate Justin Patterson, a 16-year-old who had just gotten his driver’s license in the mail that day. He was driving Fore and another friend home when he lost control of his SUV and slammed into a telephone pole. Sadly, Patterson died in the accident. Fore, who would have seven surgeries over the next two years, was depressed about losing a close friend and not being able to participate on the football team.
When Junior heard the story, he arranged to phone Fore. He would not allow the youngster to drown in a pool of self-pity. He spoke to him energetically, telling him to find a way to be a part of the team. Fore went on to earn the DeNormandie Award, given annually to the most inspirational member of the team.
“That would’ve never happened without Junior’s encouragement and challenge,” Fore said. “Junior inspired me. He told me of an injury he had at USC . . . He missed a considerable part of the season. He said he felt bad for himself at first, which is how I was feeling. Then he went on to tell me how selfish that really was, because the team was moving on with or without him. ‘With or without me, there was going to be a Trojan football season. Hate to say it like this, Chris, but with or without you, there will be a Warrior football season. You have to find a way to be a part of that.’
“Nobody had challenged me that way before,” Fore continued. “Here I was, going to be in a wheelchair and on crutches for the entire football season, and nobody had told me that I could still be involved until Junior did that night. I gained a new perspective. Football meant so much to me, so I started to look at it through a new set of eyes that night. I saw my teammates as people that I could still motivate, encourage, and challenge. So I did just that. The next year, as a senior, I coached the freshman team. I’ve now coached 14 years, eight as a head football coach. I don’t know that I would’ve ever realized this path my life has been on without that call and a subsequent visit to Chargers practice where Junior further encouraged me in that regard.”
The compassionate side of Junior was what heightened the community’s respect for him. No matter how high he climbed, his heart was always with those not as fortunate. In the spring of 1992, he and Gina founded the Junior Seau Foundation to help at-risk kids in San Diego County. His particular focus was his hometown of Oceanside, where he was barely five years removed from being one of those kids facing the decision to do the right thing or turn down a destructive path. In many ways the early years of the foundation were like Junior’s early years in the league, in that he knew what he wanted the foundation to accomplish but it would take years to achieve it because he lacked the training and experience. There was so much for him to learn.
On the field, he was quickly learning about the business of football. After three straight 6–10 seasons, the Chargers finished 4–12 and in last place in 1991. Beathard had great respect and affection for coach Dan Henning, but he also had an impatient owner in Alex Spanos, who wanted change. So Henning was fired and replaced by Bobby Ross, a no-nonsense Southerner who had won a share of the national championship two years earlier at Georgia Tech.
The hiring was far from inspiring to fans and team members. Ross was a slightly built former military man with a country drawl and a noticeable lisp. He had no NFL experience, was coming off an 8–5 season, and was just 31–26–1 overall at the university. He was hired to make things better, but the situation initially deteriorated. The Chargers lost his pro debut 24–10 to the visiting Chiefs, then traveled to Denver and were beaten 21–13. In week 3 they surrendered 16 fourth-quarter points to the Steelers and lost 23–6 at home, then saw the bottom fall out the following week in a 27–0 defeat at Houston.
As if 0–4 weren’t bad enough, the Chargers had been outscored 61–10 after halftime. The second-half failures pointed directly at the coaching staff and its failure to make successful adjustments. Complicating matters was the struggle of quarterback Stan Humphries, who had been acquired in a preseason trade with Washington after starter John Friesz sustained a season-ending knee injury in the exhibition opener. Through four games (three of them starts), Humphries had thrown eight interceptions and only one touchdown.
“We are 0–4, and it’s no fun,” Junior wrote in his personal journal.
Things are now starting to stir up in the locker room and outside with the media. When you or any team starts with this type of record, you start to question each other [players and coaches]. Things are good for me individually, but we are losing as a team. It’s funny because going into the games I am determined to dominate the field. But when we lose I wish I could trade my performance for a win. Today I was told that there are some changes in the defensive scheme. Last week we played Houston and the pressure I put on Warren [Moon] was there and more. But there were some breakdowns on linebacker support, so this week we are placing me on the running back instead of rushing the QB. My frustration derives from working hard and doing a job that is being praised by viewers, and now being asked to do more. We have three other linebackers who can cover running backs just as good, but there has been some controversial moves with players on the team—i.e., ever since I’ve moved down to rush the passer my buddy Burt [Grossman, a defensive end] has been vocal about his feelings about the move. Burt had to move inside of the guard so I could rush on the outside. He’s a good player, but we all know why I was put out there: speed.
Another issue is that [defensive end] Chris Mims, a first-round pick, has not played and the pressure on upper management has increased since the losing streak started. In order to take some heat off the upper office, Chris has to be plugged in; and for us to do that I have to move to linebacker, Burt moves to end and Chris goes to tackle. How convenient. My frustration is the lack of commitment to winning. If the front office is crying because they are looking bad, then join the club. If our coaches are sick of someone complaining about his position that they’re willing to sacrifice a great performance for happiness or peace of mind, then we have a bigger problem than just not winning. I will say one thing, and that is that they are testing my character. I could be taking this too strong or personal, but when your coach doesn’t know how to explain the situation or give me an understanding, you have to confront it.
Junior wasn’t the only one to see the glass as half-empty. Los Angeles Times beat writer T. J. Simers wrote that Ross was “in over his head,” which prompted an angry Ross to request a private meeting between the two. Overall, the situation was so bad that Ross was introduced at a boosters’ luncheon as “the director of The Laurel and Hardy Show.” For someone as prideful as Ross, the comment was hard to take. But he also was a realist, and he knew his team hadn’t played well
enough to earn anyone’s respect.
Fortunately for the Chargers, the NFL season is a marathon and not a sprint. They responded by beating the Seahawks 17–6 in their next game, holding an opponent without a touchdown for the first time all year. Then, after returning from the bye week, they outscored the Colts 17–0 in the fourth quarter for a 34–14 victory. They followed that with a win over the Broncos, then another one over the Colts. They were back to .500 and no longer the butt of their boosters’ jokes.
When the streak was broken the following week against the Chiefs, no one took the 16–14 loss harder than Junior. The Chargers led by one with just over two minutes to play and Kansas City in possession of the ball at midfield. They had held the Chiefs to four straight three-and-outs, but on first down Junior blew a coverage that resulted in a 25-yard catch by Willie Davis. Three rushes later, Nick Lowery kicked the decisive 36-yard field goal.
Junior wrote in his journal:
I’m hurting really bad for my team, but also disappointed with my lack of concentration level during that ONE play. I’ve learned how lucky I am to have another opportunity. Note to self: Never take a down off. It may be the most important play of the day.
Putting his feelings on paper proved unfulfilling, so the day after the defeat Junior stood before the team and apologized for his mistake.
“He broke down and started crying,” Grossman said. “That was the type of person he was. You just don’t see in this day of egos and grown men somebody that emotional. You don’t see people in the NFL with absolute, stripped-bare remorse over football. I don’t see people when their own family members die have that much remorse and that much pain that they let somebody down. I remember thinking at the time, It’s just a football game. I had already forgotten about the play by that time, to be honest with you. This guy had the reaction that, I was drunk and ran over your son. It was like he was talking to the parents of a kid he had just killed. That’s the kind of emotion he had.
