by Bill Walsh
Our groundskeepers raised their level of play to a point where Candlestick Park’s football field was increasingly among those in the best shape of any natural surface in the NFL, despite its proximity to San Francisco Bay, which produced a soggy subsoil and a mushy topsoil, and the effects of our winter rainy season. They often succeeded in spite of having these tremendous obstacles to overcome.
Maintenance workers, ticket takers, parking lot attendants, and anyone receiving a paycheck with the emblem of the San Francisco 49ers on it were instructed as to the requirements of their own job’s Standard of Performance and expected to measure up.
In fact, to encourage positive thinking, pride, and self-esteem, I insisted that specific equipment carrying the emblem of the San Francisco 49ers be treated with respect. For example, players were told their practice helmets, which carried our emblem, should never be tossed around, sat on, or thrown in the bottom of their lockers: “Wear it, hold it, or put it on the shelf in your locker.” The same applied to their game helmets, of course.
The San Francisco 49er emblem, and the helmet it was affixed to, signified that they were members of an organization with pride and high behavioral expectations. It was similar to saluting the American flag: Show it respect, because it represents who you are and what you value.
Respect for the emblem was important because it represented something very significant, namely, respect within the organization for one another. I would tolerate no caste systems, no assumption of superiority by any coaches, players, or other personnel. Regardless of the size of an employee’s check or the requirements of his or her job, I made it clear that he or she was 100 percent a member of our team, whether he or she was a superstar or secretary, black or white, manager or maintenance man.
In keeping with this philosophy, I forbade the traditional hazing of rookies and walk-ons—making them the butt of humiliation or physical punishment. When they arrived, I informed them, “You are a San Francisco 49er. As long as you’re here, you will be treated like one.” And it was true. They were respected, full-fledged members of our organization from day one and were treated as such until they proved otherwise. Of course, when they “proved otherwise” they were not subjected to hazing; they were subjected to termination.
Scouts, usually considered outliers who stopped by occasionally with information and opinions on prospects, were treated right by us. They came to feel like real members of our organization, rather than pizza delivery boys who showed up when called with hot tips about players.
The Prime Directive Was Not Victory
From the start, my prime directive, the fundamental goal, was the full and total implementation throughout the organization of the actions and attitudes of the Standard of Performance I described earlier. This was radical in the sense that winning is the usual prime directive in professional football and most businesses.
Thus, in the beginning our players, coaches, and staff heard little talk from me about winning anything, and certainly not by some arbitrary date. In fact, during our second season one of the staff members went to Eddie DeBartolo and complained that I was adrift in minutiae and had no stated goal for the 49ers when it came to winning games, conference titles, or Super Bowl championships.
The staff member was wrong. I had very profound and organization-changing goals, but he didn’t accept my philosophy and was fired when I heard about what he had done behind my back. His betrayal was unacceptable. However, he was correct that I had no grandiose plan or timetable for winning a championship, but rather a comprehensive standard and plan for installing a level of proficiency—competency—at which our production level would become higher in all areas, both on and off the field, than that of our opponents. Beyond that, I had faith that the score would take care of itself.
In pursuing this ideal, I focused our personnel on the details of my Standard of Performance—trying to achieve it—rather than how we measured up against a given team (i.e., the score). “Let the opponent worry about that” was my thinking. I sought to channel the concentration of the 49ers toward improving performance on the field and throughout the organization with as little force as possible from outside influences such as the media, fans, friends, or the standings. This was a formidable task, but in large part I accomplished it.
Consequently, the score wasn’t the crushing issue that overrode everything else; the record didn’t mean as much as the season progressed, because we were immersed in building the inventory of skills, both attitu dinal and physical, that would lead to improved execution. That was the key. (The losses hurt, and the wins felt good. But neither was the primary focus of my effort or attention. At least, in the beginning. Unfortunately, that changed for me down the line.)
I directed our focus less to the prize of victory than to the process of improving—obsessing, perhaps, about the quality of our execution and the content of our thinking; that is, our actions and attitude. I knew if I did that, winning would take care of itself, and when it didn’t I would seek ways to raise our Standard of Performance. At least, that was my plan. It may not sound very grandiose, but it was very comprehensive and was the platform from which I launched the turnaround.
During this early period I began hiring personnel with four characteristics I value most highly: talent, character, functional intelligence (beyond basic intelligence, the ability to think on your feet, quickly and spontaneously), and an eagerness to adopt my way of doing things, my philosophy. These included assistant coaches I was very familiar with—managers—to install and nurture my organizational values and job criteria.
I sought intelligence in employees, not just for the obvious reason, but also because a dull-witted staff member who’s aggressive creates anarchy; when you have one of those who thinks he’s intelligent in your midst, look out. The bull-headed know-it-all is a destructive force on your team.
In that regard I sought individuals who had the ability to work with others. A fundamental element in this is not only the ability of a person to understand his own role and how it fits into the organization’s goal, but a knowledge or understanding of other people’s roles. Part of my job was to facilitate this mutual understanding and appreciation.
Individuals who didn’t measure up in various ways were removed without fanfare (usually), and those who challenged my authority did so at risk.
The Top Priority Is Teaching
In a very real way, everything I did was teaching in some manner or other. I would take out a calendar and plan when I would talk about different subjects with individual players, with a squad, with the entire team, with position coaches, staff members, and others. I would discuss a topic from every angle, every approach, never repeating it the same way, such as when I spoke on the subject of communication and interdependence—trying to keep the idea fresh and not become rote.
I was insisting that all employees not only raise their level of “play” but dramatically lift the level of their thinking—how they perceived their relationship to the team and its members; how they approached the vagaries of competition; and how willing they were to sacrifice for the goals I identified.
Much of this relates to the respect and sensitivity we accorded one another and to an appreciation of the roles each member of our organization fulfilled. Each player had a connection to and was an extension of his teammates.
On the field (and elsewhere) the assistant coaches and I were conscientious about educating players so they appreciated that when Jerry Rice caught a touchdown pass he was not solely responsible, but an extension of others—including those who blocked the pass rushers, receivers who meticulously coordinated their routes to draw defenders away from him, and the quarterback who risked being knocked unconscious attempting to throw the perfect pass. Jerry was taught the same. Likewise, Joe Montana understood that he was not some independent operator, but an extension of the left tackle’s block and the efforts of many others.
This concept applied beyond the team itself. Players had a connection to—
and were an extension of—the coaching staff, trainers, team doctor, nutritionists, maintenance crew, and, yes, the people who answered the phones. Everybody was connected, each of us an extension of the others, each of us with ownership in our organization. I taught this just as you should teach it in your own organization.
Victory is produced by and belongs to all. Winning a Super Bowl (or becoming number one in the marketplace, or reaching a significant quarterly production quota, or landing a big account) results from your whole team not only doing their individual jobs but perceiving that those jobs contributed to overall success. The trophy doesn’t belong just to a superstar quarterback or CEO, head coach or top salesperson. And this organizational perception that “success belongs to everyone” is taught by the leader.
Likewise, failure belongs to everyone. If you or a member of your team “drops the ball,” everyone has ownership. This is an essential lesson I taught the San Francisco organization: The offensive team is not a country unto itself, nor is the defensive team or the special teams, staff, coaches, or anyone in the organization separate from the fate of the organization. We are united and fight as one; we win or lose as one.
Leaders sometimes wonder why they or their organization fail to achieve success, never seem to reach their potential. It’s often because they don’t understand or can’t instill the concept of what a team is all about at its best: connection and extension. This is a fundamental ingredient of ongoing organizational achievement. (Of course, incompetence as a leader is also a common cause of organizational failure.)
Combat soldiers talk about whom they will die for. Who is it? It’s those guys right next to them in the trench, not the fight song, the flag, or some general back at the Pentagon, but those guys who sacrifice and bleed right next to them. “I couldn’t let my buddies down,” is what all soldiers say. Somebody they had never seen before they joined the army or marines has become someone they would die for. That’s the ultimate connection and extension.
I nurtured a variation of that extreme attitude in our entire organization, most especially the players: “You can’t let your buddies down. Demand and expect sacrifice from yourself, and they’ll do the same for you.” That is the measure, in my opinion, of any great organization, including a team of football players—that willingness to sacrifice for the team, to go the extra mile, the extra five or fifty miles. And it starts with the leader and your leadership staff.
It has a transformative effect. Bonding within the organization takes place as one individual and then another steps up and raises his or her level of commitment, sacrifice, and performance. They demand and expect a lot of one another. That’s extremely important because when you know that your peers—the others in the organization—demand and expect a lot out of you and you, in turn, out of them, that’s when the sky’s the limit.
It’s why egotism can hurt group pride and unity so much. An individual who acts like a big shot, as if he or she is solely responsible for what the team has accomplished, has taken over ownership of the group’s achievement. You may remember basketball’s Michael Jordan being interviewed after a game. The Chicago Bull would tell the media, “Scotty Pippen did a great job on defense; Dennis [Rodman] got a couple of key rebounds, and our bench really picked up the slack in the third quarter to give us a little breather. It was a great effort by everybody.” What Jordan didn’t mention might be the fact that he had scored fifty-five points, grabbed fifteen rebounds, and had twelve assists. As he matured as an on-court leader, he made everyone part of the victory.
The leader’s job is to facilitate a battlefield-like sense of camaraderie among his or her personnel, an environment for people to find a way to bond together, to care about one another and the work they do, to feel the connection and extension so necessary for great results. Ultimately, it’s the strongest bond of all, even stronger than money.
Winners Act Like Winners (Before They’re Winners)
The commitment to, and execution of, the specific actions and attitudes embodied in my Standard of Performance—some picky, some profound—may seem far removed from Super Bowl victories, but they were crucial to creating and cementing a 49er level of professionalism that I viewed as the foundation on which future success could be constructed. (That’s what the assistant coach who complained about my lack of focus on winning didn’t understand.)
Consequently, the 49er organization increasingly became known for our businesslike and very professional behavior even when we were losing more games than we were winning. There was no showboating allowed after touchdowns, no taunting of opponents, no demonstrations to attract attention to oneself, because one individual shouldn’t take credit for what our whole team had done. There was a minimum of whining, complaining, and backstabbing. And phones were answered in a professional manner: “San Francisco 49ers headquarters. How may I assist you?” All calls had to be returned within twenty-four hours.
Eventually—within months, in fact—a high level of professionalism began to emerge within our entire organization. The 49ers’ self-perception was improving; individuals began acting and thinking in a way that reflected pride and professionalism, even as we continued to lose games. People want to believe they’re part of something special, an organization that’s exceptional. And that’s the environment I was creating in the early months and years at San Francisco.
I moved forward methodically with a deep belief that the many elements of my Standard of Performance would produce that kind of mind set, an organizational culture that would subsequently be the foundation for winning games.
The culture precedes positive results. It doesn’t get tacked on as an afterthought on your way to the victory stand. Champions behave like champions before they’re champions; they have a winning standard of performance before they are winners.
It all sounds pretty simple, doesn’t it? But it’s a rough road. At the end of my first year, giving it everything I had, working more hours than seemed possible and after installing many of the elements of my Standard of Performance, this is what we had to show for it: the same miserable won-lost record as the year before I took over: 2-14. A cynic might have said, “Well, Bill, your switchboard operators answer the phones great, but your team stinks.”
Nevertheless, my teaching in all areas was being implemented as the base for the future of the San Francisco 49ers. While the performance results were not good if measured strictly by the won-lost record, the organizational structure and environment were set in place to produce success. We lost most of our games, but we did not “stink.”
In a way, an organization is like an automobile assembly line; it must be first class or the cars that come off it will be second rate. The exceptional assembly line comes first, before the quality car. My Standard of Performance was establishing a better and better “assembly line.” We were becoming a first-class organization in all areas.
Proof of that existed although it was not evident in our 2-14 record. I needed to look for evidence elsewhere. Very talented individuals had been hired; malcontents, underachievers, and the unmotivated were being rooted out and replaced; learning was well under way, with very productive attitudes and behaviors becoming the norm; and statistical evidence—the internal metrics—showed improvement, including going from virtually the worst-ranked offensive team to one of the best: number one in passing offense and sixth in total offense. Additionally, we had lost five games during my first season by a touchdown or less—close, competitive games. We lost an additional seven games by two touchdowns or less. Both were improvements over the previous season. Before you can win the fight, you’ve got to be in the fight.
Even though my initial year as head coach produced the identical won-lost record, the resurrection of the San Francisco 49ers was under way; the organization’s behavioral “infrastructure” was essentially built.
Achieving success takes patience, time, and fortitude. To demand the assimilation of my Standard of Performance throughout the organization, including th
e complex offensive plays and the specifics of player performance, when the roof is caving in—we lost thirteen of our first fourteen games—would have been challenging, even impossible, for many.
In the beginning, Eddie DeBartolo, the owner, had the patience and gave me the time to persevere. Tough days lay ahead, including that trip to Miami during my second season that was almost fatal, but our ship had found its mooring. We were no longer adrift and being tossed around with abandon by the competition and ourselves.
And in the turbulent and occasionally troubled times ahead it was indeed my Standard of Performance that kept us in contention or at the top for almost twenty years and produced five Super Bowl championships. This consistency of excellence and preeminence is difficult to achieve in professional sports—and equally hard in business.
Seek to Be Near the Summit
Within our organization the Standard of Performance served as a compass that pointed to true north. It embraced the individual requirements and expectations—benchmarks—required of our personnel in all areas regardless of whether things were going well or badly. That’s the toughest thing—constancy amid chaos or presumed perfection.
If things are going well, points being scored and games won, your organization may be elated and lose focus; if things are going poorly, as they were when I arrived at San Francisco, people are likely to be despondent and start looking for the exit. Incredibly, both can exist at the same time, as you’ll see later in a game we played against Kansas City. And, of course, between the ups and downs, the good times and bad, there are ongoing challenges to keep everyone firing on all cylinders at all times. Not to get too clever, but “consistent effort is a consistent challenge.”
There’s an ebb and flow, an up and down, in every significant endeavor at every level. I cut through that ebb and flow with the Standard of Performance. It was our point of reference, what we always returned to when things wobbled—deeply entrenched, ongoing, and stabilizing regardless of the final score. My high standards for actions and attitudes within our organization never wavered—regardless of whether we were winning or losing.
