Coming Back Stronger

by Drew Brees

  There was a positive side, though: playing flag football had kept me from getting hurt early on. Plus, I’d learned a lot of the fundamentals without wearing pads. Flag football is all about throwing, catching, and running as opposed to blocking and contact. The movement is very athletic and fluid, and it forces you to have a solid grasp of the basics.

  I ended up as the fourth quarterback of six my freshman year. The first three went to the freshman A team, and the next three went to the freshman B team. In effect, I was the starter on the freshman B team. Not bad, but I felt lost in a swarm of players.

  During my sophomore year, when I was in the middle of two-a-days, my mom picked me up from practice. She could tell something was up because I was unusually quiet. After she pulled into the garage, she turned off the car and we sat there for a minute.

  I looked at her and used a word that normally didn’t come out of my mouth. “Mom, I think I might want to quit football.”

  She didn’t freak out. She just squinted her eyes with concern and said, “Why?”

  “Because I don’t feel like I’m ever going to get an opportunity to play.”

  Jay Rodgers was the quarterback for the varsity team, and his younger brother Johnny was the quarterback on junior varsity. This was a football family. Their middle brother was the starting center on varsity, and their dad, Randy Rodgers, was the recruiting coordinator at the University of Texas. Johnny Rodgers was destined to be the next starting quarterback for Westlake High School, and I was sure I’d get lost in the shuffle.

  “You know, my real sport is baseball,” I told my mom. “I want to get a baseball scholarship. I play football because I like it, but I don’t want to sit on the bench. I don’t feel like I’m going to get an opportunity, and maybe I’d be better off playing fall baseball and trying to get a baseball scholarship.”

  My mom took a deep breath. “That’s a valid point. I wouldn’t want to sit the bench any more than you do. So if you don’t want to play, you don’t have to play. But remember this: when you least expect it, that opportunity will present itself. You never know when it’s going to come, but all it takes is one play.”

  I sat there and thought about what she’d said. My mother was an athlete and a competitor, and I valued her opinion. Besides, with a grandfather who was a coach and an uncle who’d played for the University of Texas, I didn’t want to feel like I was missing out on some experiences. This might be something I’ll regret for the rest of my life if I don’t at least follow through with this year.

  “You know what?” I said. “I think I’ll stick it out for a little bit longer, and we’ll see how it goes. I’m not going to quit midway through two-a-days.”

  Mom nodded and smiled. In retrospect, I think the fact that she didn’t push me one way or the other freed me up to think clearly for myself. As it turned out, her words rang true the very next week.

  One JV quarterback had decided to play baseball and the other moved to defense, so I was second in line to Johnny Rodgers. It was the last scrimmage of the year against Killeen, a tough team comprised mostly of kids whose parents were in the military, stationed at nearby Fort Hood. With the season just one week away, this was the final dress rehearsal. Near the end of the game, when there was only one series left, Johnny dropped back to pass, hoping to end the scrimmage on a high note. In a split second, everything changed for me. Johnny got sacked in the backfield, and in the process he tore his ACL, putting him out for the entire year. One minute I was the guy who would ride the bench all season, and the next I was thrust into the role of starting JV quarterback.

  Our JV team went 10–0 my sophomore year. In my junior year, I was the varsity starter. We were undefeated going into the third round of the playoffs.

  That’s when I tore my ACL.

  An injury like that can change your life. I had no doubt about that—after all, that was the reason I was the starting quarterback. Johnny Rodgers had returned, but he was now our starting free safety. I had seen other players who tore their ACLs either recover really slowly or not come back at all. I was sure this was the worst thing that could have happened to me. It was the third round of the playoffs. We were going to state, and we were going to win the championship. Suddenly my season was over.

  Our team lost in the next round.

  I had been getting recruiting letters from some good schools, but when I blew out my knee, all the letters stopped. No school wanted to touch me. The worst part about it was that I would also miss the entire basketball and baseball seasons. And in my mind, my number one priority was still to get a baseball scholarship. I was only a junior in high school, and it felt like my life was over.

  I had a six-month rehabilitation process, and I had to make a decision: Was I going to quit or come back stronger? I chose to come back.

  It was grueling. For three or four hours every day after school, I’d go in the training room and just grind, grind, grind. The pain of the injury was intense, and every day I had to fight to regain flexibility and mobility. But in the process, I was building up my strength and resolve.

  The doctor told me that my ability to recover from this injury was totally dependent on my commitment to the rehab. I was bound and determined to come back—not just to where I was before, but better. My goal has always been to take a negative and turn it into a positive. I want to be a problem solver, not a problem creator. The glass is always half full for me. Make the best of every situation.

  The ACL injury was a defining moment in my life. I made a decision not to let something negative control my emotions. And the interesting thing is that decision led to another that would also follow me the rest of my life.

  Chapter Two

  A Few Good Men

  Many people would define the “good life” as one that’s free of pain and hardship and heartache. But I’ve learned that adversity is actually an opportunity. It’s a gift, though it may not look like it in the moment. The difficulties life throws at you can be a doorway to something better—something you hadn’t even dreamed was possible.

  After I tore my ACL on a fateful day in December 1995, I had surgery, which resulted in my having to wear a knee brace and walk with crutches for six weeks. I felt like I was at a dead end—or at least, had hit a huge roadblock. But at the same time, something unexpected was happening internally. The injury had stirred me up inside, and I was filled with questions: Do I have a purpose? Is there a reason I’m on this earth? Do I have a destiny, or is everything just chance?

  I remember hobbling with my dad into First Baptist Church of Austin, Texas. Usually I didn’t pay much attention during the sermon. I would nod off or elbow my brother or check out the girls. I had been taught from a young age that church was important, but like most sixteen-year-olds, I didn’t see how it connected with real life. Church was just something you did on Sundays and maybe Wednesday nights if you didn’t have practice.

  For some reason the message that day wasn’t normal. I had a different feeling as I listened. And this time I was really listening.

  I was sitting in the pew with my crutches next to me and my knee brace on, thinking about the future. It had been about two weeks since the surgery, and I was lost in all the questions. I wasn’t only thinking about my football future—I was thinking about the direction I wanted to go in life. This injury had stopped me from pursuing my sports dream, and it was this crisis that created a defining moment for the rest of my life.

  As I sat there thinking about those deep, huge questions that everyone faces at some point, the pastor, Dr. Browning Ware, was preaching about what God desires us to be. As an illustration in his message, he mentioned the movie A Few Good Men. He said that God is looking for a few good men to carry on his teachings and to walk the walk with Christ. That’s when the lightbulb came on for me. He’s talking to me. I want to be one of God’s few good men.

  It was an epiphany. Life finally made sense—this was not some random existence here on earth. God had a plan for me, and he wanted me
to be in a relationship with him. If I would cultivate that relationship, good things would spill over to others in my life. I knew I wanted to be one of God’s few good men no matter what happened with my sports career.

  At that point I didn’t know if I would ever play quarterback again. I didn’t have a clue what the future would hold. But I knew that no matter what happened, I wanted to do things the right way—to please God and live my life for him.

  I didn’t see a vision, and lightning bolts didn’t shoot out of the ceiling. I didn’t walk forward at the end of the service either. But there was something going on inside of me—something I can only explain as God moving in. A calmness came over my life because I finally understood that God had a plan for me. He was in control. I still approached every day with determination, and I tried to use the gifts and talents he had given me to be the best I could be at everything. But in the end, I knew it wasn’t about my striving and clawing my way to the top. I knew God would take care of me. And I knew I had to trust that whatever path he led me down was the path I was meant to be on.

  This belief immediately carried over into my daily approach to life as I was propelled into my studies and my rehab. All that pressure I used to feel started to disappear as I learned to give it my best and then commit the rest to the Lord. I couldn’t escape the sense that God’s plan for me was to come back stronger and lead my team again.

  Coming Back

  When I went down with the ACL injury, I was six feet, 170 pounds—skin and bones. I had a bum knee. I was on crutches. In other words, I looked pretty pathetic. But I began rehab, throwing myself into it every day after school.

  Before I knew it, I was going into my senior year of high school, which is when colleges ask for commitments from players. But my prospects looked bleak. I was coming off the ACL injury, plus I was a little smaller than most quarterbacks—not the prototype a lot of schools are looking for. Texas A&M and the University of Texas already had their quarterbacks. Baylor said no thanks. TCU and Texas Tech were a no go. Rice ran the option, and that wasn’t my strength. SMU was still struggling to recover from the “death penalty” they’d received from the NCAA ten years earlier for recruiting violations. Every school in Texas seemed closed to me.

  Six months after my surgery, I was fully healed and once again starting as quarterback. Because of the weights and rigorous training, I now weighed 195 pounds. I had gained twenty-five pounds of muscle, so I was physically much stronger. But for me the real difference wasn’t in my body but in my head and my heart. I had a new sense of confidence because I knew I had worked hard to fight through the injury. I’d pushed myself past limits I’d previously thought I could not go beyond. I was physically, mentally, and spiritually tougher because of what I had endured in order to get to that point.

  We won every game in the regular season, and we were now in the playoffs, preparing for our fourteenth game of the year. When we were on the practice field, our offensive coordinator, Neal LaHue, approached me.

  “Drew, is anybody recruiting you?”

  “No, Coach.”

  He just looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face, as if to say, They don’t know what they’re missing, kid.

  I laughed. “I’m not worried. Anyway, I’m going to get a baseball scholarship.” I still had my heart set on baseball.

  We won the next two games and went 16–0, winning the first 5A state championship in the history of our school. That season was a turning point for me. A year earlier, before I’d torn my ACL, I was just a high school kid whose world revolved around whatever sport was in season and who I would ask to the prom. At the time, I’d thought my ACL tear was the worst-case scenario. Now I realized that injury was really the best thing that could have happened to me. I was stronger. I was more focused. And best of all, I was starting to understand more about God and how he wanted to lead me.

  I might have been young, but I knew what had gotten me to that point. And it certainly was not my own doing. It was the fact that God was with me every step of the way. I had a strong belief that no matter what happened, things were going to work out for the greater good. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was a truth I was going to need to cling to in the months and years ahead.

  The Dregs of the Big Ten

  After having a perfect season my senior year, a few teams started showing interest in me. But by now it was December, and most schools already had their commitments from players. I ended up being recruited by a few Ivy League schools, along with Purdue and Kentucky.

  Purdue and Kentucky both had new coaching staffs, hired at the end of the 1996 season. Joe Tiller moved to Purdue from Wyoming, and Hal Mumme came from Valdosta State to Kentucky. Both coaches ran spread offenses, so they needed a quarterback who could pass it around. They had to throw together a recruiting class in a month and a half, and I was one of the few quarterbacks who hadn’t signed on with other schools.

  The very week after Coach LaHue had shaken his head about my not getting recruited, Purdue and Kentucky sent scouts to Westlake—to the same practice. David White, our receiver and one of my best friends in high school, leaned over and whispered, “They’re here to see you.”

  I shrugged him off. “That’s pretty cool. By the way, where’s Purdue?” For all I knew, Purdue was an Ivy League school. Princeton, Purdue . . . it all sounded close enough.

  The truth is, I was still thinking about a baseball scholarship. I didn’t want to get too excited about football because I figured I’d focus on baseball in college and then work my way up to the major leagues. Even after I signed with Purdue, my hope was that I would get drafted really high in baseball or receive a baseball scholarship to a Texas school. After it became clear that neither of those things would happen, I figured I was truly meant to go to Purdue.

  I took trips to Brown, Kentucky, and Purdue. After doing some research, I wound up choosing Purdue because of its academic reputation (some call it the Ivy League of the Midwest) and also because of the opportunity to play in the best conference in the country at the time: the Big Ten. Plus, I loved Joe Tiller and his spread offense and knew it would be a perfect fit. True, it was a basketball school . . . until we made it a football school.

  I was part of a recruiting class that was able to sign only fifteen players. We were considered the last-place recruiting class in the Big Ten. The dregs. The bottom of the barrel. Whatever was picked over by everyone else. But instead of getting upset about the disrespect, we used that label to bring us together as a group. We said to each other, “Nobody’s giving us a chance. But by the time we leave here, we’re going to be Big Ten champions, and we’re taking Purdue to the Rose Bowl.”

  The nation was going to be surprised at what could come out of West Lafayette, Indiana.

  Life as a Boilermaker

  Moving from high school football to the Big Ten was a big jump, although playing 5A football in Texas did help. They say adversity will either make you stronger or break you. If that’s true, the Big Ten will make you tough as nails . . . or it will tear you apart.

  Purdue is a proud school with strong athletics and a respected academic tradition. Nearly every building on campus is red brick, and according to legend, benefactor John Purdue insisted that since he owned the local brickyard, all future university buildings must be built with red brick. Whatever the reason, it makes for a majestic atmosphere. Some of my greatest memories from my time there are walking across campus to the athletic facility after my last class on Fridays during football season. The week of homework and tests was over, and it was almost game time. There is no better time of year than autumn in the Midwest. As I strolled through campus, I could feel the cool, crisp air and the sunshine on my face as I admired the leaves changing to beautiful shades of red, orange, and yellow. The bell tower would chime a tune just as I crossed the engineering mall and hit the homestretch to the locker room.

  All the teams I played with during my four years at Purdue had great leadership and tremendous
team dynamics. We knew how to work hard, but we also knew how to have fun doing it. This was due in large part to Joe Tiller and the culture and attitude he created when he came to Purdue. He ran about twenty guys off the team in the spring of 1997, a lot like the military weeds out the weak links during boot camp. Coach Tiller had a couple of very simple rules that you were expected to follow: Do what you are supposed to do, when you are supposed to do it. And do it that way every time. He also emphasized that if you do things the right way, good things will happen to you. They might not happen today or tomorrow, but eventually they will.

  Oh, and then there was the “golden rule,” at least Coach Tiller’s version: he who has all the gold makes all the rules. As long as you acknowledged this, you would be just fine. We all knew who the boss was. If you missed class, were late to a meeting or a workout, or disrespected authority, you would pay for it with a 6 a.m. workout or a “throw-up session,” as the players liked to call it. You ran so much or did so many up-downs and barrel rolls that throwing up was almost guaranteed. It was this leadership and discipline and fear of failure that allowed us to be as successful as we were those four years.

  I vividly remember many exciting games from my time at Purdue, but there are a few that have left permanent marks on me. One of those was a game against Notre Dame, which I see as one of the defining moments of my college career.

  I didn’t start for Purdue until my sophomore year, in 1998. The first game of the year was against USC in the Pigskin Classic. We lost that game after taking a halftime lead, then won against Rice and Central Florida. The fourth game of the season had us playing at Notre Dame. In a game against the Fighting Irish, you have all the storied tradition of Notre Dame football—“Touchdown Jesus,” the Golden Dome, the Gipper—and it was nationally televised on NBC. Purdue hadn’t beaten Notre Dame in South Bend in almost twenty-five years. It was the biggest game of my life.