Winns and Losses
By Rob Sheehy
Published by Rob Sheehy at Smashwords.
Copyright 2000 Rob Sheehy.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious with the exception of the following references to real individuals: as a tribute to his fine football career and in remembrance of his untimely passing - Derrick Thomas; as well known Seattle athletes in other sports - Ken Griffey Jr., Jay Buhner, and Fred Couples; as former Seattle Seahawks greats - Steve Largent and Kenny Easley; as former greats of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers - Lee Roy Selmon and John McKay. Any resemblance by any other character to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
FOR
MOM
“All right guys, he’s completed five in a row. I think that’s enough, don’t you? Cover Two. Ready, BREAK!” The afternoon rain on my helmet beat like a Neal Peart drum solo as we broke the defensive huddle. The offense lined up in an Ace Spread formation, with a single back, two wide receivers to our left, and a tight end and a wide receiver on the right. I took my free safety position, ten yards deep and a yard inside the slot receiver. Cover Two meant I had to cover anything deep to my half of the field.
“Strong right! Strong right!” yelled our middle linebacker, Andre Bishop. Bruce Thornton, the tight end, went in motion across the formation, each step making its own unique sloshing sound. “Trips, Trips!” I yelled. “Bump! Texas! Texas!” I moved up to seven yards and head-up on Wayne Cooper in the slot. The “Texas” call meant we were now in Cover Three, a zone scheme in which the two cornerbacks and the free safety each drop deep to cover 1/3 of the field, while the strong safety and linebackers cover areas underneath. In this case, the tight end motion meant that I was now the strong safety, and had to cover the flat area. I also had force responsibility against a run, but that’s not a concern in seven-on-seven pass drills, so I could focus on coverage. At the last second, I slid over to Cooper’s outside shoulder and into the proper alignment for zone coverage.
Quarterback Sean Clark’s hands grabbed the shotgun snap cleanly. I locked in on his eyes as I retreated into the flat area. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the flanker, Kelvin Dodge, head straight upfield, as did Cooper. Five years as an NFL safety told me Thornton would be heading my way on an arrow, straight to the sideline. Sure enough, there he went, barely changing his course from his pre-snap motion.
I planted my feet and broke to cut off his route, trying to keep focus on Clark’s eyes. Sometimes when you make a great defensive read, the play unfolds in slow motion before you. This one did. As Clark released the ball, I had a full head of steam coming toward the line. Sean had a cannon for an arm, but to me the ball seemed to be moving so slowly I could almost read the Commissioner’s signature. I stuck my hands up, index fingers and thumbs together, and plucked Clark’s bullet out of the air.
“Fire!” I screamed with abandon, the standard interception call signaling the defense to start blocking for a return. Blocking was optional this time. Nobody was within ten yards of me as I coasted in with a pick-six.
Thweeeeet! The whistle lodged beneath Coach Rogers’ grey mustache ended my late-July scoring jaunt.
“Lucky guess forty-seven!” Rogers bellowed. Being an offensive minded coach, Tom Rogers was averse to any defensive play made against his offense, even by his own defense. “Quicken the release, Sean. Three steps and get rid of it. You’re hitching too much on your quick throws. Okay, huddle up.” As I went to get the next call from Coach James, our Defensive Coordinator, I did catch Coach Rogers subtly giving me the “thumbs up,” and a slight nod of approval. The defensive huddle was far less reserved.
“Whooo, pick-six for Winn,” chided cornerback Leroy White, followed by a high five. “Talk about instant impact, eh Marty boy?” Instant impact indeed. I’d been in camp for about two hours.
After starting for New Orleans for five years, I was unceremoniously dumped by the Saints in the off-season. During my stint in the Big Easy I averaged 4 picks a year, blocked three punts, and once returned a squib kick 64 yards for a touchdown to take San Francisco into overtime (we lost after a roughing the passer penalty wiped out a nifty interception I’d made and put the Niners in chip shot field goal range.) Midway through the previous season, in the final year of my contract, I ruptured my Achilles tendon making a break on a pass similar to the play I made against Clark. The doctors assured the Saints’ staff that I would make a full recovery without losing any speed, but that didn’t save me from my walking papers.
After I went down, New Orleans signed rookie Chuck Banks off the practice squad to fill my spot. Banks was a phenomenal athlete with a questionable work ethic, but he blossomed in his new role and became a standout safety. When the season ended, I was released. It nearly meant the end of my career. I had an injury that people felt would hamper my ability to play my position, and the Saints felt they had found a competent replacement. In retrospect, my release was a blessing.
Football has always been my passion, and like most youngsters, I always dreamed of playing in the NFL. God had blessed me with enough ability and desire to make that dream come true, but He also gave me enough sense to know that football wouldn’t last forever. I had a BS in Electrical Engineering, and when the Saints didn’t make me an offer, I was forced to use it.
My wife Angie had accepted a big promotion to go to work for Microsoft in Seattle, and since I had no team and no offers, we moved without a second thought. Thanks to the degree, and in much greater measure to having the NFL on my resume, I caught on with Boeing in their avionics division. As a family, we’d landed on our feet and life went on. Inside, though, I was in agony.
Despite the long hours of practice, film study, and travel, despite the aches and pains, and the pressure to win above anything else, the NFL was my dream job. There’s nothing like the camaraderie of an NFL locker room, and the adrenaline of autumn Sunday afternoons. Once late July rolled around and training camps were in full swing, I’d come home from the office and mope around, hoping the phone would ring with a call from Jeff Crystal, my agent, saying that team X or Y wanted to have me in for a workout.
That went on for nearly a week until one day I looked around me and saw all the wonderful things that I had in my life that had nothing to do with football. I had a beautiful wife and daughter, a home full of love and laughter, and thanks to sound investments and good jobs, a comfortable financial outlook. I also realized that perhaps I had begun to take my ability for granted, to lose sight of what got me to where I was.
I was a late bloomer, nothing special to look at in high school, just a fast guy with a good head for the game and a fearless, stick-your-head-in-anywhere mentality. As a walk-on at UW, my six foot one inch frame began to fill out. I spent two years on special teams until earning the starting free safety spot as a junior, along with a full ride football scholarship. I came in weighing 180 pounds, and graduated at 210.
I always believed in myself, and although a pro career had always seemed like a long shot, the Lord blessed me with a 56-tackle, 4-interception season as a Senior, and I was drafted early in the 7th round by the Saints. I made it all the way to the final cut as a rookie, and was offered a spot on the practice squad, the NFL version of the scout team.
Not making the active roster was a disappointment, and I thought about hanging it up right there, but my family convinced me that if God had taken me that far, he obviously wanted me there for a reason. I shook off my hurt feelings and accepted forty-thousand dollars per year to run the opponents’ defense each week. It was decent money, and it beat working in an office. I was still playing football, and getting paid besides. I immersed myself in our opponents’ scheme each week, determined to provide the most realistic simulation I could to the Saints’ starting offense.
Over time I developed a friendly duel with quarterback Bobby Morgan. Each pick I got off him in practice, he owed me a case of Coke, and I owed him one for each TD pass he threw against my coverage. While he and I broke even, Coca Cola enjoyed record sales that fall. My family’s advice proved equally golden, as my hard work hadn’t gone unnoticed by Coach Jim Cochran and his staff. In Week Seven of that first season I was signed to the active roster and saw limited duty in the Saints dime defense that season, making two interceptions.
I became the starting free safety the next year, and with six interceptions, just missed a trip to the Pro Bowl. David Butters of San Francisco and starter Bryan Henderson of the Packers, that year’s Super Bowl Champions, narrowly beat me out.
As my career was progressing, I was growing more and more confident, and God continued to bless my efforts. Underneath it all, however, I was growing restless. The Saints were struggling, failing to make the playoffs, and although I was making plays, I was frustrated. It’s tough to carry a defense as a free safety, but that’s kind of what I felt like I was doing, and it went to my head a little. I didn’t become complacent or stop working hard, but deep down I may have felt like I wasn’t getting enough credit for what I was doing. I thought I deserved more recognition.
When my heel blew in Week Eight, I was upset at the pain of the injury, and not being able to play, but I was also in a sense pulling for our team to fail, at least the defense, so that they would finally realize what a key factor I was in their success. I was becoming increasingly selfish. I may have tried to convince myself that it was about respect. It definitely wasn’t about the money. My family and I lacked for nothing.
Really, it was all arrogance and pride. I had begun to see myself as so important that I couldn’t possibly be replaced. There couldn’t possibly be anyone out there better than me. I stopped seeing my success as a combination of God blessing me with talent and rewarding my hard work. I fell into the trap of thinking that it was purely a result of just being Marty Winn, that I was entitled to it, and that it would always be there because I could always do what I needed to do to keep it there.
Once I got over the initial pain and shock, my release from the Saints proved to be a God-given wake up call. I realized that I couldn’t control my own destiny, and that I wasn’t irreplaceable. Most important, I realized that God had allowed me to be a football player because I loved to play, and was passionate about playing. Once I found peace with that realization and let go of my pride and arrogance, I was also able to accept the possibility that the NFL chapter of my life might be over.
Fortunately, the Lord is very forgiving, and he gave me a second chance. Not long after God’s conviction of my lousy attitude, that phone call I’d been hoping for came.
“Marty? Jeff Crystal. How’s the working world treating you?”
“Getting used to it, I guess. I think we both know what I’d rather be doing with my time.”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. Any chance you can meet me in Cheney at 9 AM tomorrow? David Butters just blew out his knee and the Seahawks are looking for safety help. They knew you’re close by and want to work you out. No guarantees, but this might be your last best shot.”
My heart was pounding. I had to take deep breaths just to be able to talk. Last best shot was right. I knew Butters had been signed away from San Francisco as a free agent to be the Seahawks starter. With only rookie Will Winslow to plug in to that spot, losing him left a big hole in their defense. A hole they’d want filled quickly and by someone with experience.
“Good thing I’ve kept working out. I’ll be there.”
“That’s my man. I’d bring bags packed for camp if I were you, too. If they like what they see they’ll want you on the field as soon as you pass your physical and the ink is dry on a deal.”
“I hear ya. This is gonna catch Angie off guard a bit, and I’d better pray that my boss at Boeing is cool with it or I’ll be totally unemployed.”
“You won’t be. I know you, Marty. You’ve got plenty left in the tank. Twenty-four hours from now I think you’re going to be a Seahawk.”
“I’m praying you’re right, Jeff. I’d better go. Thanks for the call and I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hung up the phone thinking how gracious the Lord was. Not only was He giving me another shot at the NFL, it was right in our backyard. Any fears I had about how Angie would react melted away in the huge hug she wrapped me in when I delivered the news.
I aced the workout, and the physical. Coach Rogers offered me a chance to earn the starting free safety job on an aggressive defense that scored twelve times the prior year, most in the league. He had never forgotten the three times I had picked off Dan Cannen back when Tom was coaching in Green Bay. He liked my speed and my instincts, and he knew that I was a hard worker who always was prepared to face each week’s opponent.
The ace up my sleeve that he also really valued was that I could also return kicks if the regular return man, Timmy Billings, ever went down with an injury. I had scored two touchdowns while holding that duty as a Badger, but Tyrone McGriff had a stranglehold on that position with the Saints, so I served as an outside rusher on punt returns, and as an upback on kickoff returns.
I was thankful for the opportunity to make things right, to play on God’s terms again, and for an up-and-coming team, besides. As I settled into camp, I approached each day with the simple goal of going out on that field and just having fun. Nothing in all the rigors of training camp could dampen my spirits.
Almost every day I would make one or two plays like the one on Thornton’s arrow route. I clocked in at 4.51 for the 40-yard dash, faster than I ever had in college or with New Orleans, and my tackling was rock solid. I never missed a man in the open field, or on a blitz.
The only pressure I put on myself was pressure to make sure I always gave my best effort in every drill and on every play, and no matter what the result would be, I’d be able to look in the mirror with no regrets. God blessed me beyond anything I could have imagined in Seattle’s training camp.
Our first pre-season game was at home, against Philadelphia. After playing in the Superdome in New Orleans, where fan support had begun to fade during my five years there, Seattle’s Kingdome was a whole new experience. Boy was it loud! Standing in the tunnel that takes us from the locker room to the field, I couldn’t even hear our names being announced to the crowd. Jersey #12 hangs retired on the wall, representing the “twelfth man.” It’s a tribute to the great fan support the Seahawks have gotten over the years. After five minutes in the Seahawks’ royal blue jersey, and green-striped silver sheen pants, no one needed to convince me that the crowd deserved it.
I was far from the most heralded newcomer on the club. After leading the University of Washington to two straight Rose Bowl wins, this was Coach Rogers’ first game coaching for Seattle, so there was added excitement in the air. These people were definitely ready for some football. So was I. The Eagles won the toss and took the ball, so the defense started the game. I’d only been in camp for four days but Coach Rogers, eager to find out how my heel would handle game conditions, gave me the start. It had held up great in practice, so I knew I was ready, but I was also extremely nervous. Adrenaline was flowing, and I was eager to prove myself to my new coaches and teammates.
We came out in our base defense, a 4-3 scheme, and two-deep zone coverage. Philly lined up on their 37 yard line in a base Pro formation, a receiver to each side, tight end left, and split running backs. Tight end Jason Foster went in motion to my side, so DeShon Booker, our strong safety and I swapped our alignments. I moved closer to the line for possible run support, and to help disguise our coverage, while DeShon moved back. The ball was snapped and I began to retreat straight back. Bill Johnson, the Eagle QB, play faked to running back Trey French, and dropped back to throw. I locked my eyes on his while tracking Foster and wideout Shannon Peterson, both of whom were heading straight upfield, in my peripheral vision.
“Oh, no,” I thought, “not a double go.” If both of them were going deep, I was hosed. Cliff Morris, the corner on my side, was covering the short area, so if one of the backs came into his area he would have to pass Peterson on to me deeper downfield. But linebacker Coby Ellis also had short responsibility in the curl area inside of Morris, and probably wouldn’t be able to run with Foster on a deep pattern either.
I couldn’t afford to leave the speedy Peterson, so my only hope would be that Booker could get over to cut off Foster. Had this been a regular season contest, we would have spent time during the week studying tape on the Eagles, and developed a game plan to help recognize and counter their tendencies. Game plans in preseason, however, are pretty vanilla, so it’s up to us players to just go out and try to play the game based on skill, instinct, and experience.
Still watching Johnson’s eyes, I drifted toward Peterson while trying to keep my shoulders square to the line. Suddenly Peterson broke his route and headed across the middle. I planted my feet and zeroed in on him as Johnson fired a strike over and between the linebackers. It was a sure completion. Peterson grabbed it in perfect stride, but just as he turned upfield, CRACK! There I was.
I got my helmet and left shoulder across his chest, locked my arms around him and drove him to the ground. A perfect hit. My first game contact in over nine months and had lit him up. The well-designed play resulted in a fifteen-yard first down for the Eagles, but for me it was a victory. I didn’t give up a big play for a touchdown, I had made a clean break on the ball with the foot I had previously injured, and had served notice that my zone would be a hardhat area for anyone who caught a ball near me.
The Eagles ran the ball on next two plays with no success, and on third down, defensive tackle Darius Rice batted Johnson’s pass incomplete. The ensuing punt went through the end zone for a touchback, and my work was done for the moment. At the sideline, Coach Rogers greeted me.
“Way to bring the wood, Marty. Thought you were hung out to dry there for a minute. Nice recovery.”
“Thanks.” I said with a chuckle. “Guess they wanted to break me in easy.” With that I headed for the bench to review the overhead photos of the previous series. After a holding call wiped out Butch Evans twenty-yard touchdown run, Ben Schultz gave us the lead with a field goal. I broke up a deep pass as we forced Philadelphia to go three-and-out on their next series, and then the second teams took over. I was back on the field in the third quarter to return a punt, a play I feel fortunate to remember.
Philly was kicking from their 27 yard line, and I was at our 35 awaiting the kick. Rick Lehman, the Eagles’ punter, nailed a high, deep spiral, an absolute bomb. I had to turn my back and run ten yards behind me, fielding the ball over my shoulder. I spun back around and managed to sidestep the first tackler. Heading upfield, I saw a small seam developing to my right. I headed that way and was just about to sprint between two blockers when WHAM!
Out of nowhere came a forearm that hit me square in the face. It had made its way perfectly into the open area of my facemask. My body buckled backward, landing flat on my back on the hard Kingdome AstroTurf. Fortunately I never lost consciousness, although looking downfield as I was helped up I momentarily saw about four sets of goalposts. I thought my eyes had been knocked out the back of my head. To this day I’m still surprised that I didn’t black out, and even more amazed that I held onto the ball. I still rub the bridge of my nose just thinking about it.
We ended up losing the game, 20-17. Back in the locker room, Coach Rogers credited the effort we had made, emphasizing that we were all learning a new system, and he expressed his confidence that with the talent we had, we would become a solid team that would be a force in the AFC West. His final remark, however, was the probably the only thing most of the guys remembered. “I’m not going to repeat myself, so after Marty’s bell stops ringing, one of you guys can tell him everything I just said.”
The room exploded with laughter, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep my face from turning beet red. It was laughter filled with respect and admiration for the toughness I’d shown. I laughed too, and in that laughter was a prayer of thanks that the good Lord had helped me survive the hit, and had led me to a place where I felt I belonged.
With pristine lakes, trophy deer, birds, and fish, vast evergreens, and crisp, clean air, northern Wisconsin is often called “God’s Country.” Of all the reasons to treasure that portion of God’s creation, there will never be a more important one to me than my wife, Angela Marie Winn. When God gave the world Angela Preston on May 25th, 1971, he gave it, as her name implied, an angel plucked straight out of heaven to brighten the lives of everyone she met.
No one’s life has ever been made brighter by her presence than mine, at least not since the summer after my sophomore year at the University of Wisconsin. One night in the computer lab, printing out a paper I had written on “Comedy in English Literature” for a summer English course, no matter what I did I just couldn’t seem to get the paper lined up right. I had first half of Page 1 on the bottom half of the page, then a perforated line, then the second half of Page 1 was on the top of the next page. I would adjust it and then the page would seem to print fine, but then the page number would end up on the next page.
I was no dumb jock – I had a 3.85 GPA for crying out loud - and was fairly familiar with the nuances of term paper printing, but there I was locked in combat with an Apple Stylewriter. It was 11:30. I was totally flustered, ready to punt on the project until morning. Then, like a kid caught scooping frosting off a cake with his finger when he thought Mom wasn’t looking, I was startled by a sweet yet strong female voice.
“Did you need some help?” I’d been there several hours and had become oblivious to anyone else in the room, but now in front of me was this captivating redhead, staring intently at me with the hint of a smile on her soft lips.
“Help, uuh, oh, yes, help.” My brain fumbled around for words like a driver frantically rummaging his ashtray for change at a tollbooth. “Um, I can’t seem to get the paper to line up right. I’ve tried it just about every way and it just isn’t working.” Success, I thought, a coherent sentence!
“This printer’s been acting up all night. Which computer are you on? I’ll set you up to print on the Laserwriter. It’ll look nicer anyway.”
“You work here?”
“Sure, I’ve been at the help desk since ten o’clock. You’re really burning the midnight oil.”
“Yeah, guess I couldn’t sleep. I usually do my best work at night. The funniest part is that this isn’t due for a week yet.”
“Well, aren’t you Mister Early Bird.” Her playful sarcasm was perking me up, even at almost one in the morning.
“Yup. Denny’s even named a breakfast after me.” It was the best joke I could come up with at the time. “How much is it to print on the Laserwriter?” I asked.
“It’s on the house.”
“Gee, I get red carpet service tonight.” Oozing charm, like a fire hose.
“Nah, just too lazy to mess with the cash box.” Her wry grin hinted that laziness had little to do with it. “There, you’re all set.” After a couple more minutes she was packing up her things and getting ready to close up the lab. I coolly went back to the computer I had been working on, shut it off, and grabbed my backpack. The late hour had worn off whatever shyness I might have otherwise exhibited, and as we walked out the door, I made my move. “Can I walk you to your dorm,” I asked, awkwardly adding, “It’s the least I can do for a free laser printed paper.” Laser printing was five cents a page, and my paper was a whopping four pages.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not going back to my dorm.”
“Oh, I said,” trying to pilot the conversation to a landing I could walk away from. “I guess I just assumed, since it was so late…”
“Well,” she replied, “you know what they say. Never assume, because,”
“I know, I know, it makes an ass out of you and me.”
“No, it makes the girl at the computer lab hungry. You can pay off your printing debt by buying me a snack. I’m dying to try the breakfast Denny’s named after you.” The mischievous smile confirmed I’d gone from crash and burn to Mach Two in a split second. We drove to Denny’s, parked ourselves in a booth and ordered up a couple plates of pancakes and sausage.
I was spellbound by her conversation. She was by far the most intelligent woman (sorry, Mom) I had ever spent any amount of time with. As it was, I had never been one to go for ditzy girls who couldn’t put two thoughts together with Elmer’s Glue. I had been raised to respect kindness, caring, and intelligence, with the understanding that beauty is often an outgrowth of those things. Angie was in a league of her own. She could talk intelligently about almost any subject that came up. She explained to me in dizzying fashion everything she knew about computers, which was a ton since she majored in Computer Science. She talked wondrously about this new thing called the Internet, which would enable people with computers in different places to talk to each other and share information.
The subject drifted to her faith in God, and how she was originally set to go to a smaller college in Minnesota, but she felt that God was calling her to UW Madison, that He had a purpose for her there. (Little did she know at the time that purpose was for her to sweep me off my feet?) She spoke with great passion and enthusiasm, but she was far from a motor mouth. She asked about me, and seemed genuinely interested in my views on whatever we talked about.
I began telling her about growing up with an older brother who liked to use me as a tackling dummy, and two older sisters, one only by five minutes. I explained how being the baby of the family contributed to my charming personality, how our family moved around quite a bit before settling in Wisconsin when I was seven years old, and how I had always made friends by playing football. She listened intently, never took her eyes off me, and asked questions about how some of my past experiences had made me feel. In the past I had never been much for discussing my feelings. I never quite felt comfortable sharing them with my parents, siblings, or friends. Yet here I was with a woman I had barely known for two hours, and all hesitation was gone.
Her warmth and caring had opened me up and penetrated my heart right to the core. Some people would debunk “Love at first sight” as a myth, or a fantasy, but I knew right then and there that this was the woman I wanted to marry. I silently prayed to the Lord that she felt the same way about me. At 3:30 in the morning, I finally walked her to her dorm, the two of us parting awkwardly with a hug, and a quick “Good night.”
After that magical night, I wanted to call her up the very next day. I was dying to see her. But, I waited. Two weeks. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the hug she’d given me. Part of me thought, “It’s better than nothing.” But another side of me was thinking that she mustn’t have found me very interesting, and the hug was her way of saying, “You’re a nice guy, but I don’t think we should be any more than just friends.” It’s a funny thing how when I was with her, I had all the confidence and charm in the world, but as soon as I was by myself, doubt started to creep in. Mostly I was certain that, because she was so extraordinary, both in beauty and brains, she couldn’t possibly have been interested in a guy who enjoyed throwing his body into dudes twice my size. Turned out I’d sold myself way short.
When I did finally call, the shriek of delight was so loud I had to hold the phone three feet from my ear. She had been hoping and praying for the whole two weeks that I’d call, or come into the lab (which I avoided for fear of rejection,) or that she’d run into me somewhere on campus. She said she never met anyone so sweet and unique and special, and she had been going crazy thinking that because I was a football player, that she mustn’t have been up to my standards. I told her that I had had the same crisis of confidence thinking about her opinion of me. We both laughed at how silly we had been. At that point, neither of us could stand to be apart from the other for another minute. I doubt that Superman could have gotten from my room to her dorm faster than I did that day.
That summer we spent every free moment together. I re-arranged my off-season workout schedule so that I could lift while she worked in the computer lab. I had a small canoe and we would pack my fishing gear and paddle out in the early morning on some of the smaller lakes in the Madison area. Once I worked the net while Angie caught a 24-inch Northern Pike. Growing up in northern Wisconsin, near Rhinelander, her father, Bob, used to take her out on the lakes, and she was quite the fisherwoman. The photo I took of her smiling with the huge, gator-mouthed fish on her lap still resides on our mantle. We also would go golfing at University Ridge (I won’t say how I was able to get preferred tee times, and a special rate.) She witnessed my first, and only, hole in one.
It was no coincidence that as our romance blossomed, so did my performance on the field. Women and relationships distract some players, usually because they expect the wrong things from them. They become frustrated chasing after superficial pleasure, and when that pleasure is gone, the mental free fall that follows takes them out of their game. Angie and I had a much deeper, more personal relationship that focused on encouraging one another to be every bit of the person that God intended us to be. She wholeheartedly supported me and believed in me.
Every Saturday we played, she would be there, in the Red Sea of the student section, wearing whichever color of my jersey #7 that I wasn’t. When I played against UCLA in the Rose Bowl, she couldn’t afford to make the trip to come watch, but when I got to the hotel in Pasadena, I found that she had slipped a picture of herself wearing my jersey and holding a dozen roses, along with a note that read:
Dear Marty,
You know I wish I could be there with you today, to share with you in person this special moment in your career. Just know that I’ll be with you in spirit, watching and praying for you. You are the best man I ever could have met, and I am truly blessed to know that soon I can call you my husband. I am very proud of you, and I know that no matter what happens in the game, that you will set yourself apart both as a player and a person. God has blessed you with talent, refined it with hard work, and I know He will be with you today. He will give you strength to overcome the best that UCLA has to give. I love you, and I miss you very much. Go Badgers!
Love,
Angie
I played that day with the picture taped directly over my heart, on the T-shirt I wore under my pads. Every time I made a tackle or broke up a pass, when I made my one interception and at the end of the game as we celebrated our 19-13 victory, I tapped my right fist on my chest in that exact spot. I wasn’t sure if Angie would understand what that meant while she was watching the game on TV. I underestimated the connection we had, since the moment we saw each other through the mob that greeted us at the airport after we returned to Madison, she tapped her fist against her heart and smiled.
A far more meaningful exchange between us took place a month after graduation, on July first. St. Andrew’s Lutheran Church in Rhinelander was packed nearly as full as the Rose Bowl had been six months earlier, as our families and friends watched us tie the knot. Winning the Rose Bowl my senior year was a great feeling, but I’ve always said that if I could live one day in my life over and over again, it would be my wedding day. I was plenty nervous as we waited in a small room behind the altar.
The thirty-minute ceremony seemed like an eternity, but when it finally ended, Angie definitely had more than just a hug for me. I’m pretty modest when it comes to public displays of affection, and I thought that she would be too, but when the time came, the kiss she planted on me was a first-ballot Hall of Famer. I’ve never made a play in a game that got as much reaction from the crowd as we got at the altar that day.
After things settled down and we processed out, it began to sink in how hungry we were. I had been offered a stop at Mickey D’s by my dad on the way to the church, but in my nervous condition, and not wanting to risk a ketchup stain on my all white tuxedo, I declined. Angie had been equally reluctant to eat before the wedding. Now, however, with an hour and a half of picture taking staring us in the face, a Big Mac sounded pretty good. As soon as Dad’s presence was no longer needed in front of the camera, he hooked both Angie and I up with an Extra Value Meal, the consumption of which became the subject of several wedding photos.
Before heading to the reception, the wedding party killed some time rolling a few lines of bowling at the local lanes, in full wedding attire, of course. At the reception hall, all Wisconsin wedding traditions were observed with great reverence; eating a huge dinner, doing the Chicken Dance, playing plenty of polkas, and consuming beer in voluminous quantities. Once the night finally found us alone, Angie and I said our first prayer together as husband and wife, thanking God for bringing us together and asking him to keep us together always, no matter what life held in store for us. It was a prayer the Lord has always answered.
Becoming a husband and an NFL rookie in the span of a month left little time for me to catch my breath. Fortunately for Angie and I, being drafted by the Saints meant training camp in nearby LaCrosse, Wisconsin, affording us a little extra time before we had to pick up and move. We could stay in the state we both grew up in, and if I didn’t make the team, we wouldn’t be stuck in New Orleans. After graduation, Angie had taken a job in the Information Technology department at the University. Being the good, honest woman that she is, she let them know that her husband’s work might force her to quit and move away in just a few months. Recognizing her amazing talent with computers, they hired her anyway. Her boss figured even having her for a short while would be a huge benefit to the department.
She enjoyed working there, but she knew as a football wife not to get too attached to it. Believing (more than I did, probably) that I would make the Saints roster, she quietly searched for a job in the Big Easy. She accepted a position to manage the computer lab at Tulane University. She was excited to share her knowledge with young people (younger by a year or so, anyway) and her great sense of humor made her a big hit with students. She loved her job; I got to keep playing football. Talk about living a dream!
The time we spent in New Orleans was a great time. We built a home, gave birth to our only daughter, Brooke, and made some great friends from both our jobs. It was nice not having to shovel snow in the winter, too. Before the Saints chose not to re-sign me, I figured we were a part of the Big Easy for life. Once again, I grossly underestimated the way in which the Lord works in our lives.
I’d just come upstairs from a workout when Angie came bursting in from the garage. “Honey, guess what happened to me today! I got a call from Microsoft! They want me to come to work for them in Seattle and be project lead for a team that designs educational software for children. Isn’t that great! Project Lead! I’ve always wanted to be part of a software design firm, but I wasn’t sure my experience would allow me to get into it. Microsoft wants me to help design software that teaches children all about the Internet. I can’t believe it!”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down sweetie,” I said. “How did this come about all of a sudden?”
“Well, a while back I was having lunch with Dr. Carlssen, telling him how I had always wanted to try my hand at designing software. I had done a lot of work with LAN and with system configuration, but I was longing to express my creativity. It just so happens that he has an old friend named Dave Selwyn at Microsoft who works in their Research & Development department.
One day Dave mentioned that they were looking for help designing Internet software for kids, preferably someone who had some teaching background. Dr. Carlssen told him about me, and he must have given me such a glowing review that Selwyn was convinced I was the right person for the job. He called me today to make me an offer. $85 thousand, can you believe it? That’s almost twice what I make at Tulane. He wants me to fly out to Seattle next week to take a look at their operation and see if I would want to work there. So, what do you think?”
I didn’t say anything. I had been sitting at the bar in the kitchen, taking in her whirlwind recount of her good fortune. This was her career, her dream, and God was obviously making it a reality. I had no job, no football prospects, and no more ties to New Orleans. How could I say no? I leaned back and smiled. “What do I think? I think we’re moving to Seattle!”
Our last week of two-a-days passed relatively quickly. For most veteran players, training camp is at best a necessary evil. It’s usually hot, muggy, and you stay in a dormitory at some college (in our case, Eastern Washington University in Cheney) for about three weeks with little contact with your family, and even less outside entertainment. To maintain discipline and ensure that players show up, coaches levy fines on players that don’t report on time, usually like $25,000 per day. Some higher paid players find it worth it to simply forfeit huge sums in fines to avoid the rigors of two-a-days.
For those who do show up, hazing rookies and practical jokes are the chief forms of entertainment. Taping rookies to the goalpost is a classic. Another is hiding a guy’s post-practice change of clothes. After he comes out of the shower he has no choice but to put his sweaty practice clothes back on, usually right before a meeting (the victim has a large section of empty seats around him.) At least once, rookies are pranked as a group.
Toward the end of camp, when guys are really starting to get tired of the normal camp dining fare, someone will post flyers that say something like:
PIZZA NIGHT.
TUESDAY 6:00 PM IN THE AUDITORIUM.
$5 PER PLAYER.
GIVE MONEY TO COBY ELLIS
BY END OF second PRACTICE MONDAY.
Since dinner is always at six, most rookies assume that this takes the place of the normal, nightly team dinner and bypass the cafeteria altogether, heading straight to the auditorium in anticipation of hot, delicious pizza. Of course, once they get there, they find the doors locked and the area deserted. Their return to the cafeteria is greeted with a chorus of jeers, and each rookie is subsequently forced to sing his college’s fight song before being allowed into the serving line.
Some teams are tougher on rookies than others. The Seahawks were pretty mild, although being new to the team I myself was forced to sing “On Wisconsin” one day during lunch. With new coaches and a new system to learn, there was little time for jokes. Coach Rogers’ and Coach James’ playbooks required the lion’s share of our attention. Going from college to the pros was a huge adjustment. Pro terminology can be a lot more complex, and there are a lot more plays to learn. With New Orleans, it took me my entire first year to fully grasp the various calls and formations in the Saints’ playbook.
Now, with the Seahawks, I had to unlearn what I had learned, and digest Coach James’ designations for fronts and coverages. It’s a lot like your first semester of Spanish in high school. All of a sudden, what you’ve known you whole life as a dog isn’t a dog anymore, its “un perro.” In New Orleans, a four-lineman, two-linebacker set with both backers blitzing, man-to-man coverage with a single safety helping deep was called “Even Stack Double Dog, Solo.” Coach James called it “42 Blast, Cover 1.”
The free safety makes all the calls in his system. If I wanted to start, not only would I need to know my assignments for each call, but also everyone else’s as well. I had to be able to make calls and adjust to whatever an opponent’s offense showed at the line. Once I got used to it, Coach James terminology was simpler and far less cryptic. All our fronts were two digit numbers, the first indicating the number of men on the line of scrimmage, the second indicating how many linebackers. A “blast” was a two-backer inside blitz, a “smash” was a two-backer outside blitz, and a “fire” was a single-backer blitz. Coverages were called by the standard numbers, based on how many men were dropping back deep, like this: Cover 1 = man-to-man with a single safety; Cover Two = two-deep; Cover Three = three-deep zone; Cover Four = four-across or “quarters” coverage. Cover Zero meant all out blitz, man-to-man with no safety help, a very rare call for the conservative Coach James.
Being lighter on verbiage was the only reason I got a quick grasp of Coach James’ defense. “I’m Byron James, not James Bond. I don’t have time for code words.” He often talked like a “Grumpy Old Man” which belied the fact that he was one of the game’s brilliant defensive minds. He’d been on a pro or collegiate sideline for over thirty years. He’d seen nearly every scheme and formation ever used in the game. His scheme allowed his guys on the field to make calls and adjust quickly without a lot of thinking. Coach Rogers, equally brilliant on the offensive side, had a far wordier playbook for his guys to digest.
“Man, Marty, don’t be surprised if we get a whole bunch of delay of game calls this preseason,” Sean Clark advised me one day in the lunch line. “These new terms are driving me nuts. Last year, to call out a formation, all I needed was one word. ‘Roger’ was single back, tight end and flanker right, a split end and a guy in the slot on the left. Now I gotta say ‘Ace Spread Right.’” He shook his head. “And last year I could call a whole play just by saying ’90 Razor.’ Now it’s ‘324 X Z Rub Y Divide.’ It takes almost half the play clock just to call the play once.” I chuckled a little, and patted him on the shoulder.
“You’ll be fine. I’m sure the Joe Montana comparisons will be full force by mid-September.” He really was a smart guy, a confident field general, and he had a precision sniper rifle of an arm. He cracked a wry smile.
“Maybe October,” he added with a wink. “Tony better sign a contract and get his butt in here if he’s gonna do anything for us, though. That boy’s gonna be lost with this offense if he misses all preseason.”
A team with all players in camp is a rarity, and the Seahawks were no exception. Tony Pearson, the Seahawks’ All Pro receiver, was holding out for a better contract. He had refused several offers prior to the start of camp, and Coach Rogers, who also served as General Manager, had taken a hard-line approach in negotiations. This was the business end of the NFL. For most players in camp, especially those who had been with Seattle prior to this year, Pearson’s absence wasn’t a big distraction. You play with who’s there and if a guy comes in late, it’s up to him to catch up. I would have enjoyed having him in camp to line up against. He’s a great talent and would have challenged my skills plenty.
After what I had gone through in New Orleans, I understood what his feelings must have been. I respected his stand on the situation, but I didn’t necessarily agree with it. Football is a highly physical game, but it’s also a game of timing and precision, and after a long off-season, with the exception of a couple of spring minicamps, training camp is the time to get that timing back. I’ve always believed that if a guy misses time in camp, whether it’s due to injury, contract, or just plain laziness, it always has a negative impact on the performance of the player, and the team.
Like most veterans I’ve never been a big fan of training camp. I never thought a day would come when camp would feel like heaven, but that’s exactly what this one was for me. After a couple months in the working world, just putting on the pads again was a gift from God. I knew I was over my injury, but it would require total effort and commitment to convince the coaches that I should be on the field every Sunday.
My play in practice and in the Philadelphia game had gone far to justify Coach Rogers’ faith in me. Now there was little doubt on his staff about my ability, or my durability. Each day I grew more comfortable and confident. Knowing that the Lord was on my side, and that whatever happened, He was in control, gave me the freedom to go out and perform at a higher level than I ever had before.
Game two came in Miami, a Monday night pre-season game against living legend Brett Barone and the Dolphins. One of the tools I put to use in my pre-game preparation was a laptop computer, a birthday gift from Angie, on which I kept notes on teams, offensive styles, and individual quarterbacks and receivers I had faced. Sort of my own personal encyclopedia of opponents, compiled from the countless hours of video study that true NFL success demands. With New Orleans, I had faced Barone twice before but had never intercepted him. As I reviewed my notes on the 4 and a half hour flight to Miami, two key points stood out.
First, Barone’s quick release made it critical for me to never get caught out of position. If I did, Miami’s speedy receivers would have the ball in their hands and be past me before I knew it. Second, Barone was a master at looking off safeties and coming back to his target in almost every instance, but for some reason he seemed to stare down receivers more when the Dolphins got in the Red Zone. In fact, over the course of his career, he had more interceptions inside his opponents’ twenty-yard line than anywhere else on the field. If and when Miami was in scoring position, there was a good chance his eyes would show me where the ball was going.
Joe Robbie Stadium is always a tough place to play. The ninety-degree game time temperature and 65% humidity made it imperative that we play staunch defense and try to force as many three-and-outs as possible. As a defensive unit we prided ourselves on our conditioning, enabling us to stay fresh in the fourth quarter, but on this night any long, sustained Dolphin drives would render that extremely difficult, if not impossible. Matters would be made worse if Miami looked more to their young running backs Lance Martin, Andre Thompson, and Ortiz Watkins to control the ball. All three were tough runners with good speed.
We got the ball first, and after Timmy Billings returned the opening kickoff 47 yards, Kelvin Dodge capped a six-play, 51-yard scoring drive with a nifty over the shoulder grab on a slant-n-go route. Schultz’s kickoff sailed through the back of the end zone, and the Dolphins began first and ten at their own twenty. Lining up in the I formation, with two tight ends and a flanker to the right, they were intent on running the ball. Barone took the snap and tossed left to Watkins, who sprinted to our left, looking to run outside of tight end Rod Painter. I took one step back into coverage, read the block of the right guard, and ran up to force the play back inside. I met Watkins head on, and he moved to cut back inside. I managed to get my right shoulder into his chest and hold him just long enough for Ellis, our weak side linebacker, to finish him off after a gain of 4 yards. On second down, Barone tried a screen pass to Martin, but he dropped it, bringing up third and six.
Miami came out with 4 wide receivers, Thompson in the backfield, and Barone four yards deep in the shotgun. As the Dolphin QB barked signals, Thompson motioned out to the right, emptying the backfield and forcing us into man-to-man coverage with me as the lone safety to help out on any deep routes. Catching the snap, Barone took three steps back and set up to throw. I backpedaled straight back, staring him down every step of the way. He looked left. Our four-man pass rush struggled to break through the Dolphins’ line. I continued to retreat straight back, not committing to one side or the other. Suddenly Barone looked right and fired a high, deep spiral. I turned toward the sideline.
To my horror, wideout Aeneas Burrell had gotten behind Leroy White on a go route. I sprinted in vain to reach Burrell at the same time as the ball. The pass was a little high so he had to leap to make the catch. Plucking the ball out of the clear Florida sky, he landed about a foot inside the sideline just as I arrived to shove him out of bounds. He stiff-armed me in the chest, but my momentum knocked him off balance. After tight roping the sideline for three steps, his right foot stepped out at our three yard line. Leroy was upset about giving up the big play.
“Ain’t scored yet,” I told him. Every DB gives up a long one once in a while. Short memory: shake it off and play on. I reminded him about Barone staring down receivers in the Red Zone, then urged him “Watch the fade.”