It's going to take a miracle for the Titans to pull this one out!"
The TV color commentator had it right. This game seemed as if it was all over but the shouting-and the Buffalo Bills were doing plenty of that. They were dancing, hugging, and celebrating wildly, and why not? For them, the miracle had already come: a 41-yard field goal to give them a 16-15 lead with only sixteen seconds left on the clock. All the Bills needed was one safe, well-placed kickoff, and they'd be on their way to the next round in the playoffs, perhaps ultimately the Super Bowl. We, the Tennessee Titans, would be on our way home. Done.
The date was January 8, 2000. As the Titans' offensive coordinator, I watched these waning moments from above the field, in the press box. I felt exhausted and devastated. After a long career in the NFL, I knew what it meant to fall short in a big game. But this one- well, this one was the most agonizing end to a season I could imagine. The football life is all about sacrifice. Had the sacrifice been worthwhile?
Here we were, 13-3 with a perfect record at home, Super Bowl quality. I had no doubt in my mind we were good enough to go the distance-not after the journey of this season; not after watching our team grow bolder, better, more sure of itself quarter by quarter.
I knew how much sweat the players had expended in training.
I knew how much planning the coaches had done in preparation.
I knew how much devotion the city had expressed, spurring us on.
This was the state of Tennessee's first taste of big-time NFL success. They were rabid, frenzied, and now silenced.
I knew the toll that talk-show second-guessing, sports page hindsight, and armchair quarterbacking had taken on my wife and kids.
Yet this had been our year. Up to this moment, at the sixteen-second mark, the whole season had unfolded like a fairy tale, too good to be true.
Maybe it had been too good to be true.
I looked down at the field, and suddenly I felt finished with the whole thing. Heartbreaking losses weren't anything new-I had been through the whole gamut of game-day emotions over the years. But somehow, this time it just seemed like too much. I was tired. This game of football, the vocation I'd been dedicated to for so many years, didn't seem to have an ounce of joy left in it. I heard myself whisper, "Lord, I never want to coach again."
I was shocked by my own thoughts, but I knew they were sincere. I felt terrible for the players; for the coaches; for our Head Coach Jeff Fisher; for our general manager; for our owner; for everyone in the state of Tennessee who desperately wanted to play in a Super Bowl.
Welcome to the Playoffs
Making the playoffs had been huge for the Titans. We had pointed to this opportunity. I can remember how it felt to step into the locker room during the countdown to kickoff. An NFL locker room is a fun place-guys joking, talking about their assignments, listening to music, putting on the pads. But on this day, you could taste the tension in the air. The room was full of raw nerves. We, the coaches, didn't need to say a word about what today meant. There was no need to light a fire under anyone. Everybody on the team, right down to the trainers, knew what was at stake.
We'd talked about it from the beginning of training camp three seasons ago, and here we were. Time to get it done on the field.
What a young group of guys this was. Only a handful of them had played in an NFL postseason game. I knew what these men were about to experience. I'd been in playoff games with other teams, even a Super Bowl. I knew how the adrenaline flowed in this kind of situation. I'd seen the difference in intensity between a Super Bowl game and a regular season game.
My own initiation to the postseason had come way back in 1980. I'd stood on the sidelines next to Bud Grant, legendary coach of the Minnesota Vikings, and it took about three or four plays into the game for me to notice the difference. These guys were playing as if their very lives depended on it. The pads weren't popping; they were crashing. The grunts and the cries of pain were louder and more frequent. Players were running hard, hitting hard, selling out on every play. This was nothing like the level of focus I had seen in the regular season. I remember turning to a hardened old-school veteran named Wally Hilgenberg and expressing my amazement. "What is this?" I asked. "Where did this crazy intensity come from?"
Hilgenberg had a good laugh when he saw my wide eyes. He said,"Welcome to the NFL playoffs, Coach."
Since then, I've been around the block a few times. Now I was the old-school guy, and I was the one welcoming these young men to the NFL playoffs. I saw more nervousness than intensity for the time being. But I knew the feeling was going to change as soon as these players stepped onto the field. In the meantime, I wasn't going to let all this nervousness change our game plan, our team identity, or all the preparation we'd done for this game. I knew what we were capable of doing. These were highly talented, competitive athletes who would rise to the challenge. Once they hit the turf, once they began to experience that fierce playoff atmosphere, they were going to be okay.
Yet the nerves carried over to the team introductions, those moments when the announcer calls out a name and that player sprints out to his moment in the spotlight. There are high fives, excited voices, a bit of showboating. It's all about fun.
But not today. As the Titans heard their names, they simply ran out and stood together on the field. They were not animated. They showed none of their characteristic exuberance. They were solemn, and solemn isn't a football thing.
I was thankful that the Buffalo Bills seemed just as tight. As the game began, both offenses played a bit tentatively. I looked mostly to our running back Eddie George and the ground game, hoping we could pound the Bills up the middle and wear them down in the second half. I knew we could count on our terrific defense, and sure enough, the Titans' "D" dominated the first two quarters. Buffalo managed only 64 yards, and just as important, they committed nine penalties.
But the first quarter ended scoreless. Two great defenses were dictating the pace. As a matter of fact, it was our defense that finally got us the first score. Three minutes into the second quarter, our linebacker, Jevon Kearse, broke around the right tackle and slammed into the Bills' quarterback, Rob Johnson, in the Buffalo end zone. The safety gave us a 2-0 lead. Thanks, defense, I thought. Time for our side to do its share. Maybe Kearse had given us the big play we needed to get untracked emotionally.
Geronimo!
My hopes were justified. On the free kick that follows every safety, we got another big play-this time from special teams. Our kick returner, Derrick Mason, found a seam in the coverage and sprinted forty-two yards down to the Buffalo 28. I knew we had to take advantage of this situation, especially the way Buffalo was playing on defense. I called the plays and thought, Come on, men. Let's get it done. We drove it down to the 2-yard line. Everybody knows how tough those last two yards are; the middle is jammed with linemen. The linebackers come up and fill in every gap. The defensive backs have only ten yards of end zone to cover.
I pulled out a play that has always been one of my favorites. We call it Geronimo, and it's actually a two-play combination that is designed to beat the goal-line defense and steal that final, longest yard. We signaled in the plays. Steve McNair, our quarterback, stepped into the huddle and said, "Listen up. Alert Geronimo, alert Geronimo, thirteen iso."
We'd practiced it over and over, and everybody knew what to do. On the immediate play, we would send our running back Eddie George right up the middle (the I-back in the 3-hole, in X and O terms). That was a simple power play, with "iso" meaning "isolation," a man-to-man, one-on-one blocking scheme with the fullback leading the running back up the middle. If Eddie didn't score, we hoped to take the defense by surprise. Then, as the tacklers were getting up from the turf, our players would sprint to the line without huddling, and Geronimo would be in effect.
Geronimo means "It's on GO," from the first and last letters. It's straight to the line with no huddle, and the quarterback quickly calls out, "Set-GO!" as the surprised defense tries to scramble into position. Steve fakes a handoff to Eddie George. George and the fullback vault over the line to draw the linebackers forward. Then Steve bootlegs to the outside with the option to run or pass to the tight end-whichever is open.
That's how it all played out in this case. We ran the first play, and the Bills stopped Eddie after a 1-yard gain. Geronimo then worked to perfection. Steve took the snap, rolled out, and saw that the defense chose to pick up the tight end. That left him free to practically skip into the end zone untouched.
Suddenly, after all the nerves and tightness, and all the frustration of the first quarter, we had a 9-0 lead and everyone had contributed: a defensive score, a special teams play, and a gimmick on the goal line. We'll take 'em however we get 'em.
From there, we had two more stalled drives. But just before halftime, we stole another one-though we did put a nice drive together this time: eleven plays, fifty-six yards. We passed, we ran, and it seemed as if the logjam was loosening up. Suddenly we were at the Buffalo 27. That's where the d...
