I DIDN’T WANT to leave the Packers. Mike Sherman had schooled me in the art of pass catching, and he had been the one to showcase my talents enough for another team to even want me. I felt I owed him and the Packers my loyalty and gratitude, and in November 2002, when I signed a five-year extension with the Packers, I was happy I’d be able to call Green Bay my home.
At my press conference I thought back to when my brother Moses was in the third grade and I was in the second. We were lying in our bed in an apartment building in Houston. My mom was married to Sam at the time. Tamela and Trice were in their room sleeping, and as I lay there, I said to Moses, “I’m going to take our family out of this one day. We’re not going to struggle like we’re struggling now. We’re not going to live check to check. We’re going to have a better life.”
My brother laughed.
“I hope that’s true,” he said.
And then all of a sudden it came true.
I HAVE ALWAYS wanted to help others, as others have helped me along the way, and I started doing charity work when I first hit Green Bay in 1999. My intention was that if I ever made it to the National Football League, my status as a pro football player would provide the perfect platform for me to raise money for various charities. After having been homeless when I was a boy, I felt it was important for me to now give back to the community, both in Green Bay and in Texas.
I started doing appearances. Sometimes they paid me, but many of them were for free, and between 1999 and 2002 I made some three hundred of them.
I’ve been a spokesman for the United Way; the Salvation Army; the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation; the Special Olympics; Big Brothers, Big Sisters; and numerous other charities. I’ve hosted an Evening of Elegance, golf outings, football camps, and other events to help the less fortunate.
In 2003 Goodwill Industries asked me to do an appearance for them. The ad campaign was called “The Power of Partners,” and after that appearance, they asked me to come back again. Because of my background and my visibility as a Packer, they thought I made a good spokesman. They felt I fit in well with their “Power of Work” slogan, and they knew I’d support the idea of giving people with disabilities an opportunity.
I have met so many wonderful people with disabilities through Goodwill. I asked to go to their warehouse in Milwaukee, and I met and greeted people in wheelchairs, people with Down syndrome, amputees—and what I loved most about them was that though they didn’t have all the tools, it didn’t change who they were. They were some of the happiest people I ever met. They were living their lives, saying, It’s okay. I’m okay with this. They wanted hugs. They wanted to talk. They wanted to take pictures. They said they were surprised I was so down to earth.
“I’m just like you,” I said. “I’m no better than you are.”
Sometimes I think about what would happen to me if I lost an arm or a leg. What if I were in a wheelchair? Would I be the same person? After meeting the people at Goodwill, I think maybe I would be okay with it, just as they were.
I did the first Goodwill ad by myself. After that, I decided I should do them with my family because Goodwill is all about bringing families together. Almost every commercial I’ve done for them has been with my family. There’s one commercial in which Tina, my son, Cristian, and I sit in a park talking about the power of work. I was so happy Goodwill allowed me to be part of their family. Others gave me the opportunity to better my life, and it was easy for me to get on board with Goodwill.
I am also proud of my association with the Wisconsin Department of Transportation, doing public service announcements to encourage people to buckle up their seat belts when they travel in their cars.
When I first started doing the commercials, I’m embarrassed to say, I didn’t use my seat belt very often. And then a friend of mine, Ashley Knetzger, a nineteen-year-old waitress at the Texas Roadhouse on Oneida Street in Green Bay, was killed in a terrible accident in which a speeding car ran a red light and killed her and her friend. Neither of them was wearing a seat belt. I doubt they’d have survived even with a seat belt, but from that day on I resolved never to drive without wearing one.
I tell that story when I do the DOT spots. I also encourage parents to install their children’s safety seats the proper way. Now when I get in the car, before I turn on the ignition I make sure Tina and the kids are buckled up.
Tina and I do most of our charily work through the Donald Driver Foundation, which raises money for homeless families to pay rent and move into a home. We started our foundation in 2000, as a private foundation funded through my salary.
One afternoon I was talking with Andre Credit, my quarterback at Alcorn and a close friend of mine, and he said, “Donald, you need to open this up to become a public foundation, so you can get donations from different companies.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked him.
“Host a golf tournament,” he said.
“I don’t care for that,” I told him. “I just want to give the foundation money from my pocket so I can make sure the money goes out to the community.”
“That’s what public charities do,” he said. “You ask the community to give you money, and you donate it all back.”
When I sat down with my accountant, he said the same thing.
“You need to make it a public foundation,” he told me.
In 2002 we transformed it into a public foundation, and we started raising money to feed homeless families, support education, and do cancer research.
Our foundation also has helped more than a thousand families feed their children on the weekend through our “Blessings in Backpack” program. Children on welfare get a free school lunch, but too often they have nothing to eat on the weekends. We ask people to donate eighty dollars to help feed these kids on the weekends.
To help raise money for these and other charities, I hold a softball game, which I took over after Brett Favre retired. In 2013 it took place for the sixth consecutive year. The last two years the game has been sold out, I am proud to say.
We’ve had a great time doing it, and we’ve raised a lot of money. I am looking forward to raising a lot more in the future. In 2013, I was honored with the AMVETS National Ladies Humanitarian Award—but for me, the real joy comes in just impacting lives.
AT MY PRESS conference to announce my new contract, through nervous trembling, tears, and a couple of loud sobs, I told those in attendance: “I never thought I’d get the opportunity to take care of my family. I have that opportunity now.”
I thanked Mike Sherman, team vice president Andrew Brandt, and my agent Jordan Woy for getting the deal done.
“I never wanted to leave Green Bay,” I said. “I’ve always said I wanted to stay and have the opportunity to retire as a Green Bay Packer.”
When I said, “When I talked to my grandmother, it was just so surprising I could tell her, ‘You don’t have to work anymore,’ ” I was sobbing.
When I finally made it in football, I realized that I had an obligation to take care of my entire family. My grandparents never asked for much, but I wanted to make sure they were comfortable and had cars to drive, and so I paid off their house and cars. If they have bills, they know they can always pick up the phone assured that I will make their day, knowing I would never deny them. It puts a smile on my face to know I’ve made them happy.
My mom and Tina’s mom will never have to work another day in their lives.
“You guys are set for life,” is what I told them. “You will never have to do anything.
“You raised me all your life,” I told my mom. “Now it’s time for me to help you live your life.”
During the whole time I played pro football I gave all four of my brothers and sisters—Tamela, Moses, Patrice, and Sam Jr.—monthly stipends to allow them to live comfortably. My sister Tamela is doing well. She’s going back to school. She has five kids and grandkids. My brother has a beautiful wife and two beautiful kids. His wife is a pharmacist at Walgreens. His kids go to school.
Trice is working. She has a job, and she’s happy and living every day to the fullest. Sam loves horses, just like his dad. He’s a country boy who loves to rope bulls and ride horses.
All five of us siblings have a bond that will never go away.
“This money is not just mine,” I told my family, my grandparents, my mom, and my brothers and sisters. “It’s all of ours. We’re not going to spend it like money grows on trees. We’re going to do it in a positive way so none of us will ever have to struggle again.”
THE YEAR 2002 was also the year I became a father. For the longest time, because of my upbringing—the homelessness, the moving around, the changing father figures—I was more afraid of fatherhood than anything else. I didn’t want kids of mine to have to go through what I went through. I never wanted a child of mine to worry about where his or her next meal was coming from. Or where he or she was going to lay his or her head. Or whether the lights or gas would go on.
When we were first married, I told Tina I didn’t want to have kids.
“I don’t want to live check to check,” I said. “I don’t want a collection agency coming through my home and taking all my belongings. I’d rather you and I go through that than any kids.”
“Maybe one day you’ll change your mind,” she said.
When I had enough confidence that no longer would we have to worry about paying the bills, I told Tina I was on board with fatherhood.
In March 2002 we were going out to celebrate our second wedding anniversary when Tina announced she was pregnant. I was elated. We told friends and family the good news.
Not long afterward Tina had to use the restroom. I could hear her scream. I went inside, and there was blood everywhere. I rushed her to the hospital. She had miscarried. She lay in her hospital bed sobbing.
I was hurting just as badly. I closed the door of the bathroom in her hospital room, giving myself the privacy to grieve and to let the tears flow. But I also knew I had to be strong for Tina, and when I emerged, I walked back to Tina and told her, “It’s going to be okay. The good thing is, we can still have kids. We’re blessed.”
I took her home that night, but she was suffering from a deep depression. I went out to participate in off-season workouts, and when I returned she was still in bed. It took a few days for her to rebound. I was glad this happened in the off-season, when I could be home with her.
We had to wait six weeks before we could try again.
Before one of the Packers home games in October 2002, I was staying over in the team hotel. Mike Sherman made us do this, because he knew if he didn’t, we would be bombarded by friends and family who wanted tickets or dinner reservations or something else that would take our minds off the game at hand. Trying to entertain guests can be exhausting, enough so that the game itself feels like a Christmas holiday from the stadium tours, taking everyone out to dinner, and sightseeing.
Instead, we had to report to the hotel, and we had a team meeting the night before a game. Curfew was set at 11 P.M. If the game was at noon, you had from 11 until 7 A.M. to sleep. You didn’t have to worry about nieces and nephews waking you up at 5:30 A.M. or your wife telling you to get up and fix breakfast or take out the trash. All you had to do was focus on the game.
After my night with the team, I came home, as I always did. I returned home at seven in the morning with the hope I could get a little more sleep. I didn’t have to be at the stadium until ten. But on this particular day my mom, my brother, his wife, and his kids were staying with us, and getting any more sleep would be a challenge.
As I got ready to lay down on our bed, I noticed baby shoes with a card.
Why did my brother leave his baby’s shoes on my bed? I asked myself.
I looked at the card.
“To my husband,” it said.
Tina was lying on the other side of the bed.
“Congratulations,” the card read. “You’re a dad.”
I jumped on her.
“You’re pregnant again?”
She was, and I was so sure it was going to be a boy that when I went out onto the field that day, I had a bigger smile on my face than I usually had. I was so excited I said to myself, I have to get him a touchdown.
I had no trouble focusing on the game that day. When someone tells me I can’t do something, that makes me play better. And when something happens that makes me happy, that also makes me play better.
On July 29, 2003, Tina gave birth to Cristian, the most handsome little man in the world.
The reason his name is spelled without the h was the result of Tina watching the soap opera One Life to Live. One of the characters on the show spelled his name that way, and she loved the spelling, so we copied it.
Okay, I thought. No more kids. I got my little guy.
AFTER MY BREAKOUT year in 2002, I was looking forward to another great year in 2003. But before the season began, tragedy struck the Packers family in a way that affected us all.
I believe in God and that everything I do is because of Him. If I don’t have a relationship with God, I can’t love my wife and kids the way I’m supposed to love them. And yet, when I see bad things happen to good people, my faith is really tested. It has happened so many times.
In May 2003 I was reminded that football comes second to family when my receivers coach, Ray Sherman, lost his fourteen-year-old son, Ray Jr., who died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Tina and I had just arrived back in Green Bay for the off-season minicamp. The phone was ringing off the hook.
Little Ray had shot himself.
His dad was a gun owner and collector and had left an unlocked, loaded gun in his garage.
Tina and I arrived at the police station, where Ray and his wife, Yvette, were waiting. Yvette was inconsolable, and Ray was just trying to hold everything together. Tina held Yvette, and they cried. Ray and I walked around the police station. He kept asking, “Why? Why? Why did this happen?”
All I could say was “We don’t know. We’ll never know.”
No one knew what Little Ray was doing. Was he playing with the gun? People assumed it was suicide, but if you knew Little Ray, you knew that wasn’t the case. He loved life. He wasn’t able to take his own life.
Ray told me he and his son were about to go to the movies to see The Matrix.
“Maybe Little Ray was playing, like the movies, and he pulled the trigger because he didn’t check to see if there were any bullets in the gun,” Ray said.
I could see a young boy doing that. What a tragedy.
WE OPENED THE 2003 season at Lambeau Field against our archrivals, the Minnesota Vikings. My whole family was in town for the game.
During the game we ran a play we called “all go,” as all three of Brett’s receivers headed downfield. My job was to run a seam route, to find an opening between the defenders, and as soon as I was open, Brett’s job was to find me. I was running down the left sideline, and on this route Brett preferred to throw over my left, outside shoulder because my defender most likely was going to be inside on the field. I had to turn around to catch it, and when the ball came, I stopped, jumped up, and grabbed the ball, but my momentum was such that I did a complete heels over head flip.
I landed on my head, and as I lay on the ground I felt like I was paralyzed. I could see and I could hear, but I couldn’t move a muscle.
“Trainers!” I could hear teammate Robert Ferguson screaming in fear. “Trainers!”
The trainers ran up to me.
“Drive, Drive!” they were yelling.
I wanted to say something, but I felt like I was asleep in a dream state.
They flipped me on my back, cut the face mask off but left my helmet on. They didn’t want to risk further injury to my neck. I was carted off the field on a stretcher. The feeling in my arms and legs was beginning to return as I was being carted off.
“Give the crowd a thumbs-up to let them know you’re okay,” the cart driver said to me.
I did as I was told.
Tina met me as the cart rolled into the tunnel toward the locker room. She had run down from the club seats, and she had infant Cristian in her arms.
“Did I catch the ball?” I asked her.
She laughed.
“No,” she said. “Coming down the ball came out.”
I was in the hospital three days, and when she came and visited me, Tina was afraid for me.
“It’s not worth playing this game,” she said, “if you can’t play with your son.”
“God’s not done with me,” I told her. “God’s going to bless us. I’m going to be okay.”
I was diagnosed with a concussion, and I had a pinched nerve. The doctor said I could return in a couple of weeks.
Concussions are an unfortunate part of the game, and no matter what the NFL tries to do about it, they will always be a problem. For a long time players have been running at full speed, hitting and tackling each other, and that will never change. I applaud Commissioner Roger Goodell for trying to make the game safer with better helmets and rule changes, but as I said, no matter what they do, concussions will continue.
I didn’t play in the next game against Detroit at home. During the game I walked out of the tunnel from the locker room and walked out onto the field wearing a neck brace. The crowd began to cheer. When the Packers’ Robert Ferguson scored a touchdown, he high-fived everyone on the field and then ran over to me and gave me a hug.
“I’ll be back,” I told him. “This won’t take long. I bet I’ll even be back next week.”
Ferguson—and everyone else—thought I was crazy.
“You can’t play unless I know you can take a hit,” Coach Sherman told me.
By the third day after my injury I was able to twist and turn my neck. I dressed for practice. Coach Sherman insisted that if I wanted to play against Arizona, I had to participate in the one-on-one drills. The player I had to go up against was William Henderson, who was six foot one and 252 pounds of solid muscle. William, one of the best fullbacks ever to play at Green Bay, was a battering ram. His forehead was black-and-blue from hitting people.
William and I went at it. Ten times we faced off like sumo wrestlers, only our task was to take the head off the other guy. Or rather, William’s job was to take my head off.
It was a struggle to stand up to him. After every charge I had to regain my breath and compose myself. My body and neck were sore, and I left practice that day mad as a hornet that I had to face such punishment, but I didn’t let anybody know. But I proved to Coach Sherman and everyone else I could play.
When I say the players feared Coach Sherman, this was but one example of it. He said I could play if I could take a hit, and he made certain I’d take a series of devastating hits. How many coaches would have tested a neck injury with such violence so soon after an injury? Not many. You could argue he was looking out for me, preparing me for the game. After taking so many hits in practice, when I went out for a pass against the Arizona Cardinals, I had no fear of getting hit.
Against the Cardinals I made two catches for 12 yards. After the first catch I hit the ground and got up shaking my head.
“Are you good?” Brett asked me.
“I’m good,” I said.
I was, too.
We beat the Chicago Bears the next week, and the week after that we played the Seattle Seahawks at home. I caught seven passes for 72 yards and a touchdown, but the next couple weeks we lost to Kansas City and St. Louis, and in the papers there were suggestions from the know-it-all ink-stained scribes that after signing my big contract, I wasn’t the player I had been.
Who besides the writers think I’m declining? I asked myself. I was mad at everyone. It was important to prove to them I wasn’t done. It was the same way I felt when my grandfather was always telling me what a loser I was going to be.
Say what you want, I will always prove you wrong.
Against the San Diego Chargers in December of that year, three months after injuring my neck, I caught eight passes for 112 yards. Then against the Oakland Raiders on Monday Night Football I played well, catching three passes for 78 yards.
The Raiders game was scheduled for December 22. The day before, Brett’s father, Irvin Favre, died of a heart attack.
Kesha Peterson, a friend of mine from Cleveland, Mississippi, called me.
“Brett’s father passed away,” he said. “You need to find Brett.”
I couldn’t find Brett in his hotel room. The Packers called Doug Pederson, who was out on the golf course with Brett.
After Brett returned to our hotel from golfing, I walked down to his room and checked with his security guy to see if he was still there. When he opened the door, I could see from the expression on his face that he was hurting.
I gave him a big hug. For a long time I didn’t let go.
“You know, Donald,” Brett said, “I never told him I loved him.”
Irvin Favre was one of those tough dads. Brett would tell stories of his toughness, how he was never the kind of guy to give him a hug or say, “I love you.”
“If you don’t feel like playing,” I said to Brett, “we’d understand. Go home and be with your family.”
Brett decided he wanted to play. He addressed the team before the game.
“I have your guys’ backs, and that’s why I want to play this game. I just ask that you guys have mine.”
The whole room erupted. Everyone started screaming, “We’ve got your back, Brett. We’ve got your back. We love you, Brett!”
The night of the game I said to the other receivers, “Everything he throws up, we bring down regardless of how many people we have on us. Let’s make history.”
The first play was a corner route to tight end Wesley Walls. There was no way he should have caught it, but he did. Then on another corner route I caught a ball on the sideline over two defenders, and I was thinking, This is ridiculous. How are we making these catches? Javon Walker also caught one over the middle on two defenders, and before the night was out, in front of a national audience, we defeated the Oakland Raiders 41–7.
Brett completed 22 of 30 passes for 399 yards and four touchdowns. He didn’t throw a single interception. His passing rating was an incredible 154.9 (perfect is 158.3). Every Packers receiver stepped up. Brett threw passes of 47 and 27 yards to Robert Ferguson, 46 and 43 yards and a touchdown to Javon Walker, and two more TDs to our tight end David Martin. They were big, big plays, all of them.
After the game, for the first time I walked into the Black Hole, Oakland’s fan section, manned by rooters who seethe at opposing players. Dressed like zombies, pirates, skeletons, and the Grim Reaper, they seethe at opposing players. These crazies rose and gave Brett a standing ovation.
I was glad to be a part of that game with Brett. He showed me how a man can be with his football family.
After the game, in an emotional speech before the team in the locker room, Brett told us, “I knew that my dad would have wanted me to play. I love him so much, and I love this game. It’s meant a great deal to me, to my dad, to my family, and I didn’t expect this kind of performance. But I know he was watching tonight.”
He said to us, “You guys are my family. I will never leave you, just like I would never leave my biological family.”
Brett carried himself with such dignity and class; it was how I wanted to be. I would watch Brett to see how I should conduct myself. In the final years in Green Bay, when I wasn’t getting the ball, people would ask me why I never complained.
“Because these guys are my family,” I would say. “I’m not selfish. It’s not just about me. It’s about these guys, my family, and winning championships together.”
It’s what I took from Brett Favre that magical night in December 2003 on Monday Night Football.
THE PACKERS FINISHED the 2003 regular season with a 10-6 record. In the must-win season finale we killed Denver at home, 31–3, but in order to get into the playoffs we needed the Arizona Cardinals to beat Minnesota.
We were beating Denver badly toward the end of the game, but even so, Coach Sherman refused to allow the scoreboard to post the Arizona-Minnesota score. He said he wanted us concentrating on our game.
As I stood on the sideline while the defense was on the field, I could hear in the stands a murmur at first, followed by a scream and then a roar. I was looking at the defense, wondering, What happened? Then it dawned on me that all sixty thousand fans in the stadium were turned away from the field and toward the luxury suites where the TVs were and were getting the news that Arizona had won.
We found out later that Arizona quarterback Josh McCown threw a twenty-eight-yard touchdown pass to Nate Poole on fourth-and-twenty-five, giving the underdog Cardinals an 18–17 win. The Vikings loss gave us the NFC North division title.
Once we found out we had won, I walked over to Mike Sherman and asked him, “Can we get our hats?” The NFC North championship hats.
“Sure,” he said, and while we stood on the sidelines we put them on.
We had made the playoffs. When we returned to the locker room we were able to watch Poole’s catch for the final touchdown. All of us screamed and hollered.
FOOTBALL’S A FUNNY game. Going into the opening round of the 2003 playoffs against the Seattle Seahawks, we had a juggernaut on offense. Ahman Green had rushed for more than 1,800 yards on the season, and in all we ran for more than 2,500 yards and 18 touchdowns. Brett and our other quarterbacks completed 65 percent of their passes, passing for 3,300 yards and throwing 32 touchdowns.
That said, against the Seahawks the score was tied 27–27 at the end of regulation. Seattle won the coin toss at the start of overtime, and when they won it, Seattle quarterback Matt Hasselbeck told the referee, who was wearing a microphone so the national TV audience could hear him, “We want the ball, and we’re going to score.”
Matt should have kept his mouth shut. After 4:25 of play, Hasselbeck threw a pass that our cornerback Al Harris intercepted, and he ran it back for the game winner. It was the first time in NFL history that a playoff game was ended by a touchdown made by a defensive player.
In the locker room after the game we saw Matt’s comment on ESPN. Our guys said, “I can’t believe he has an ego like that.”
“He should have kept his mouth shut” was my response.
IN THE NEXT round we faced the Philadelphia Eagles, led by quarterback Donovan McNabb. If we won, we were sure we’d get to the Super Bowl because the Carolina Panthers were next, and we had their number. With our combustible offense, led by Brett, we didn’t see how we could lose.
We led 14–7 at the half, and we should have had another touchdown when the Eagles stopped Ahman at their one on fourth down. We still led, now 17–14, with only 1:12 left in the game. The Eagles had a fourth and 26.
“We’re going to the NFC championship, baby,” I told Brett. “No, we’re going to the Super Bowl.”
“Yes,” Brett yelled. “This game is over.”
When we got the ball back we were going to take a knee and run out the clock.
I watched calmly as McNabb dropped back to pass. He threw a long pass downfield. The ball floated in the air an interminable amount of time. Eagles receiver Freddie Mitchell made the catch.
It can’t possibly be a first down, I said to myself.
The referee marked the ball. They checked the chains. First down, Eagles. The pass had gone for 28 yards.
“You … have … got … to … be … kidding,” I said.
“Wow,” said Brett.
The Eagles’ David Akers kicked a thirty-seven-yard field goal to tie it in regulation play, and they went on to win it in overtime on another Akers field goal as the mob in Philadelphia went wild. All we could do was trudge back to our locker room with our tail between our legs. It was devastating. It was my best chance to go to the Super Bowl. It was a sad ending to a beautiful season.
For any NFL player the greatest milestone is to make it to the Super Bowl. We all dream of making it there one day. We always question ourselves, Will that day ever come? That is because most athletes who play in the NFL never make it there. And it was where I wanted to be. Did I think it would ever happen? You could wish and hope, but you never really did know.
Most fans don’t understand just how difficult it is to reach the Super Bowl. People think that just because their team is talented, it’s going to get there. That’s what I thought when I first came to Green Bay in 1999. The Packers had been in back-to-back Super Bowls in 1997 and 1998, and my first thoughts were, These guys just came back from two Super Bowls. We’re going to be going back my rookie year. It’s going to be awesome.
And I didn’t make it to the Super Bowl for twelve years.
WHEN THE 2004 season began I saw that I would have to prove myself all over again. Maybe it was because after gaining 1,064 yards in 2002, I followed that with a year in which I only gained 621 yards in receptions. Maybe my neck injury had something to do with that. All I knew was that Javon Walker was projected to start over me in 2004, even though he was having problems with his eyesight and was having trouble holding on to the ball. Robert Ferguson was supposed to be the other starter at wide receiver. In the preseason I beat out Robert and never looked back.
Our first game was against the Carolina Panthers, and I started along with Javon. That year we made a dynamic duo. He caught passes for 1,382 yards and 12 touchdowns, and I caught 84 balls for 1,208 yards. We again finished with a fine 10-6 record, but we lost to Minnesota badly in the first round of the playoffs. Coach Mike Sherman’s reign as head coach was coming to an end.
One of the problems was that Ron Wolf quit as general manager in 2003. I was devastated. I never thought he’d leave. I figured he’d be my general manager until the day I retired. But Ron said he wanted to retire so he could go and do other things. He had said to me, “I’m going to get you that big contract.” He left before I got it, but I know he was the one pushing for it. It felt so good when the guy who believes in you gets you the deal.
After Ron retired, Mike badly wanted the job of general manager as well as the head coaching job. It’s a mistake a number of successful head coaches have made, because it’s extremely difficult to fill both shoes. As general manager you have to tell your players why they don’t deserve the money they are asking for, and then as coach you have to tell them how terrific they are. You can’t negotiate a guy’s contract, beat his brains in, and then expect him to be receptive when you’re trying to teach him something about football. By the end of the 2004 season the Packers’ top brass stripped Mike of his GM duties. He was replaced as GM by Ted Thompson, who was hired away from the Seattle Seahawks.
I suspect Thompson and Sherman didn’t get along. When someone comes in and takes your job, you’re never happy.
The 2005 season was a disaster. We finished the season 4-12, losing seven of our first eight games and dooming Mike Sherman’s reign as head coach of the Packers.
“The coaches don’t play the game. The players play the game,” I’ve always said, but sometimes the scheme, the play-calling, doesn’t work in your favor for sixteen games. But unless the team doesn’t have the tools to win, you shouldn’t lose twelve of those games, and we certainly had the weapons to win. We just didn’t play to our potential, and though the fault lies with both the coach and the players, we always say, “The head coach will be gone before the players will be gone.” That’s how it is. You can’t play in the NFL without players. You can always get another coach.
I don’t remember games from 2005. I don’t even remember plays. I did what I could to block it all out. It was so bad. I do remember that in our first game against Detroit, Javon Walker injured his right knee and was lost for the season. Robert Ferguson and Ahman Green also were injured and that made winning a lot harder.
We defeated Seattle in the final game, and I was figuring that Mike’s job was safe. Because of the many injuries we had that season I thought to myself, No way Mike Sherman should lose his job.
The Monday after we beat the Seahawks to end the season, I walked into Lambeau to collect my things and clear out my locker. We had a team meeting scheduled for 10:15 A.M., and I figured that meant Mike was still our coach. They then pushed the meeting back to 10:35, and at that point I figured he was toast.
After we gathered for the meeting our new general manager, Ted Thompson, walked in and announced, “We have just let Mike Sherman go.”
Frank Novak, one of Mike’s assistants and a close confidant, stood up.
“When that man walks through that door,” he said, “I want everybody to get up out of your seat and give this man what he deserves.”
Novak was right. Mike Sherman deserved everyone’s respect. We had won a lot of games under his leadership. We just didn’t make it to the Super Bowl.
When Mike walked in, everyone rose and clapped for him. The emotion was genuine. We respected him greatly. He had helped make me the player I became.
The next day Tina, my two kids, and I were in the airport for our flight home when I spotted Mike. He was putting his teenage daughter on a plane to send her back to college. After he hugged his daughter, he hugged me.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said to me. “When I walked in the building I didn’t even know who you were.”
His eyes were watery. He was terribly hurt by being let go. I could see it written all over his face.