The respect of those you respect is worth more than the applause of the multitude.
ARNOLD GLASGOW
We went into the 2001 season full of optimism. We knew we had a good team and felt that an adjustment here and there was all we needed to compete for an NFL championship.
One adjustment the Raiders had to make that offseason was to replace running back Napoleon Kaufman, who retired to become a Christian minister. The back we signed as a free agent, a sparkplug named Charlie Garner, couldn’t have been more different.
Charlie, five feet ten inches and 190 pounds, had gained over 1,100 yards in each of his previous two seasons with the 49ers. He was also vulgar and brash, the kind of guy who was never at a loss for words. When he found out about my faith, he was quick to let me know where he stood on the subject: “Yeah, you’re one of these God guys. I know a whole bunch of you. I’ll catch you later on. I know what’s going to happen.” He obviously believed I was saying one thing and living another.
There were moments throughout that season when he continued to try to needle me about my faith, usually in front of as many teammates as possible. I just ignored it. But in the locker room after a training camp practice the next season, Charlie came up to me and said quietly, “Okay, what’s the difference between you and everybody else? I’ve heard a lot of God talk from guys, but you do it different.”
“I can’t speak for other guys or what they’re doing,” I said, “but I’ve made a decision to live for God. That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I explained about hearing some church people say when I was young that you couldn’t play professional football and follow God. I felt otherwise. I told Charlie, “I’m determined to live this out to the fullest.”
After that, Charlie started treating me differently. In fact, he made sure everybody else treated me different too. It started when we were on the road for a preseason game and I rode a hotel elevator down from my room. When the doors opened, the lobby was crammed with more than a hundred players and coaches, many listening to rap music, others yelling at each other to be heard. I didn’t even have room to step off the elevator.
That’s when Charlie jumped on top of a chair and bellowed, “Hey, hey, Mr. Brown is here! Cut all that nonsense out!”
The room went almost completely quiet.
“Why are you acting like Tim’s the pope?” one player said. Charlie just glared at him. A path through the lobby opened up for me like the Red Sea did for Moses.
To me, what Charlie did was simply a sign of respect. He kept on doing it too. When I’d arrive at the locker room for practices or games, he’d yell out, “Turn that music off!” or “Hold up, Mr. Brown is coming through!” Though Charlie wasn’t a believer himself, he saw that my words lined up with my actions. That was enough for him to give me VIP treatment.
Once I got established in the league, and especially after Marcus Allen left the team, my teammates started showing me respect in other ways. Mondays and Thursdays were my days to lift weights, which everybody knew. Everybody also knew that I preferred gospel music. So whenever I showed up at the weight room on those days, gospel was all that played. I didn’t ask the guys to do that, but it was something I appreciated.
In the NFL, respect is everything. If you don’t have the respect of your teammates, you’re not going to be around very long. If you don’t have the respect of your opponents, they’ll try to take you down like lions preying on the weak members of a herd.
When I first joined the Raiders, I was an unknown quantity. Sure, everybody knew who I was because of the Heisman. But I hadn’t done anything yet in the NFL. I had to earn that respect—primarily with my performance, but there were also times when I just had to stand up for myself.
One of those times was during a preseason practice at the start of my second year. Fred Biletnikoff had joined the Raiders as our wide receivers coach. Freddie is one of the NFL’s all-time greats. A six-time All-Pro, he caught 589 passes in his fourteen-year career as a receiver with the Raiders and was a member of Oakland’s American Football League championship team in 1965 and of the 1977 Super Bowl champions. In that game, he was named MVP. He’s a Raiders legend.
He also has a legendary grasp of curse words, which I discovered during that preseason practice. We were working on the offense and I ran an incorrect route. I knew it before the play was even over. Freddie knew it too. As I walked back to the huddle, Freddie let me have it. He called me every swear word I’d ever heard and a few I hadn’t.
As you might expect, many NFL coaches get on players to try to motivate them. It’s fairly common practice. But it wasn’t common to me. In all my years of football, from high school to college to my first year with the Raiders, no one had ever cussed me out like that. You also have to understand that, as Jon Gruden later pointed out to me, I can be a little sensitive. I respond well to encouragement, but not to someone trying to tear me down. Some guys need a coach to light a fire under them, but I’m already my own harshest critic. After Freddie lit into me, I had tears in my eyes for the rest of the practice.
Once the session was over, I quietly pulled my new coach aside. “Freddie,” I said in my most polite voice, “if we’re going to coexist, you can’t talk to me like that. My daddy don’t even talk to me like that. When I do something wrong, I usually know I’ve done wrong. If you dog curse me like that, I just shut down. That’s just not going to be acceptable.”
Freddie looked at me like I was crazy.
Later, he admitted he wasn’t sure if I was nuts, if I was a wimp, or if I was serious. But he decided to give my approach a try. For the rest of that weekend he didn’t say a word to me, and he saw that my play got better and better. Fred Biletnikoff was my coach for fifteen years, and not once after that day did he say anything out of line to me. When he was mad at all the receivers, he even made a point to leave me out of it. He’d swear at us till he was almost hoarse, then add, “Tim, I’m not talking to you.”
I knew I had to talk to Freddie right away after he cussed me out. Part of it was from knowing who I am and what was going to help me be the best player I could be. The other part was about respect.
Next to winning, our primary focus when we step on the field is to earn the respect of teammates, coaches, and opponents. It isn’t something that’s handed to a player. You have to fight for it every day and every play, first to get it and then to keep it.
No amount of talking is going to matter. You hear plenty of trash talk in the NFL, but most of the time no one pays much attention. What matters is how you perform when the clock is running.
After a few Pro Bowls, I found I had that respect from opponents. When the other team identifies you as a player who needs to be stopped, that’s a sign of esteem. For me, it sometimes meant that a defensive back got extra jacked up to put the hammer on me.
One of those times was a 1997 game in Seattle. Shawn Springs was a heralded rookie, the third player chosen in the draft. I’d watched him in college and knew he was talented. I think he wanted to establish his NFL reputation at my expense.
Before we even snapped the ball for our first play, Shawn was making lots of noise about what he’d do to me. I caught a short pass and when he made the tackle, he was pretty amped. I decided I needed to find out what I was dealing with. The next play was a run to my side of the field. I ran hard at first, then slowed down to give Shawn an angle on me. Sure enough, even though there was no need, he pushed me down at the end of the play. I didn’t say a word.
Normally, I preferred to let my play speak for itself. I had no desire to resort to “extracurricular” activity on the field. But when you’re challenged that way, you have to answer quickly. There are times when you literally have to fight for respect, and this was one of them.
The next play was another run in my direction. I came off the line slowly. Suddenly I jammed my helmet under Shawn’s chin. He didn’t like that a bit. As soon as he got loose, he pushed me. I grabbed his facemask and yanked his head down. With him trying to fight me and his head locked against me, I said, “Young buck, we can play this game any way you want. We can play like this or we can just play football. You make up your mind how we going to play this game today.”
It took a couple of plays, but Shawn calmed down after that. We just played football. Like I’ve said, I tried to be a gentleman out there, but if I was physically challenged I responded. I wasn’t going to let somebody push me around and run me out of the league.
My reputation got to the point where a few times I said to a defensive back, “Don’t be trying to take me out. When you get a shot, you take it. I understand that. But don’t try to hurt me or I’m going after your knees.” Usually he was good with it. If I hadn’t been a player with a few Pro Bowls under my belt, I never would have said that. Even if I had, they wouldn’t have listened. The understanding I had with those guys was built on respect.
In a recent controversy in the NFL, New Orleans Saints players and coaches were suspended for an alleged program that provided bonuses for injuring opposing players and knocking them out of the game. In my day, bounties were a sign of respect. If you didn’t have a bounty on your head it meant the other team didn’t view you as a threat. Yes, there was money on the line, maybe five hundred dollars, maybe a little more. But as far as I knew, it didn’t involve coaches and it wasn’t about injuring another player to put him out of the game. It was about keeping Junior Seau from shooting the gap on runs and getting into the backfield or preventing Rodney Harrison from making a big hit. The idea was to stop the other team’s top guys for that game.
Coaches say crazy things all the time to get players motivated before a game. Usually, that stuff goes in one ear and out the other. There’s no way a coach could’ve talked me into intentionally hurting a player on another team. When I played, that was just not how it worked. The bounty existed because we respected that guy, not because we wanted to hurt him.
Raiders fans show their respect by being loyal and intense—and sometimes a little crazy. I remember one guy at an autograph show who was almost in tears when he got to me. He pulled up his shirt to reveal a tattoo of me catching a pass. That’s intense.
Near the end of my career, some fans unveiled a new level of respect for me when they started calling me “Mr. Raider.” I’d hear it after games when I came out of the locker room. There’s really only one Mr. Raider—that’s Jim Otto, the All-Pro center and original Oakland Raider who gave fifteen years on the field and really the rest of his life to the franchise. I hold the record for most regular-season games played by a Raider, 240, but when you add playoff games Jim is still top dog. Being compared to him is an honor that I appreciate to this day.
Respect is incredibly important to men, not just in the NFL but in all walks of life. We crave it from our peers, our friends, our family, and especially our girlfriends or wives. Plenty of authors have pointed out that most men would rather feel unloved than disrespected. There is a reason why the Bible tells husbands to “love your wives” (Eph. 5:25) while teaching that “the wife must respect her husband” (v. 33). For a man, respect is top priority.
As in the NFL, respect in everyday life isn’t something you attract by talking about your accomplishments and intentions. It’s earned by your actions. To me, sacrifice and respect often go hand in hand. You have to give up something to get respect. It might be letting go of the dream of buying the new car you’ve been eyeing so you can give that money to a needy neighbor. It might mean saying no to a promotion at work because it would take too much time away from your wife and family. It’s making the tough, unselfish choices that benefit others.
If you’re a dad and want to raise your kids right, sacrifice is definitely part of the deal. You might have to give up a few things and start spending your time and money on more family oriented priorities. To set an example for Taylor when he was younger, I listened only to gospel music. He didn’t understand my position back then. He just rolled his eyes at me. But today, Taylor understands why I did it. I believe he respects me for it. In the long run, that sacrifice has been well worth it.
One thing I’m proud of is that when people compliment me nowadays, most often they talk about how I conducted myself off the field instead of how I played on it. They appreciate how I handled myself. My intention was never to earn people’s praise, but it’s rewarding to hear those comments. It’s another by-product of respect.
To truly understand respect, we need to give it as well as pursue it. For me, that means acknowledging the one who deserves my respect above all others: God. The Bible says that “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge” (Prov. 1:7). Fear of the Lord is awe, reverence, love, and honor for Him all wrapped together. Some fear is healthy—we should be a little afraid of the dad who has authority over our earthly lives and the God who has authority over all of creation. Both have power that far exceeds our own.
It’s pretty simple, actually. The reason people sometimes admire me is because of my respect for God. It’s only because I worship and obey Him that anyone might find me worthy of respect.
As a wide receiver, when you talk about respect, you have to start with another of my new teammates for 2001: Jerry Rice.
To put it bluntly, Jerry is the greatest receiver in the history of the NFL. He might be the greatest player at any position. He holds the NFL records for most touchdowns, receiving touchdowns, receptions, receiving yards, and all-purpose yards. He was a thirteen-time Pro Bowler and ten times was named First Team All-Pro. He has won three Super Bowls and was a Super Bowl MVP.
When Jerry joined the Raiders as a free agent after sixteen years with the 49ers, he was thirty-eight years old and not quite the player he was in his prime. Raiders executive Bruce Allen called me before the signing was announced, asking for my opinion and if I’d have a problem playing with Jerry. He said I’d still be Jon Gruden’s number one guy. “Look,” I said, “if Jerry Rice can help get us to the Super Bowl, I don’t care if I’m the number three guy. I just want to get to the Super Bowl.” Little did I know that Jerry would play like he was twenty-eight, not thirty-eight.
Some reporters did predict that Jerry and I would have problems, that two stars at the same position couldn’t coexist. That was ridiculous. I respected Jerry, and his comments to the media made it clear that he respected me: “Tim is the man here. He’s the man. I’m just trying to play a significant part. For years I was the main focus. In a way, it feels good to be, not in a backseat mode, but not being the main guy.”1
We showed right away that we would complement each other. In our season opener at Kansas City, we each made eight receptions, me for 133 yards and Jerry for 87, in a 27–24 victory. Our performance, and the whole team’s, stayed strong. In November, we outlasted the New York Giants 20–10 to improve to 8-2.
Near halftime of that game, Jerry and I showed how dangerous we could be together. From our twenty-five yard line, Gannon completed a thirty-four-yard pass to Jerry. The next play, a five-yard pass to me, was called back by a penalty. Then Rich called out, “All Go Z Seam Special.” I lined up in the slot on the right side, ran hard for ten yards, then made a move as if I was going outside. At the same time, Gannon pump faked to a receiver on the left. Instead of going outside, I headed for the post. After I ran another ten yards, Gannon hit me with a perfect pass, which turned into a forty-six-yard touchdown. Between me, Jerry, and Garner in the backfield as a rushing and receiving threat, opponents never knew which of us to cover.
With three games left, we led the AFC West with a 10-3 record. We stumbled down the stretch, losing our last three games, all close. Our 10-6 final record was still the best in the division, though it wasn’t enough to earn a bye in the first week of the playoffs.
Despite losing to the Jets in the final game of the season, we held them off in the opening playoff round, 38–24. Our new additions were critical to the victory. Jerry caught nine balls for 183 yards and a touchdown, and Charlie Garner rushed for 158 yards on just fifteen carries. Garner’s eighty-yard touchdown run down the right sideline with 1:40 left put the game away.
That set up a Saturday night confrontation with the New England Patriots in Foxborough, Massachusetts. They were led by a second-year quarterback who was essentially playing his first season: Tom Brady. The Patriots had won eleven of the fourteen games Brady started, including the last six in a row. This was his first playoff test. It turned out to be a battle in a blizzard.
We knew earlier that week that snow was in the forecast. Most of the guys figured it was the worst thing that could happen, that it would slow us down and nullify our speed. Personally, though, I never minded playing in bad weather. I was used to it from my Notre Dame days because the university didn’t have an indoor practice facility. If the field was slippery, I thought it was to my advantage since I knew where I was going and the defender didn’t.
Sure enough, we played that game in a snowstorm, with a wind chill of eighteen degrees. Mostly because of the weather, neither side could make much happen offensively in the first half. The lone score was a thirteen-yard touchdown pass from Gannon to James Jett in the second quarter. We outscored New England in the third quarter too, kicking a pair of field goals to their one to take a 13–3 lead.
I got hurt in the middle of that quarter. I was running a quick slant and a pass came low and behind me. When I tried to slow down and reach back to make the catch, Ty Law hit me on my right shoulder. I didn’t know it then, but I’d suffered a tear in my groin, what they call a sports hernia today. My leg went numb for a while, but it got better and I played the rest of the game without any problems. The ironic thing is that I needed time to heal after that game. If we’d won, I wouldn’t have been able to play in the AFC championship or the Super Bowl, which would have been devastating.
The nightmare that still plagues many Raiders fans—and players—began early in the fourth quarter. We fumbled a punt for the second time in the quarter, Brady connected on nine consecutive passes, and then he ran up the middle for a six-yard touchdown. With 7:57 to play in the game, our lead was only 13–10.
We’d been waiting all day for this young quarterback to make a mistake. With 1:50 left in the game and the Patriots driving on our forty-two yard line, it finally happened—only it didn’t count.
It’s become one of the most famous plays in NFL history. Brady drops back to pass. Charles Woodson blitzes and hits Brady. The ball comes loose. Greg Biekert recovers. It’s ruled a fumble and Oakland ball. We celebrate and our offense starts going onto the field. The referees go to instant replay for what seems to be the longest referee review ever. They finally cite an obscure rule installed just two years before, saying that Brady’s arm had been moving forward and that he then tried to tuck it toward his body. It’s not a fumble but an incomplete forward pass. New England ball. (In 2013, the “tuck rule” was deleted from the rulebook—about time!)
The rest of that night is a bad memory. Adam Vinatieri kicks a forty-five-yard field goal with thirty-two seconds left to tie the game. New England wins the overtime coin toss and receives the ball first. The Patriots drive down the field, Vinatieri kicks another field goal, and just like that, the game is over.
To say that game left a bad taste in our mouths would be the understatement of the century. It was the quietest locker room I’ve ever been in. We were in mourning. For a long time, we had felt disrespected by the NFL and its officials. The sense was that because of Al Davis’s many conflicts with the league, we were always eleven against twelve, with that twelfth man being an official. When year after year the Raiders were at or near the top in team penalties, it was difficult to not think that way. The game against the Patriots felt like the culmination of all that. As an emotional Gruden said when he stood before us in the locker room after it was over, “They are never going to let you win.”
As crushing as that loss was, we walked away from it with more respect for the Patriots and for Brady. The truth was, they’d taken advantage of the opportunities given to them and the kid had played good football. I wasn’t shocked when they went on to win the Super Bowl.
As the years passed, respect would grow for the Patriots, for Coach Bill Belichick, and for Brady. No one handed it to them. They went out and earned it. That’s the way it should be.