The Quarterback Whisperer Page 5

  I always looked at Peyton’s arm angle as he released the ball. If a quarterback starts throwing it sideways, the ball is going to curve when it comes out of his hand and it will put a lot of pressure on the elbow. The ideal quarterback has the light feet of a boxer, the flexible hips of a golfer, and the powerful shoulders of a tennis player. You want your quarterback to reach up and throw down. Johnny Unitas did this better than anyone, but Peyton wasn’t too far behind.

  We also worked on how to hold the ball when making his drop. I wanted Peyton to have the ball close to his right ear as he set up in the pocket. Really, a quarterback can have it anywhere from the number to the ear; it’s up to him to find out what’s most comfortable. For Peyton, it was having the ball close to his ear.

  I also stressed that his right leg needed to be positioned at what I call a “power angle,” which is a 45-degree angle, as he prepared to throw—the velocity of passes always begins in the legs. The left foot should be framing the precise spot at which he was aiming down the field. After release, his belt buckle should be pointing directly at his target. These are fundamentals that every quarterback should strive to master.

  The first year with Peyton was challenging for us; we ended up 3–13. I knew we were going to have trouble as early as the preseason when we struggled against… Ryan Leaf and the San Diego Chargers, who had selected Ryan with the second overall pick in the 1998 draft. Peyton threw two interceptions and Ryan carved us up, completing 15 of 24 passes for 172 yards. The Chargers won 33–3. But I was already hearing through the coaching grapevine—and trust me, the NFL is a very small world; there are very few secrets among coaches—that Ryan was a complete ass and had zero respect in the locker room.

  The scuttlebutt proved accurate: Five weeks into the season, as Ryan and San Diego were preparing to come to Indy for a game, he had already cursed out a cameraman, launched into a profanity-laced tirade against a reporter, and been booed by his own home crowd. Man, if you lose your own fans only weeks into your NFL career, then you don’t have a damn shot at winning over your locker room as a quarterback. I knew then, only a few games into Ryan’s professional career, that the kid wouldn’t last long in the NFL.

  I stress again: So much of being an NFL quarterback has nothing to do with arm strength and being 6'5'' and 250 pounds; at its core, it’s about being a leader of men. Ryan just wasn’t mature enough to handle either the day-after-day role or the inevitable adversity that every NFL quarterback will face. He only lasted four years in the NFL and later was sentenced to five years in prison after pleading guilty to felony burglary and drug possession charges in Montana. Sadly, Ryan became a cautionary tale. But I’m happy that Ryan is doing well today with the help of the NFL Legends program.

  You could see in Ryan’s and Peyton’s rookie year that they were on completely different career paths. It was particularly sweet that the first win of Peyton’s career came against Ryan in our Week Five matchup with the Chargers. Peyton’s stat line wasn’t great—he was 12 for 23 for 137 yards and one touchdown—but he managed the game and guided us to a 17–12 victory.

  Even though Peyton set five rookie NFL records in 1998, including most touchdown passes (26), he also threw a league-high 28 interceptions. But he hardly ever lost his confidence. I constantly reminded him that we had a rookie right guard, rookie receivers, and a tight end (Marcus Pollard) learning how to play the position after playing basketball in college. I said to him, “Hey, we’re going to get better every week. Every week we’re going to see a little improvement. It may not show up on the scoreboard, but we’re getting better.”

  The only time I saw his confidence waver during his rookie season was at New England in an early-season game. He had just thrown his third interception when he came over to the sideline. Patriot cornerback Ty Law had baited him into throwing it—Law acted like he didn’t know what pass pattern our receiver was running but in fact did—and picked him off. Peyton wanted to be benched. I told him, “You’re not coming out. Let’s go no-huddle and see if we can learn something in this last quarter to help us out.”

  Well, Peyton started slinging the ball all over the field. On the very first drive of going no-huddle in our two-minute offense we scored our only touchdown of the game. You could see—throw by throw, play by play—Peyton becoming more comfortable running an NFL offense. Everything began clicking with him. That’s one of the most gratifying aspects of coaching, seeing a player learn on the fly and have the game slow down for him. All the work he had put in as a player—and I had put in as coach—was paying off. I knew right then that he was going to become a great player.

  Before his second year Peyton worked really hard at perfecting his play-action fake handoff during the offseason. I had a bunch of film of Steve DeBerg when he was playing quarterback for the Chiefs in the 1980s, and I thought he was one of the best play-action quarterbacks I’d ever seen. So Peyton and our backup quarterback Kelly Holcomb watched hours of DeBerg and his play-action fakes. Then they made a game out of practicing their fakes out on the practice field, challenging each other to see who could pull off the fake better. How did it work? In film review they would watch the linebackers and safeties; the QB who duped the defense the most often would win the game.

  By the time the season rolled around Peyton had basically mastered it. When he’d come out of the bootleg in practice the back-side linebacker (the linebacker on the back side of the play who was reading the quarterback) would roll out into the pass coverage every time—even when Peyton had handed off the ball. It didn’t take long for Peyton to become probably the best play-action quarterback of his era.

  In Peyton’s second season we decided to go no-huddle the majority of the time. When the field is spread out with three receivers, the game becomes simpler for most quarterbacks because there are only so many things the QB can do. There are also only so many things the defense can do, and Peyton excelled at reading body language of defenders before the snap and anticipating their actions.

  Peyton flourished. He’d quickly read the defense and usually had the ball out of his hands in under three seconds. We put together code words and hand signals for him, and he learned them almost as fast as we could come up with them. His appetite for information was simply voracious.

  This was how it worked: Tom Moore, our offensive coordinator, would call three plays and say “check-with-me.” If the defense lined up in a certain way, Peyton would have the option to call a run to the right, a run to the left, or a pass because they overloaded the box. At the line the offensive players would “check with” Peyton to see which play he wanted.

  It didn’t take long for us to realize that Peyton was changing the game with his no-huddle brilliance. We gave him the keys to the car and he turned on the ignition and floored the gas pedal. Some quarterbacks can’t handle this responsibility, but Peyton coveted it.

  It takes a very intellectual quarterback to pull that off. Peyton always impressed me with his recall. One time during his rookie season we were playing the Washington Redskins and they showed us this unique “quarters coverage”—meaning they had four defensive backs lined up, each covering a quarter of the field.

  A year later we were facing the Miami Dolphins when I noticed that exact same coverage alignment. I told Peyton, “You remember that Redskins game last year?”

  He did—and he knew the exact play to beat it. On the sideline he grabbed his receivers and told them that if we got the four quarters coverage we were going to run “115 Divide Cross.” This was a play-action bootleg. So Peyton would fake the handoff, bootleg to his right, one receiver would run to the pylon closest to Peyton, one would run a deep post route, and the other would take off on a deep cross. We knew the inside safety would run with that receiver on the crossing route to the pylon and the deep cross would be wide open.

  Sure enough, on the next series, Peyton saw the four quarters coverage, called “115 Divide Cross,” and hit Marvin Harrison for a touchdown. When Peyton reached the sideline
he got on the phone with me in the press box. “Nice job, brother,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Yeah, we nailed that,” he said, as if any quarterback could remember a random play of a year ago and use that knowledge to execute the perfect play call and score a TD to boot. Man, that was something.

  That was the thing about coaching Peyton: You had to be totally prepared. Once you told him something, you never had to repeat yourself. That was why I still think he was my hardest quarterback to coach, because if you failed with him, it was on you as coach. You just couldn’t overload his brain with information. It was like a massive maw.

  Before coaching Peyton, I had always stayed in the office until my quarterbacks left the building, just in case they had a question. But Peyton would often stay in the quarterback meeting room deep into the night watching film. It got to the point that on Thursdays—which was my date night with my wife—I had to tell him, “I’ve got to take Chris to dinner, but she knows that if you call me and have a question I’ll take the call and even leave if I have to.” He never took me up on that offer, but it showed the level of commitment it took to coach him.

  Peyton even obsessed over the game balls. On Saturdays after our walk-through practice, he’d wash his hands and then walk into the equipment room with our equipment manager. He’d shut the door so he could select his twelve game balls in silence, like it was some sort of ritual. He’d rub his hands over each ball. If he liked the feel of one, he’d toss it to the equipment manager and say, “Game,” meaning the new ball was up to his lofty standards. If he didn’t like the feel of it, he’d say, “Pregame,” and rifle it to the other side of the room. That ball could only be used during warm-ups.

  But it wasn’t just Peyton’s study habits and overall commitment that won over the team. He was an inveterate practical joker. He really loved messing with his backup quarterbacks. When Steve Walsh was his backup in 1999—Peyton’s second year in the league—Steve brushed his teeth like ten times a day. So one day Peyton bought a toothbrush that looked just like Steve’s. He then took a dump in the toilet, threw the toothbrush in there, and snapped a Polaroid of it. At lunch that afternoon he asked Steve if he had brushed his teeth that day. Steve said he had. Peyton slid the photo over to him, and Steve almost started throwing up. The entire lunchroom broke out in laughter.

  Locker room jokes can be a little crude and disgusting, but they can build camaraderie and unity. Those guys in the locker room are your brothers, and you only pull practical jokes on people you care about. And Peyton was a master at winning the locker room over by being one of the guys and always looking for ways to playfully mess with other players.

  Peyton became almost like a son to me. We were by each other’s side for the first three years of his career. I could have stayed with him forever, we had such a strong bond. But I was a quarterback coach and I wanted to become an offensive coordinator. He knew what my goals were and he genuinely wanted me to succeed and continue climbing the NFL coaching ladder. Heck, I think he wanted that for me almost as much as I wanted it for myself.

  When I got the offer to become the offensive coordinator of the Cleveland Browns following the 2001 season, it was very hard to say goodbye to Peyton. I called him on the phone and said, “It’s been an unbelievable three years, but I need to go do this.”

  “I know, Coach,” Peyton said. He then asked me who was going to be on the staff and what I thought about the quarterbacks on the Cleveland roster. That was typical of Peyton: He was as inquisitive as ever and concerned for his now former coach.

  Finally, he said, “I can’t wait to see what you can do.”

  Hanging up the phone, I felt like crying. I knew I’d probably never be so fortunate to coach another quarterback quite like Peyton Manning.

  Bruce wants his quarterbacks to be able to throw the ball down the field, of course, but you better play smart or you won’t be playing long for B.A. Making good decisions is far more important to him than anything else.

  –ANDREW LUCK

  CHAPTER 3

  WHAT TO LOOK FOR IN A QB

  The best quarterbacks to play in the NFL haven’t been the biggest or the ones with the greatest arm strength. It’s the guys with the greatest combination of grit, will, and brains—my most important ingredients when baking a successful NFL QB—who have flourished behind center.

  When I was growing up in York, I watched the Baltimore Colts every Sunday afternoon. (York is only about fifty miles north of Baltimore.) They were my team, and Johnny Unitas was my quarterback, my human Superman. Today, when I visualize what a quarterback really is, the image I see is that of old Johnny U.

  As a kid I knew his background about as well as my own. Coming out of the University of Louisville in 1955, he was drafted in the ninth round by his hometown Pittsburgh Steelers, but was released before the season even began. No other team gave him a chance, so he worked in construction to support his young family. On weekends he made six dollars a game playing in Pittsburgh sandlots for a semiprofessional team called the Bloomfield Rams.

  In the summer of 1956 the Baltimore Colts offered him a tryout. He borrowed money from a friend to pay for the gas to make the drive from Pittsburgh. In training camp he impressed the Colts staff with his grit—as I said, that’s my favorite quality of a quarterback—and his willingness to sacrifice his body for the team. He made the roster. After the Colts’ starter, George Shaw, broke his leg in the second week of the season, Johnny trotted onto the field. Even though his first pass was intercepted and returned for a touchdown, the city of Baltimore would never be the same.

  Unitas became the full-time starter in ’57 and led the league passing yards (2,550) and touchdown passes (24). That season he won the first of his four league MVP awards. In ’58 he played the second half of the season with three broken ribs—every throw had to hurt—but he still battled on and led the Colts to only their second winning season since their founding in 1953. What’s more, he guided them to victory over the New York Giants on December 28 in the first-ever NFL Championship Game to go to sudden-death overtime.

  On that raw afternoon at Yankee Stadium, Johnny U threw a touchdown strike to Raymond Berry to lead Baltimore to a 23–17 win in what became known as “the Greatest Game Ever Played.” An estimated 45 million people watched the game on TV that day. Two years later the American Football League was formed. A decade later it merged with the NFL, creating the juggernaut that pro football has become.

  And remember this important thing: Unitas didn’t have an offensive coordinator or a quarterback coach in the press box telling him what plays he should call or what defensive alignment he should expect. Instead, Johnny U called his own plays in the huddle, came to the line in his tall black cleats, diagnosed the defense, checked to another play when necessary, and then handed the ball off or dropped back to pass. And when he did take a five- or seven-step drop, he seemed totally unaware of the chaos that frequently was about to envelop him. He kept his eyes downfield at all times, standing tall and looking poised and resolute. Johnny U was as courageous as any quarterback I’ve ever seen.

  Was Unitas the greatest athlete? No. Did he have the strongest arm? No. Was he an elite competitor? Yes. And was he one of the all-time smartest quarterbacks in NFL history? No question.

  One day when I was an eighth grader at St. Mary’s a few of the Colts players—including Johnny Unitas—played members of our faculty in a basketball game. I couldn’t take my eyes off Johnny. Other times I’d watch a few Colt players drink beer at Mon’s Café in York, where a bunch of them hung out. These were the first times I was close to professional football players, and I could see the tight bond they had. It inspired me; I wanted to be a player just like them, to be a part of a professional team. Every Sunday I’d jiggle the rabbit ears antenna that sat atop our black-and-white television so I could watch my heroes play their games. Johnny was my idol.

  When I played quarterback at Virginia Tech, Dan Henning was our offensive coordinator. He taugh
t us to throw by mimicking Unitas’s overhand motion. It seems so simple—you receive the snap, you grip the ball, you drop back to pass, you set up in the pocket, you rifle the ball down the field. But the art of throwing is so much more complex than that.

  With Unitas, every throw was always in rhythm and every throw had a purpose. He didn’t generate the most velocity, but he always released the ball at the top of his motion—if his motion was overlaid on a clock face, he’d consistently release the ball at high noon—and his follow-through was straight down, textbook-perfect. Johnny wasn’t a thrower; he was a passer. You always want passers, not throwers. Throwers wait to see a receiver break open and then sling it in that direction, usually as hard as they can. Passers release the ball before the receivers get open, usually with the right velocity and touch.

  How do you teach someone to become a passer? It’s all about anticipation, knowing the limitations of your arm, and developing the optimum throwing motion. Unitas was the master at that. My favorite play to watch was a little out-cut pattern he’d toss to wide receiver Raymond Berry, a play where Berry would run a few yards down the field then turn sharply toward the sideline. Even as Berry would still be running his route, his back to his quarterback, Unitas would unleash the ball. Just as Berry was nearing the sideline the ball would arrive in his hands as if by magic. He’d tap his feet inbounds and the Colts would gain eleven yards. That play was wizardry in motion.