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  We lost that game but still managed to improve our record from the year before, finishing 8–8. Still feeling rejected, many of our old fans were unimpressed. Our opponents often had more rooters in the Astrodome than we did. Our team was progressing—and so were the organization’s moving plans. Nashville’s voters said yes to a referendum on a new stadium. Then in spring 1997, the Oilers worked out a deal to get out of their stadium lease a year early. Like it or not, I was headed to Tennessee.

  I was about to turn thirty-six. After fourteen years in the league, I wondered if I’d hang up my cleats if I didn’t enjoy playing in Nashville. Since I’d been hoping the move would somehow fall apart, I hadn’t made any plans for the family. We’d just had the foundation laid for our new house. Carrie and I decided she and the kids would stay in Houston for the season and come up for home games while I rented an apartment in Nashville.

  Our new name was the Tennessee Oilers. Since we didn’t have a stadium yet, we played our home games three hours west of Nashville in Liberty Bowl Memorial Stadium, the home field of the University of Memphis Tigers. Team officials had often promised that everything would be great when we got to Tennessee, but most people in Memphis weren’t excited about supporting Nashville’s team. We had only seventeen thousand in the stands for a game against the Bengals. We didn’t draw any more fans than we had those last couple years in Houston.

  One big plus that made the move easier for me to handle was Munch. My best friend was now my coach—he’d been promoted and was responsible for the offensive line and tight ends. It’s not that he took it easy on me. If anything, I felt more pressure than ever to perform well. But we spent a lot of hours talking about how to play on the line. I realized I’d often gotten by on athleticism and wasn’t as fundamentally sound as I could have been. Munch explained technique in a way that made sense to me. At thirty-six, I didn’t have the same strength and stamina I’d had at twenty-six. But my technique improved so much that I began playing better than ever.

  What wasn’t better than ever was living alone. I had nothing to do at my apartment but read, watch television, and play video games. I’m not much of a cook—my supposed “dinner” on too many nights was a few bowls of Frosted Mini-Wheats. I felt so sorry for myself that a couple of times I downed some beers to try to get rid of my blues. Then I thought about what I was doing. Are you kidding me? Are you drinking alone now? It was another turning point that led me to give up alcohol the next year.

  I missed my family tremendously. I spent a lot of time that year with Munch and the other coaches, hanging around their offices and eating meals with them. I also visited the Munchaks’ house often. But I couldn’t wait for our home games and the chance to see Carrie and the kids. On those weekends, they would fly up from Houston to Nashville on Friday night. Then, on Sunday, they got up at dawn to catch the three-hour bus trip to Memphis, watched the game, and then bused back to Nashville. They’d spend Sunday night with me at the apartment and fly home the next day. We didn’t usually do anything special. It was just great to have them around.

  I hated being apart from them. On one of those Fridays when we’d planned for everyone to fly up, Carrie called: Kevin had jumped down from the top of a jungle gym and broken both ankles. They wouldn’t be coming until Saturday. Hearing about Kevin and knowing I’d have to wait those extra hours to see everyone was devastating.

  As hard as it was to be separated from my family, I realize in hindsight that my time alone in Nashville was a blessing. I began to understand more than ever how important each of them was to me. Though I talked to Carrie every night on the phone, I missed her presence. I also missed all the noise and turmoil—even the fights—that the kids created. I wanted to be there to help them with homework and hear about their day. I felt I’d sometimes taken Carrie and the kids for granted. Now they were managing life for the most part without me. My admiration for Carrie’s ability to parent five kids soared even higher. That time in Nashville gave me a new and deep sense of gratitude and appreciation for my family.

  The time alone was a blessing in another way—it allowed me to focus more on developing my faith. Back in Houston, Oilers chaplain Greg Headington had moved on and been replaced by Mike Myers, a gung-ho former high school coach who was affiliated with the Fellowship for Christian Athletes. Mike challenged me to be more than a casual Christian. My faith definitely grew during the Bible studies and chapel services he led.

  We had a new chaplain when we moved to Tennessee: James “Mitch” Mitchell, a country boy from Mississippi. Mitch was the perfect guy for me to get to know at that point in my life. Since I had the time, we went out for dinner often and talked from thirty to ninety minutes nearly every night. I had a lot on my mind spiritually, including what obedience to God meant and my concerns about my drinking. As we talked, I realized I didn’t want to straddle the fence with my faith. Jesus said that was worse than having no faith: “I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth” (Revelation 3:15–16). I needed to be all in.

  Mitch was a good friend and mentor when I needed one. Two years later, Reggie Pleasant became the team chaplain. All four of the NFL chaplains I got to know were outstanding guys and friends who encouraged me so much spiritually. I hate to think where I’d be without their influence.

  For me today, faith often comes down to trusting that God has my best interests at heart. I like to be in control, and I’ve spent too many hours whining about what I don’t have instead of remembering what I do have. But I’m learning that everything works better when I stop trying to get my way and manage every detail and just allow Him to be in charge. When I face problems, I’ve gotten better at saying, “Lord, I don’t really want to go through this, but I know You’ve got a plan. You’ve been good to me for the first fifty-plus years of my life. I’m going to trust You with the rest of it.”

  That trust came a little bit easier in 1998. The Oilers were on the move again, at least in terms of our home field. Because of the lack of support in Memphis, our new base was Vanderbilt Stadium in Nashville. We equaled our record from the season before, again going 8–8. But it was a much more enjoyable year, since Carrie and the kids now lived with me in Nashville. I’d survived my season away from the family and became a wiser person because of it.

  The Bible says, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28). That was definitely the case in my move to Nashville. When I stop to think about it, I realize that’s always been the case.

  15

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  MUSIC CITY MIRACLES

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  Focus on the journey, not the destination. Joy is found not in finishing an activity but in doing it.

  GREG ANDERSON

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  I WAS TOO HEAVY.

  Every offensive lineman wants bulk, of course. It helps to have a big body when you’re trying to slow down those behemoths on defense. But I’d played 1998 at 315 pounds, which felt like too much to me. I thought that if I dropped some weight, I’d be quicker off the snap. So I lost fifteen pounds during the offseason.

  Now that the team was finally moving into our permanent Nashville home, Adelphia Coliseum, the organization had decided to retire the Oilers name. We’d been rechristened the Tennessee Titans. I thought that the new me looked sleeker in our new navy blue and white uniforms. I figured when you look good, you feel good and you play better.

  My weight and our uniforms weren’t all that changed: We had a new attitude to match. Les Steckel, our offensive coordinator, believed that if something worked for us, we should just stay with it. We’d already had success wearing down opponents with Eddie George running the ball. Eddie had gained well over a thousand rushing yards in each of
his first three years and been named to the Pro Bowl the last two. But in our second preseason game, Les took that mindset to a new level.

  We were playing the Arizona Cardinals at Sun Devil Stadium in Tempe. Even though it was evening, the temperature was still about a hundred degrees. We were dying on the field, the sweat pouring off us. In the middle of a long drive, Les called Fifteen Bob, a weak-side zone run that meant Eddie would read the defense and choose a hole somewhere between the tackles. He made a nice gain. Les called the exact same play again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Les was making a point, both to the Cardinals and to us. This was our identity. He didn’t care if the other team knew what was coming. We were going to impose our will on other teams. The only problem was that we all felt ready to collapse from heat exhaustion.

  In the huddle after the fourth Fifteen Bob, Steve McNair had his hands over the earholes in his helmet so he could hear the next play being radioed in from Les. At the same time, Eddie, breathing hard, said to Steve, “Dude . . . throw it . . . do something else. I can’t run another one.” I thought, if he calls that play again, I’m going to keel over out here.

  While waiting for the next play call, Eddie raised his head and locked eyes with mine. The look on his face said, He wouldn’t . . . would he?

  An instant later, Steve announced the next play: “Far right. Fifteen Bob.”

  Today, whenever I see Eddie, I remind him of that moment in the huddle and we both shake our heads and laugh. It wasn’t so funny then, but Les had set the tone for the type of team we’d be that year. We weren’t going to outfox our opponents. We would do what we did best and challenge them to stop us.

  That approach seemed to work at the beginning of our season opener in Nashville. In front of sixty-five thousand brand-new NFL fans, we scored three touchdowns, kicked a field goal, and recorded a safety in the first quarter and a half to lead Cincinnati, 26–7. The crowd was into it. The Bengals weren’t going to be pushovers, however. They stormed back to take a 35–26 advantage with eight minutes left in the game.

  Maybe I’d become a fatalist after seeing us blow too many close ones in the past. I couldn’t believe we were going to lose our opening game.

  But we didn’t. Steve hit Eddie with a seventeen-yard touchdown pass, our defense held, and we moved efficiently down the field as time ran down. With eight seconds left, I snapped the ball and Al Del Greco booted a thirty-three-yard field goal to give us a 36–35 victory.

  If every game was going to be like this, Titans fans would get their money’s worth.

  The bad news that followed our victory was that Steve McNair had an inflamed disc and needed surgery. In fact, his back surgeon was the same as mine. Steve would miss the next five games. Yet, behind his replacement, veteran Neil O’Donnell, we kept rolling. Our week three opponent, the Jacksonville Jaguars, had won our division the year before and led 17–7 going into the fourth quarter. But we came back with two field goals and a touchdown to win 20–19.

  After four years at left guard, the coaches had moved me back to center for the first few games of 1999. For week five against the Baltimore Ravens, they returned me to left guard, where I stayed for the rest of the season. The Ravens had a tremendous defense that included Tony Siragusa, Rob Burnett, and my old friend Michael McCrary on the line, Ray Lewis and Peter Boulware at linebacker, and Rod Woodson at free safety. The next year, they added Sam Adams at defensive tackle to make one of the great defenses in NFL history. Every game against them felt like an epic struggle, but we prevailed in this one, 14–11.

  We went into our bye week with a 5–1 record, ready for some well-deserved relaxation. It didn’t quite turn out that way for the Matthews family, however.

  Carrie was pregnant again and due in December. On Saturday morning of our bye weekend, she went into premature labor. I took Carrie to the hospital but the staff sent us back home, saying it was too early to be in labor. She continued to have contractions during the day. After we’d gone to bed that night, she woke up, her contractions more intense than ever. She called her doctor to say she’d reached the final stage of labor, but like the hospital staff, the doctor said it was too early and that Carrie was too calm to be in labor, and that she should go back to bed.

  Carrie hung up and woke me up. “I’m having this baby,” she said. “You’ve got to get me to the hospital.”

  When we arrived, the staff tried to turn Carrie away yet again, once more saying she was too calm. “What do you want me to do, yell and scream?” Carrie said. “It’s my sixth child.” She walked past the staff members and headed for the maternity ward. When a nurse caught up, she said, “Ma’am, what are you doing?”

  “I’m having a baby,” Carrie said. “It’s coming out now.” A nurse finally took a look, then slammed an emergency button.

  Luke Jackson Matthews was born within minutes. (My admiration for Confederate general Stonewall Jackson inspired the middle name.) Luke was six pounds, one-and-a-half ounces, huge for a baby born six-and-a-half-weeks early but completely healthy. I’d wondered what I would do if our baby was born on a Sunday. Would I miss the game? The last thing I wanted was to create another “Babygate.” Since it was our bye week, however, it worked out perfectly. It had started to feel like we were getting an extra measure of blessings that year.

  The hype was heavy for our week-eight game against the unbeaten St. Louis Rams and their new quarterback, Kurt Warner. Steve McNair was back after his surgery. Some of the media said the game might be a Super Bowl preview. Our crowd was so loud that the Rams couldn’t hear Warner call signals—they were whistled eight times for false start penalties, five of those penalties by right tackle Fred Miller.

  Just as in our season opener against Cincinnati, we grabbed a quick lead and then allowed our opponent to come back. We led 21–0 after the first quarter, but when Warner threw a touchdown pass with just over two minutes left, our advantage was only 24–21. Then the Rams recovered their onside kick. They drove to our twenty-yard line, but with twenty seconds left, Jeff Wilkins’ thirty-eight-yard field goal attempt was wide right. We’d pulled out another tight victory.

  That win definitely built up our confidence. I began to think that this could be a special season. I’d been in the NFL for seventeen years and been part of only two playoff victories. I knew my chances for going deep into the postseason were running out. No Matthews had ever played in the Super Bowl. Maybe this was the year.

  Going into Baltimore in week thirteen, our record stood at 9–2. Unfortunately, the Ravens thumped us, 41–14. The only memorable moment from that game occurred after our first offensive play. The officials stopped the clock and someone announced over the stadium loudspeaker that I had just tied the record set by Jackie Slater, the great Rams tackle, for games played by an NFL offensive lineman (259). I ran to the sideline so a referee could present me with the game ball. It was a strange moment since we were in Baltimore and the fans had no love for us Titans. I remember saying, “Do we really have to do this?”

  I enjoyed being recognized the next week, however. We hosted the 6–6 Raiders. The NFL flew in Slater, who presented me with a commemorative football at midfield before the game. Since I’d spent so many years growing up in the Los Angeles area, I was very aware of Jackie’s success with the Rams when they played there. It was an honor to share that moment with him.

  I felt honored in a different way when I posed for a group of photographers. One of them said, “Hey Matthews, smile!” I suddenly realized who it was—my old Arcadia buddy, Dave Samarzich. “What the heck are you doing out here?” I said.

  Sam had dabbled in photography in high school. Since then, he’d gotten more serious about it and he decided to fly out to record my special day. After that, Sam even started shooting one or two Titans games a season and would talk to me on the sideline. Having him there when I broke the games-played record was a fun surprise. My day was complete when we knocked off the Raiders, 21–14.


  We won the last three games of the regular season as well, including a 41–14 thrashing of Jacksonville. Our final record was excellent, 13–3, but the Jaguars still won the division by going 14–2. Their only losses were the two games against us.

  It was wild card playoff time again. Our opponent was an old postseason nemesis, the Buffalo Bills. Nearly sixty-seven thousand fans jammed into sold-out Adelphia Coliseum for the first-ever Titans playoff game. The weather was cloudy and a cool forty degrees, the way I liked it. At the start, both offenses were cool as well—neither team scored in the first quarter. In fact, the first points were recorded early in the second quarter when our All-Pro rookie, defensive end Jevon Kearse, sacked Buffalo quarterback Rob Johnson in the end zone for a safety.

  We extended our lead to 12–0 at halftime on a McNair touchdown and Del Greco field goal. Sure enough, though, the Bills rallied. A pair of touchdowns, the second followed by a dropped pass on a conversion attempt, gave Buffalo a 13–12 lead with eleven minutes to go in the game. After a punt by each team, we had the ball with just over six minutes left.

  Les Steckel had shown us the plan—pound ’em with the ground game—back in that Arizona preseason game and when we needed it most, we stuck to it. After a pair of short passes and a McNair run, we handed the ball to Eddie George five straight times. Every play was either up the middle or off tackle. With two minutes left, we were on Buffalo’s sixteen-yard line. Steve lost a couple yards on third down, so it was time for a field goal. I snapped the ball and Al booted it. The kick was wobbly, but it went through. We were up, 15–13.