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  The Bills would not die. A thirty-three-yard kickoff return put them on their own thirty-nine-yard line. Passing and running out of a shotgun formation, Rob Johnson moved them down the field in a hurry. I watched from the sideline, my frustration mounting.

  Are you kidding me? After all we’ve been through—the lame-duck year in Houston, those tough two years in Tennessee, the way everything’s turned around this season—after all that, we’re going to lose this one?

  From our thirty-two-yard line, Johnson—playing with only one shoe since the other had come off the play before—completed a nine-yard pass to Peerless Price, who was pushed out of bounds. With twenty seconds left, the Bills had a first down on our twenty-three-yard line.

  Kicker Steve Christie walked onto the field for a field goal attempt. They could have run more time off the clock, but I’m guessing they wanted to leave time for a second try if something went wrong. Christie’s forty-one-yard kick went between the uprights. Buffalo took back the lead, 16–15.

  Sixteen seconds left.

  Every Saturday, one of the last things we did at practice was run a trick play called Home Run Throwback. It was designed by special-teams coordinator Alan Lowry for kickoff returns. I wasn’t involved, so I wasn’t that familiar with it. It was a desperation play, made even more desperate this day since the guy who usually practiced it and was supposed to end up with the ball, Derrick Mason, had gotten injured earlier in the game.

  Our season depended on this play. Basically, we were as good as dead.

  I stood on the sideline, thoroughly disgusted about the situation and powerless to do anything but watch. Christie kicked off, a shorter-than-usual kick caught by Lorenzo Neal on our twenty-four-yard line in the middle of the field. Neal took a couple steps to the right, but he wasn’t supposed to have the ball on Home Run Throwback, so he handed it to tight end Frank Wycheck. Frank took a couple more steps to the right. With Bills linebacker Sam Rogers diving at him, Wycheck turned and threw the ball across the field to wide receiver Kevin Dyson with what was supposed to be a lateral.

  Dyson was on the Titans’ side of the field. On the sideline, I stood only a few feet away when he caught Wycheck’s throw. Huh, I thought. I can’t believe this has worked so far.

  I looked down field and saw nearly all blue jerseys ahead of Dyson—there were few Bills players in position to tackle him. Dyson sprinted down the sideline. All of a sudden it sank in—he’s going to score!

  Dyson raced untouched into the end zone and the crowd went crazy.

  I wasn’t ready to celebrate yet. I thought, There’s got to be a flag. Though I’d been close to Dyson when he caught Wycheck’s toss, I didn’t have the angle to know if it had been a lateral or an illegal forward pass. I knew it was close.

  The referees knew it too. They huddled for a review on instant replay.

  The seconds ticked off. It began to feel like hours. I stood on the field with my helmet on, ready to snap for the extra point and waiting along with everyone else in the stadium in agonizing anticipation. The longer the review went, though, the more hopeful I became. These guys probably realize an angry mob’s going to grab them if they rule against us. It can’t go against us.

  Nearly four minutes after the score, referee Phil Luckett walked onto the field and made the announcement: “The play stands. It was a lateral.” He raised his hands over his head: “Touchdown.” The crowd erupted in a full-throated roar.

  It’s known as the Music City Miracle. It was amazing.

  A minute later, I ran to the locker room, thinking about the heartbreak of the Comeback all those years before. I was the only player left on the team from that nightmare. A film crew recorded me saying, “Man, this is better than the ’92 game. Thirty-five to three? Forget it!” All the disgust and disappointment from that loss had finally been washed away. It was an awesome feeling.

  Our next opponent was the Indianapolis Colts, led by second-year quarterback Peyton Manning. The first half was a battle of field goals. They led us 9–6 at intermission. But early in the third quarter, Eddie George busted loose on a sixty-eight-yard touchdown run and we held on to win 19–16.

  After the game, with all the players gathered around in the locker room, Jeff Fisher addressed us: “Hey, we’ve got a guy here who’s never been this far in the playoffs, who’s been here through all the bad years. I want to present him with this game ball.” Jeff handed the ball to me and everyone cheered and whistled. I got a little choked up over that one.

  The AFC Championship was played in Jacksonville. The Jaguars beat everybody they played that season—except us. Even though they were up on us at halftime, 14–7, I had the sense that we were more confident than they were, that we knew we would win. In the third quarter, we found our groove. After a touchdown and field goal, Josh Evans and Jason Fisk took down Jacksonville quarterback Mark Brunell in the end zone for a safety. On the next play, Derrick Mason ran back the Jaguars’ kick eighty yards for a touchdown.

  Oh, my gosh, I thought, we’re going to the Super Bowl. So many times I’d watched other players at this moment and wondered what the feeling would be like. Now, as I looked at Munch and other buddies on the team, I knew. It was great.

  The final score was 33–14. We flew back to Nashville that night and met a crowd of more than forty thousand happy fans at Adelphia Coliseum. It turned into a pep rally. I even addressed the crowd, which was out of character for me: “They said when there were sixteen seconds left in the Music City Miracle that we were finished. And we showed ’em!” The crowd roared. “Then they said we couldn’t beat that Peyton guy up in Indianapolis. But we took care of business.” The crowd erupted again.

  “And then they said we couldn’t beat the Jaguars three times in one year. Now they’re saying we can’t beat the Rams in the Super Bowl after we whipped them in week eight? Are you kidding me?”

  I was channeling my inner Hulk Hogan. The fans loved it. My only regret was that my family wasn’t with me to share the moment—after the Buffalo game, I’d put them all on a flight back to Houston, so the kids could start school there. They’d missed the last two victories.

  But there was no doubt they’d be there for the next game. At last, we were going to the big dance.

  Super Bowl week was a blur. This was one of the few times when the NFL scheduled only a week between the conference title games and the championship, rather than the usual two weeks. Between the travel to Atlanta, meetings, practices, and media obligations, it wasn’t enough.

  I do remember a few highlights. During media day, I had the chance to talk about my faith in a handful of interviews. On Thursday, the NFL put on a welcome party for players’ families. It was Mikey’s sixth birthday, so the band played “Happy Birthday” for him.

  There was also the day when I drove a few of my teammates back to our hotel after a meal. I decided we needed to create a little competition, so I made everyone take their shirts off and roll their windows down. The winner would be the one who kept his window down the longest. Atlanta was covered with ice at the time, with temperatures in the teens, so the weather was definitely bracing. Since I was driving, however, I had the advantage of being able to turn on the heat for my part of the car. I believe I won that contest.

  The contest I really wanted to win, of course, was the Super Bowl. We were confident going into the game, but in the first half we didn’t show what we were capable of. The Rams gained nearly three hundred yards to our eighty-nine. We were fortunate to be down only 9–0.

  In the locker room at intermission, Les Steckel reminded us what we were about. “Look, we’ve been trying to be too cute, too fancy,” he said. “We’re going to come out running the ball. We’re going to pound ’em.”

  We didn’t start out in the second half any better than the first. On our opening drive we had a field goal blocked. Then St. Louis drove to a score on a Warner touchdown pass to Torry Holt. We trailed 16–0.

  But then Les’s strategy started to pay off. With Steve a
nd Eddie alternating on runs, we ground down the field. Eddie scored on a one-yard rush and the lead was cut to 16–6. In the fourth quarter, we did it again, this time alternating rushes by Eddie with short passes from Steve. Eddie scored another touchdown and we trailed only 16–13.

  When our defense held, we got the ball back and kicked a field goal. With 2:12 left to play the game was tied.

  But it took only one play for the Rams to erase our momentum. On first down after the kickoff, Warner launched a rainbow pass to Isaac Bruce, who cut back to catch the ball and eluded two of our defenders. He went all the way to the end zone, a seventy-three-yard touchdown. We were down again, 23–16.

  After the kickoff and a penalty against us, we had the ball on our twelve-yard line. The clock showed 1:48. After the intensity of the playoffs, the week before the Super Bowl, and the game itself, I was exhausted—more tired than I’d ever been on a football field. Yet I could see and feel that the Rams defense was in even worse shape. We’d been hammering them with one rush after another. They were done.

  We’re going to find a way, I thought. We’re going to get this thing to overtime and we’re going to win it.

  With the help of a couple of big scrambles by Steve and a face mask penalty, we marched into St. Louis territory. Rams players were so wiped out that they walked off the field. Dick Vermeil, the St. Louis coach, couldn’t believe it, saying “You’re taking yourself out of the game with twenty-six seconds to go?”

  From the St. Louis twenty-six-yard line, Steve made an incredible play, escaping a near tackle by Kevin Carter and Jay Williams and passing to Kevin Dyson. We called a time-out. With six seconds left, we had the ball on the Rams’ ten-yard line.

  Time for one last play.

  Yeah, I thought, this is why we went through all those tough years. It all pointed to and prepared us for this opportunity, this moment.

  The play call was a pass. The man I needed to block, Jeff Zgonina, wasn’t normally a pass rusher, but he was fresh off the bench. Usually, I would back up into pass protection, but knowing how dog-tired I was and that he would have more energy, I went after him from the snap of the ball, almost like it was a run block.

  In the last game of the regular season, we’d scored a touchdown against Pittsburgh with the same play, a pass to Frank Wycheck in the end zone. This time Frank released from the line of scrimmage and Rams linebacker Mike Jones went with him. That left the middle of the field open for Kevin Dyson, who was running a slant from the right. Steve read it and made the pass to Kevin.

  But Jones anticipated what was happening. As the pass was being thrown, he broke away from Frank toward Dyson. Kevin caught the ball inside the five-yard line and flashed toward the end zone, but Jones got his hands around Kevin’s waist. As Kevin was going down, he stretched out his arm and the football toward the goal line. He was a few inches short.

  It was right in front of me. I saw Dyson tackled, saw him stretch out his arm, saw that he didn’t make it. One Yard Short, as the play is now known. I knew the game was over. I walked right past Kevin on the ground, through the end zone, and into the tunnel to the locker room. I didn’t look back.

  Man. What a letdown.

  As disappointed as I was, though, I quickly realized that I wasn’t as devastated as I expected to be. I had given everything I had, as had my teammates. I was proud of our effort and our team. I felt less like we’d lost and more like we’d just run out of time. What’s more, it had been a fantastic season. We’d hung together through our wilderness years and forged a bond and a toughness because of them. We’d been behind in every single playoff game, as well as in the Super Bowl, and come back each time. This team did not quit.

  I suddenly felt blessed to be part of it all. So often in sports and in life, the pursuit—the hunt—is actually more gratifying than the reward. Mike Jones later said as much: “The Super Bowl was the icing on the cake, but it’s always the journey. Not necessarily when you get there, but the journey getting to the Super Bowl is the best part about it.”

  We might not have pulled off the miracle comeback this time, but I’d enjoyed every minute of the ride. I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.

  16

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  GAME OVER

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  Of all the stratagems, to know when to quit is the best.

  CHINESE PROVERB

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  I WAS FIRED UP ABOUT the 2000 season. We had a great team and had just come as close as you can come without winning it all. I felt we were ready to close the deal.

  Yes, I was thirty-nine years old. If I were a doctor or lawyer I’d be just entering my prime years, but when you’re playing football at thirty-nine they start measuring you for a rocking chair. Yet I felt great. I’d thought about retirement but saw no reason to stop now. When I reported to training camp, I briefly wondered if I still had the skills and desire to get the job done. But once I got in the locker room and onto the practice field with the guys, I felt like I was twenty-one again, just like every season. I had a new crop of rookies to introduce to my dumb jokes and smack talk. I still felt I belonged.

  Even though I was one of the old guys, I kept my youthful outlook by continuing to find ways to keep the game fun. In my early years with the Oilers, I enjoyed a touch football game I played with the offensive linemen on Mondays to work out the soreness from the game the day before. I also organized and sometimes invented games for my teammates: Helmet Master (borrowed from our quarterbacks), which involved setting down two helmets ten yards apart and tossing a football at them for points; Monkey in the Middle, essentially with a football; and the aforementioned Punt Master. In my quest to always triumph over my fellow Titans, I was sometimes accused of altering the rules to help my cause—don’t ask me why.

  My homemade competitions extended to the locker room (Ball Master) and weight room, though I’m not sure why I bothered on the weights. I wasn’t strong enough to beat Munch and several of the others.

  We started that season with a 16–13 loss to Buffalo—the Bills and their crowd were fired up for revenge after the Music City Miracle. The next game in Kansas City was miserable, eighty degrees, and incredibly humid. During warmups, center Kevin Long had to get a gash on his arm treated in the locker room, so I did all the pregame snaps. I was worn out before the game even started. Before every down I told myself, “All right, one more play, then you can take yourself out.” I never did come out, but my body was definitely complaining.

  We beat the Chiefs 17–14 and were 3–1 when we traveled to Cincinnati to play the Bengals. By this time I had a couple of streaks going—201 consecutive regular-season starts and seventeen-plus years, my entire career, without missing a game due to injury. Both of those achievements had been in jeopardy three years prior, however. Early in a game at Pittsburgh, a defensive end fell against my left knee. I thought I was okay, but when I broke out of our next huddle, I realized something was wrong. I had to leave the game.

  I had a second-degree strain of my medial collateral ligament (MCL). I took a lot of pride in those streaks, but it appeared they were over. Everyone assumed I would miss the next game at Seattle. Still, I hadn’t quite given up hope. Maybe it’ll get better. Maybe there’s still a chance.

  My knee was a little better on that Wednesday. By Friday, it actually felt pretty good. Since college I’d always worn knee braces, but the staff now provided me with a new one, which offered even more support. I was getting more optimistic. Jeff Fisher called me into his office and said, “Look, don’t feel bad if your streak is over.”

  “Jeff, if I can’t play up to my abilities, I won’t play,” I said. “But if it still feels the way it does now, I’d like to give it a try.” I was a little apprehensive during Sunday warmups, but I did go the whole way against the Seahawks and played a decent game.

  In the 2000 game in Cincinnati, it happened to me again, this t
ime to the right knee. The diagnosis was the same, a second-degree MCL strain. But this time I knew I’d be able to play on it. In fact, the following week against Jacksonville was one of my better games. We beat the Jaguars, 27–13, to go 5–1.

  Our winning streak stretched to eight, including a 14–6 triumph at Baltimore. The only score in the second half of that game was by our linebacker, Randall Godfrey, on an interception he returned for a touchdown. But when we hosted the Ravens in November they got us back, scoring on a touchdown pass with twenty-five seconds left to win 24–23. It was the first time we’d lost in Adelphia Coliseum.

  The Jaguars also slipped by us in our second game with them, 16–13, but we finished the season strong, winning our last four. The final two games were shutouts, including a 31–0 thrashing of the Cowboys in the finale on Christmas night. Our defense was outstanding.

  Jeff tried to give me a special moment in that Dallas game. In all the years I’d played football in high school, college, and the pros, I’d never scored a point. Jeff’s plan if we got into the red zone (twenty yards from the Cowboys’ goal line) was for me to line up at tight end and run a route into the back of the end zone.

  He’d actually tried once before, in 1995 against Kansas City. The idea then was that after we scored a touchdown, I’d line up at center in a swinging-gate formation, where just the holder, kicker Rich Camarillo, and I were on the right side of the field. I’d snap the ball, take a couple steps into the end zone, turn around, and catch a two-point conversion pass from Rich. When Jeff told me about it, I thought, Let’s just kick the point after touchdown. Or let’s run the ball. I don’t need this stress in my life. I appreciated what Jeff was doing, but my mentality—which is true of most offensive linemen—was that I didn’t need to be the center of attention. I just wanted to quietly do my job well.