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  Just before we’d left Kenilworth when I was in seventh grade, I’d wrestled for a week in my physical education class. I did well and enjoyed it, though I was out of shape because I’d just gotten the cast off my leg after the football injury. But once we got back to Arcadia, I focused on other sports.

  Now that we were in Kenilworth again, where wrestling was a big deal, I decided to give it a try. I went out for the freshman team. Since Dad had encouraged me, I figured I should take advantage of his expertise and ask for some tips. On our living-room floor, he showed me some of his moves. Most of us on that team were new to the sport and I quickly saw the fruits of Dad’s instruction at practice. Wow, I thought. This stuff really works.

  The first time I ever wrestled with Bruce as a kid, I knew he had the potential to play pro football if he wanted to. “This guy’s going to be trouble someday,” I said. And he was. But if you want me to try to explain our family’s success in football, all I can say is I taught all my kids the same thing: Whatever you’re doing, don’t quit. Apply yourself. Be responsible. Show up and do it like you mean it. I expected a lot out of them and they lived up to it. I’m proud of every one of ’em.

  CLAY MATTHEWS SR.

  Those living-room lessons were a great way for the two of us to connect. No one else in our family had wrestled, so this was something that just Dad and I shared. I knew it meant a lot to me, but I didn’t realize how much it meant to him until the weekend of my first matches.

  On Friday night I defeated another freshman in my initial match in the 167-pound weight class. At the time I was five foot ten and about 165 pounds. Mom and Dad weren’t able to be there, but they did come to the next one on Saturday afternoon.

  We were at a dual meet that Saturday and the other team didn’t have a freshman in the 167-pound weight class, so I’d already won by forfeit. Our sophomore team didn’t have a 185-pound wrestler, so our opponent had already won his match by forfeit. The two coaches talked: “Hey, since these guys didn’t get a chance to wrestle, why don’t we let them square off in an exhibition?”

  Our coach asked me about it. My opponent was a year older and twenty pounds heavier, but I didn’t hesitate. “Sure,” I said, “I’ll do it.” After my victory the night before, I was feeling pretty good about myself. After one match, I’d already developed some ego over my wrestling ability. I thought, Hey, I’m 1–0. I’ll take on all comers.

  Then I saw who I was up against. The guy was blond, huge, and ripped. He looked like Ivan Drago, Dolph Lundgren’s character in Rocky IV. I was afraid he might take my head off.

  My fears were well founded. Once the match started, this guy dominated me. Early in the second period, he was ahead of me 13–0. I didn’t know many moves and was on my back most of the time, but I wasn’t going to just give in and let the guy pin me. “Ivan” was frustrated because he couldn’t finish me off.

  He got so frustrated that midway through the second period, he lifted me off the mat and body-slammed me onto my shoulder. The referee blew his whistle, calling a time-out and awarding me my first point—a penalty against my opponent.

  This was ugly. I couldn’t help thinking, What am I doing out here?

  My coach came over to talk to me during the time-out. “Hey Bruce, you all right?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” I said, breathing hard. “I’m all right.”

  “Hey,” he said, “if you say you can’t go on, they’ll end the match and you’ll be awarded the win.”

  For a split second, I actually considered it. Then I shook my head. No matter how good that sounds, you can’t quit.

  The match continued. I didn’t know it at the time, but my parents were dying in the bleachers. Mom was crying and Dad was thinking, Oh no, what have I gotten him into?

  One of the great things about my foray into wrestling was my conversations with Dad. I told him about the pit in my stomach and the feeling of dread I had before every match, which always intensified, since I was always one of the last people to wrestle. I’d think, Man, I want to be anywhere but here right now. I would be nervous and anxious before football games too, even when I was forty years old, but nothing like what I experienced as a kid in wrestling.

  Dad agreed with me. “The only thing worse than waiting to begin a wrestling match,” he said, “is waiting to go into the ring to box. Those guys are trying to knock you out.” I saw his point.

  On the other hand, one of the greatest feelings in all of sports is that moment when you scrape and struggle to pin your opponent’s shoulders against the mat and the referee slams his palm down with a thwack that echoes throughout the gym, signifying the end of the match. Suddenly, all the tension is released, replaced by an indescribable mix of exhilaration and relief.

  I was expecting to be on the wrong end of that sound in my match against Ivan. It seemed just a matter of time. Then, no doubt because of his mounting frustration, my bigger and more talented opponent made a mistake. I was on all fours and he was on top of me, trying yet another maneuver to get me on my back. I felt his weight shift and realized he’d moved too high—that is, his center of gravity was too far forward. Without pausing to think about it, I reached back with my left arm, grabbed him somewhere, and flipped him. Suddenly, he was on his back and I was on top, squeezing his shoulders down as hard as I could.

  Thwack!

  The crowd let out a roar. I was in disbelief as the referee raised my arm, signifying that I’d won.

  In the bleachers, Mom was smiling through her tears, while Dad had tears in his own eyes. He later told me he almost ran onto the mat to celebrate with me, something he would never do. When I greeted my parents a minute later, Dad said, “Bruce, that was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen.” Considering all that my dad had seen and done, it was quite a statement. The proud look on his face was one I’ll never forget.

  Only now, as a father, do I understand how emotional it must have been for my parents to watch their son getting whipped, and see him suddenly turn disaster into triumph. Nothing hurts more than seeing your children struggle, and nothing is more rewarding than seeing them succeed. Even today, I get choked up when I think about that day.

  Dad and I continued our living-room lessons for the rest of the season. I’d come home from practice and we’d start messing around, Dad still wearing his suit pants, when he’d throw in a wrestling move I’d never seen before. “Dang,” I’d say, “what is that?”

  “That’s an arm bar,” he’d say. “It’s a defensive move that can lead to a reversal. Here, I’ll show you.” And, pretty soon, I’d have another maneuver to add to my repertoire. Likewise, if I was having trouble with a certain opponent or move, he was able to demonstrate the perfect solution. He was my secret weapon.

  I improved rapidly and finally began beating the teammate in my weight class. I finished the season with more wins than losses. But what I remember and cherish most from that season is the time I shared with my dad. It was when I began to truly understand how much he cared about me and our whole family. I’ll take those memories over a victory on the mat every time.

  Despite my athletic success, I struggled—again—with adjusting to life in Illinois. I remember being miserable during summer football practices and thinking, I can’t believe it. It’s happening just like last time. School was a grind once more. To my surprise, I was again depressed.

  Mom seemed to be even worse off. Like before, she regularly withdrew to her room. After a few months, I reached a point where I felt like I’d turned a corner and might be able to stick it out. But that never happened for Mom. It wasn’t that her depression had vanished when we were in California, but she was again having a much tougher time in Illinois.

  Dad was fully occupied running Bell & Howell, yet he was also watching his family. He didn’t like what he saw.

  It must have been the spring of 1976 when Dad gathered us together and said, “I’m going to step down from Bell & Howell and figure something else out. We’re going back to Cal
ifornia.” It couldn’t have been an easy decision for him. He’d been named company president only a few months before. He was at the peak of his profession. But just as he did at the office, he acknowledged and identified the problem at home and was ready to show all of us where his priorities were. We moved back to Arcadia.

  Dad says now that “it was no big deal,” that he did it because “I loved my wife and family.” But I know it was a big deal. I respect and admire him so much for making that choice. I appreciated it at the time, but as a husband and parent today I’m even more impressed. For so many men, our identities are wrapped up in our professions. They’re how we tend to define ourselves. Dad had worked hard to achieve that top spot at Bell & Howell, yet he was willing to give it up so we would be in a better place physically and emotionally. With his actions, he was saying, “I’m willing to sacrifice and do whatever it takes to make sure my wife and children are taken care of, not just financially but emotionally. Family comes first.”

  In one sense, my father is a little like Coach K. You could call him crusty and old school. He carries himself like the tough guy that he is. But you know that on the inside, he has a soft spot for the people he loves.

  Every day, I’m proud to call this man Dad.

  5

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  SIBLING LESSONS

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  There can be no companion better than a brother and no friend better than a sister.

  AUTHOR UNKNOWN

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  MY DAD TAUGHT ME A lot while I was growing up, as did my mom. But my parents weren’t the only teachers in the Matthews household. In his or her own way, each of my siblings had a profound influence on my life.

  Dad was my hero in the family, but Bruz was my role model, the guy I most wanted to be like. Bruz brought out my competitive spirit in our numerous battles against each other. But more than that, he showed me the dedication and discipline required to achieve success at the highest levels.

  Since Bruz was the son of an NFL player and had such a great career, some people probably assumed that he was a natural or that his football accomplishments came easy. That simply wasn’t so. Bruz was a late bloomer physically. He weighed 150 pounds in ninth grade and, at first glance, probably didn’t lead anyone to believe that he was a future NFL star. But he more than made up for that with preparation and drive.

  Long before year-round workouts became the rage, Bruz was doing them. He had a strict regimen. Nearly every day after school, he’d hop on his 125cc Suzuki motorcycle and ride to the Pasadena YMCA to lift weights. He ran sprints or distances most days at school too. The workouts paid dividends—he quickly got faster, bigger, and stronger. He was dedicated and willing to do whatever it took to be a great player. Since I was watching everything my brother did and wanted to imitate him, I began to understand what was required if I wanted to be great too.

  When Bruz was a sophomore, he played middle linebacker for Arcadia’s JV football team and was named MVP. He played for the varsity in his junior year, then came our first move to Illinois. I can’t help wondering what ran through the New Trier East football coach’s mind when my dad first introduced Bruz to him and the coach began to realize the gift he’d just been presented. I had a blast watching Bruz star at middle linebacker and running back his senior season. The team went undefeated, won the Suburban League title, and was named state champion. Even better from my perspective, Bruz was named a high school All-American.

  My brother signed a letter of intent to go to Georgia Tech, Dad’s alma mater, after forging a bond with defensive coordinator Maxie Baughan. But when Georgia Tech fired its coaching staff, Bruz reconsidered. Not long after, he got an invitation to visit the University of Southern California. The USC campus was only twenty-five minutes from our house in Arcadia, so it felt like home. Soon, Bruz was officially a Trojan.

  Naturally, my brother had a great career at USC. He played regularly as a freshman while the team won the Rose Bowl and national title. At the end of his senior season, he was named a college football All-American. As always, I loved watching his games, this time at the mammoth Memorial Coliseum. The pros were watching too. In 1978 the Cleveland Browns made Clay Matthews the twelfth pick of the NFL draft.

  On the one hand, it was hard to believe that the funny wise guy who liked to read comic books and talk smack with me was now a professional football player. But on the other hand, it seemed almost inevitable. Bruz had filled out at six foot two and 245 pounds when he joined the Browns. But the bigger factor was that once Bruz set a goal, he would not be denied the ability to reach it. He was just as dedicated as a student in high school and at USC, where he was an academic All-American in business administration. Today, he’s still dedicated to being the best husband to Leslie, and father to Jennifer, Kyle, Brian, Clay III, and Casey, that he can be. His example drove me to be a better player and person.

  I lived near Bruz in the Los Angeles area for the rest of my high school years, four years of college, and first eight years as a pro during the football off-season, which offered multiple benefits. It allowed us to continue our rivalry in every sport and activity we could imagine. That mutual and powerful will to win almost turned into disaster in the weeks after my brother’s rookie year with the Browns. I’ve already mentioned that during the hundreds of basketball games we played against each other while growing up, I’d never beaten Bruz. Not even once. You can imagine how badly I wanted to end that streak.

  We were playing another game of one-on-one at an elementary school. Bruz had finished his first year with the Browns and I was a high school senior. At this point, I was bigger than my brother at six feet five inches and 250 pounds. I used my height and weight to my advantage and was almost shocked to realize that I was winning the game, 8–3. Since we always played to ten, I needed only two more buckets to achieve a lifetime goal. Oh, my gosh, I thought, I’m finally going to beat him.

  Then we both jumped for a rebound. I landed first. Bruz landed on my foot and slipped off. He began hollering and jumping around on one leg, obviously in pain. He’d rolled his ankle, one he’d already had problems with during the football season.

  Horrible thoughts immediately ran through my mind. I was afraid I’d caused an injury that would force my brother to miss the next season—or worse, that the damage to his ankle might be permanent. What have I done? I don’t want to win that bad. Bruz’s wife, Leslie, was there too. I could see by the look on her face that she had the same awful fears.

  It turned out my brother was more worried about his streak against me than his ankle. When the pain subsided after a few minutes, his first words were, “It was only 8–3, so that’s not an official win.” Once he said that, I knew he’d be all right.

  For the record, I did defeat him in basketball soon after that day and have won the majority of our games since.

  I loved the fact that, as I got older, I could still keep on competing against my brother. The greatest benefit to having Bruz live close by, however, was to my playing career. We worked out together some when I was in high school and college. Then, after I reached the NFL in 1983, we worked out together four days a week during the off-season. This was before most players trained year-round. Those sessions with Bruz were great. He pushed me to improve in running and endurance and I was able to push him to try to match me on the weights. When you’re training with someone you aspire to be like, you don’t let up. It gave me a mental edge going into each season. I was confident because I knew I’d done the hard work to get in shape. I also enjoyed relating to Bruz as a peer. He’d been my big brother for so long, and still was, but now I felt more like an equal.

  A highlight of every NFL season was the two games we played against the Browns, and watching film of my brother before each contest. We’d phone each other on Wednesday or Thursday night of those weeks and talk about what we’d seen on film or whatever was on our minds. We weren’
t giving out tips—we both already knew about our mistakes. It was more about pointing out the good plays. I’d notice how smart he played and how much leverage he gained against his opponents. Bruz had an unorthodox but highly effective style. He had a way of dropping his hips to generate tremendous power. Meanwhile, he’d tell me, “You’re too boring, man. It looks too easy for you, like you’re not even trying.” It was his way of complimenting me.

  There’s a lot of frustration that comes with being a professional athlete, especially when you’re motivated to be the best. I could always talk about that with Bruce during those in-season calls, really about everything from performance to injuries to just letting off steam. If I had an issue, we wouldn’t always find the answer, but Bruce always understood what I was going through. It was like having a built-in therapist you trusted.

  CLAY MATTHEWS JR.

  My brother was the best linebacker I ever played against, an All-Pro, a guy I believe deserves to be in the NFL Hall of Fame. But Bruz didn’t become a great player by accident. It was his consistent commitment to developing his abilities over years of training that made him a star. He was determined to achieve excellence. I know that so much of the credit for any success I’ve achieved in football, as well as in life, has to go to him. I just tried to follow his example.

  My other brothers, Brad and Raymond, were identical twins, with blond hair and green eyes. They were born two years before me. They were also both born with an intellectual disability. For my brothers, it essentially meant they didn’t learn as easily or quickly as most people. As my dad has put it, they weren’t handicapped, they just didn’t have the same mental horsepower.

  My parents said early on that Brad and Ray would be treated the same as the rest of us kids, which was one of their wisest decisions. The twins had the same chores and faced the same standards. They went to public schools with us, though they were enrolled in special-education classes.