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      Tiger Woods and Another Terrible Turn of Fate

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      #masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }Tiger Woods’s Car CrashWill He Play Again?Sheriff Expects No ChargesGolf Without WoodsA Terrible Turn of FateCareer Highs and LowsAdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storySports of the TimesTiger Woods and Another Terrible Turn of FateIt is easy to cling to memories of Tiger Woods at his peaks, but his vulnerability tells as much, if not more, about his powerful hold on sport and culture.Tiger Woods at Augusta National Golf Club in 2019, when he won his fifth Masters title and his 15th major championship.Credit…Doug Mills/The New York TimesFeb. 25, 2021Updated 8:08 a.m. ETThe sight of his demolished S.U.V., sitting forlornly on a grassy Southern California hillside, belied the image of Tiger Woods as an invincible force marching across the golf course to certain, thrilling triumph.That was not always the case, and lately his victories have been far from commanding. But so much is embodied in Tiger. And in this period of pandemic and relentless loss, we struggle to confront visions of a crumpled vehicle, of him lying in a hospital bed, of leg bones shattered and questions about whether he will play again — while still dissecting who he is and what he has wrought.What happened to the sterling athlete who so many expected to reshape the game of golf and even, perhaps, the broader culture?Woods’s greatness, once seemingly preordained, has been dimmed over the past dozen years by stunning falls from grace and by betrayal from his body.But many of us still cling to him, even if it means grasping at shards of memory. We remember the prodigy who burst into view on the nationally televised “Mike Douglas Show,” hitting putts at age 2.We remember his Stanford years and the Masters of 1997, the first of 15 major titles, won in history-making fashion at age 21.When you think of Woods, what comes to mind?After his first Masters victory in 1997, Woods received his green jacket from Nick Faldo, the previous year’s winner.Credit…Amy Sancetta/Associated PressIs he the superstar who lived for toppling records? Who grew up with his eyes fixed on breaking Jack Nicklaus’s record of 18 major championships? Recall that there was a time when this seemed like an audacious, even arrogant, goal. Then he set about the chase, quickly drawing oh-so-near to Nicklaus, major after major. Is he the golfer whose very presence in a largely segregated, upper-crust sport was not only startling, but also a harbinger of the issues that frame our world today?With his shimmering brown skin, his power and confidence, Woods blew down the doors of the all-white country clubs. Remember the snide and easy way in which the golf veteran Fuzzy Zoeller referred to Woods as “that little boy”? Or Zoeller’s publicly urging Woods not to put fried chicken and collard greens on the menu of the Masters’ champions dinner?That was the golf culture Woods strode into, and took over, as the world watched.But how did he see himself? Here things get tricky. Raised in predominantly white suburbs by a mother from Thailand and an African-American father, Woods was one of the first major sports figures to openly embrace the idea that he represented multiplicity. “Growing up,” he told Oprah Winfrey shortly after that first Masters win, “I came up with this name: I’m a Cablinasian.”In a world that struggles to go beyond placing race in tidy boxes, that comment alienated some of his most ardent supporters. But if he was chided for seeming to keep his Blackness at a distance, it didn’t dent his popularity. No matter how Woods defined himself, he was imbued with a certain power. Forever the trailblazer and talisman. He put a torch to the old order. That was enough.Then came 2009, and a troubling descent. It began with tabloid tales of the married Woods engaging in serial infidelity. Eventually his deepest flaws were exposed: his illicit texts, his trysts, his trips to rehab as he battled addiction.Woods frustrated at a tournament in 2018.Credit…Sam Hodgson for The New York TimesWoods was among the first transcendent sports stars to emerge at the dawn of the digital age. His aura, his race, his swagger and shotmaking, the club twirls and fist bumps and miracle shots — all of it was perfectly suited for YouTube and the rise of sports apps that feast on fleeting moments and sensational emotion.The digital age also magnified his troubles. Each imperfection was there to see, personal and professional. For much of a decade, as the advancing years wreaked havoc on his body and the surgeries piled up, Woods was a shadow of his former self. Heading into 2019, he had not won a major tournament in nearly 11 years.Yet Woods somehow remained swaddled in Teflon. The revelation of his human frailties cost him plenty of fans and endorsements. But a significant portion of his admirers forgave and forgot. The continued embrace was a willful act by a public all too eager to dole out second and third chances to a winner. Especially a winner like Woods.He continued to be a top draw, a global icon, even as he grimaced through season after season, age and injury taking an ever-steeper toll. At one point, he was ranked 1,119th in the world. But then came April 2019, and the Masters. Summoning every remnant of his former self, he surged to victory, legions celebrating his fifth champion’s green jacket.Nobody who watched that tournament will forget it. Not just the stirring comeback, but the sight of Woods wrapping his son, Charlie, and his daughter, Sam, in his arms as he walked from the final green. It called to mind the embrace given by Woods’s father, Earl, after the Masters win in 1997. It spoke, too, of poignant change in the face of time. Woods was no longer the soaring young champion, but he could still reach the highest peaks, if only in short bursts.Woods after winning the 2019 Masters, his first major victory in over a decade. Credit…Doug Mills/The New York TimesApril 2019 feels so long ago, given all that the world has gone through this past year.And now this. On Tuesday we saw the remains of that S.U.V. and waited for the updates. We shuddered, remembering Kobe Bryant’s helicopter, strewn across another Southern California hillside just over a year ago.We listened as a sheriff and his deputies described the wreckage, explaining that Woods was lucky to be alive and that drugs and alcohol did not appear to be involved. They said he had been pried from his vehicle and carried off on a stretcher.“Unfortunately,” said one of them, “Mr. Woods was not able to stand on his own power.”How could such a circumstance befall Tiger Woods, who strode across majestic golf courses with so much purpose? It was a reminder, once again, that heroes are human, full of weakness, unable to dodge the terrible twists of fate that stalk us all.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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      Jaguars' Hiring of Chris Doyle Called 'Unacceptable' by Fritz Pollard Alliance

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      AdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyDiversity Group Calls Jaguars’ Hiring of Assistant Coach ‘Simply Unacceptable’The Fritz Pollard Alliance criticized the addition of Chris Doyle, who was accused of mistreatment of Black players at the University of Iowa, to Urban Meyer’s staff in Jacksonville.Chris Doyle in 2018 at the University of Iowa, where he was the football team’s strength and conditioning coach.Credit…Charlie Neibergall/Associated PressFeb. 12, 2021Updated 9:36 p.m. ETAn organization that promotes diversity in the N.F.L. on Friday criticized the Jacksonville Jaguars’ recent hiring of Chris Doyle, who left the University of Iowa’s football staff last year after a number of current and former Hawkeyes players said he had fostered a culture of bullying and racism.A statement from the Fritz Pollard Alliance, which is named for the first Black head coach in the N.F.L., said the Jaguars’ decision to make Doyle their director of sports performance was “simply unacceptable.”“Doyle’s departure from the University of Iowa reflected a tenure riddled with poor judgment and mistreatment of Black players,” Rod Graves, the executive director of the Fritz Pollard Alliance, said in the statement. “His conduct should be as disqualifying for the N.F.L. as it was for University of Iowa.”Doyle, who was Iowa’s strength and conditioning coach, reached a separation agreement with the university in June, ending two decades of work there.The Jaguars announced on Thursday that Doyle had joined the staff of Urban Meyer, who was named Jacksonville’s head coach last month. Meyer, who won two college national championships as the head coach at Florida and one at Ohio State, has not coached since 2018 and has never worked in the N.F.L. before.The hiring of Doyle, who is white, comes at a time of intense scrutiny of the N.F.L.’s hiring practices and questions about whether minority candidates for coaching jobs have equal opportunities to be hired.“I’ve known Chris for close to 20 years,” Meyer said on Thursday when questioned about hiring someone who had been accused of mistreating Black athletes. Doyle was the strength coach at the University of Utah in the late 1990s, a few years before Meyer was hired as the head coach there.“Urban Meyer’s statement, ‘I’ve known Chris for close to 20 years,’ reflects the good ol’ boy network that is precisely the reason there is such a disparity in employment opportunities for Black coaches,” Graves said in the statement.Neither the N.F.L. nor the Jaguars responded to a request for comment on the Fritz Pollard Alliance’s statement.During a news conference last week, N.F.L. Commissioner Roger Goodell said that he was not satisfied with the rate at which coaches of color have been hired in the N.F.L., which has 32 teams.“It wasn’t what we expected,” he said of the diversity in the round of hirings after the 2020 season, “and it’s not what we expect going forward.”Of the seven head coaches hired since the end of the regular season, just two were nonwhite. Last year one of five head coaching jobs went to a minority candidate, and the year before just one in eight.Over the last three years 80 percent of head coaching jobs have gone to white candidates, though players of color made up 69.4 percent of the N.F.L. this season, according to the Institute for Diversity and Ethics in Sport.After the Jaguars hired Meyer and General Manager Trent Baalke, who are both white, last month, Graves praised the organization for interviewing several minority candidates and for seeking input from the Fritz Pollard Alliance.“I cannot argue that the process didn’t meet the standard of fair, open and competitive,” Graves told The Florida Times-Union.The hiring of Doyle, however, raised issues beyond the N.F.L.’s commitment to diverse hiring.Before Doyle left Iowa, Emmanuel Rugamba, a former Hawkeyes defensive back, gave multiple examples of the coach demeaning players with negative racial stereotypes. Rugamba said in a tweet that one day after a Black player walked away from Doyle, the coach said, “Why you walking wit all that swagger I’ll put you back on the streets.”James Daniels, a Chicago Bears offensive lineman and a former Hawkeye, tweeted over the summer: “There are too many racial disparities in the Iowa football program. Black players have been treated unfairly for far too long.”Doyle also presided over an off-season workout in 2011 that resulted in the hospitalization of 13 players.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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      At the Super Bowl, the N.F.L.’s Social Message Is Muddled

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      #masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }Super Bowl 2021N.F.L.’s Most Challenging YearGame HighlightsThe CommercialsHalftime ShowWhat We LearnedAdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyOn Pro FootballAt the Super Bowl, the N.F.L.’s Social Message Is MuddledThe N.F.L. espoused racial unity and praised health care workers. But its inaction on racial diversity, its stereotypic imagery and its decision to host a potential superspreader event said something different.Masked fans paid tribute to front line workers and displayed messages of racial unity during the second quarter of the Super Bowl.Credit…Doug Mills/The New York TimesFeb. 8, 2021Updated 3:38 p.m. ETThe N.F.L. likes to project power and precision. Sideline catches are scrutinized with zoom lenses, first downs are measured in inches and Air Force jets fly over stadiums just as “The Star-Spangled Banner” reaches its peak.But when it comes to topics like race, health and safety, the league’s certainty dissolves into a series of mixed messages.That was the case on Sunday at the Super Bowl, the N.F.L.’s crowning game, which is typically watched by about 100 million viewers in the United States. The championship game provides the league a massive platform each year to promote itself as America’s corporate do-gooder, with the best interests of its enormous fan base at heart. That was harder to do this year as the country remained roiled by the deadly coronavirus pandemic, which has exacerbated festering political division and racial unrest, issues the N.FL. had to plow past to complete its season.On Sunday, at Raymond James Stadium in Tampa, Fla., the N.F.L. trumpeted its support for the fight against social injustice. The national anthem was performed by two musicians, one Black and one white. The poet Amanda Gorman, who wowed the country with her recitation at President Biden’s inauguration, read an ode to the three honorary captains — a teacher, a nurse and a soldier — frontline workers in different fields. The TV announcers spoke often of the work that the league and the players have done to battle racial inequities.Yet, moments later, when the Kansas City Chiefs took the field, the N.F.L. played a recording in the reduced capacity stadium of the made-up war cry that is a team custom. The prompt got fans to swing their arms in a “tomahawk chop,” an act that many find disrespectful and a perpetuation of racist stereotypes of the nation’s first people. Last week, the Kansas City Indian Center, a social service agency, put up two billboards in the city that read, “Change the name and stop the chop!”The Kansas City Chiefs took the field as the N.F.L. played the “tomahawk chop” on speakers inside Raymond James Stadium in Tampa, Fla.Credit…Chang W. Lee/The New York Times“At the start of the game it was all unify, unify, unify, and then there’s this racist chant,” said Louis Moore, an associate professor of history at Grand Valley State University who studies connections between race and sports. “Eight months after George Floyd, and you’ve done all this stuff, letting players put phrases on the backs of their helmets, giving workers a paid holiday for Juneteenth. They are putting a corporate Band-Aid on a problem instead of dealing with it.”Moore pointed to other inconvenient realities that were either dismissed, ignored or obscured by the relentless messaging.There was scant mention of Colin Kaepernick, the former San Francisco 49ers quarterback who has not played since the 2016 season, when he began kneeling during the national anthem to shine a light on police brutality.That led to a sharp, viral rebuke on Twitter from the singer Mariah Carey.There was little talk of the league’s abysmal record hiring people of color as head coaches and general managers even as television cameras showed the Chiefs’ successful offensive coordinator, Eric Bieniemy, who is Black and has been unable to land a head coaching position in multiple hiring cycles.Before the game, CBS Sports showed a segment that featured Viola Davis, the Academy Award-winning actress, saluting Kenny Washington, a Black player who in 1946 reintegrated the N.F.L., which had an unofficial color barrier for 13 years.Yet there was no discussion of a lawsuit brought by two former N.F.L. players who accuse the league of rigging the concussion settlement to make it harder for Black players to receive payments.The league spent considerable time lauding nurses and other health care workers on the front lines who have been helping fight the coronavirus. It had invited 7,500 vaccinated workers to the game, a signal to Americans that if you, too, get inoculated, you will be able to safely attend big events like the Super Bowl.Not discussed was that just hosting the Super Bowl could lead to a spike in the number of infections. Sure, the N.F.L. provided fans at the game with face masks and hand sanitizer, but little if any contact tracing was done to monitor exposure. Tracking infected fans will be made all the more difficult as people return to their homes in all corners of the country.Many people flocked to Tampa the week of the Super Bowl, flooding bars and restaurants.Credit…AJ Mast for The New York TimesThe Super Bowl, American sports’ biggest party, is not confined to TV and phone screens. The week of events leading up to the game was a magnet for tens of thousands of fans who attended parties or flocked to Tampa’s bars and restaurants, often unmasked. In the aftermath of the home team’s victory, mask-less revelers took to the streets of Tampa, an utterly predictable scene that has followed other major championships. Many of the people who celebrated without regard to social distancing or other guidelines will expose others to the virus as they travel home.For all the N.F.L.’s feel-good words and gestures to this moment in American history at the Super Bowl, and its attempts to use football to try to bring the nation together, the league’s carefully crafted message risked being muddled by its actions.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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      In N.F.L., the Same Old Line and Verse About Hiring Black Coaches

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      AdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storySPORTS OF THE TIMESIn N.F.L., the Same Old Line and Verse About Hiring Black CoachesIn the latest hiring cycle, Eric Bieniemy, the Kansas City Chiefs’ offensive coordinator, watched from the sideline as white peers were chosen as head coaches.Eric Bieniemy, the Kansas City Chiefs’ offensive coordinator, will coach in his second consecutive Super Bowl on Sunday.Credit…Mark Brown/Getty ImagesFeb. 1, 2021, 3:00 a.m. ETThe N.F.L. can’t hide its Eric Bieniemy problem with poetry.The league announced last week that Amanda Gorman, America’s first youth poet laureate, whose soaring verse on a nation rived by race and conflict enthralled viewers of President Biden’s inauguration, would deliver a pregame poem at the Super Bowl on Sunday.On the one hand, that’s terrific news. Gorman’s way with words is a tonic we need right now.On the other hand, beware. Pro football’s embrace of a young Black woman like Gorman — coming on the heels of its sudden, forced support of Black Lives Matter after the killing of George Floyd — is part of a public-relations campaign that obscures troubling reality.The N.F.L. now sells itself as a champion for equality. But where change is needed most, it remains stuck in the stinging days of old.Black players make up about 70 percent of N.F.L. rosters, meaning they provide the bulk of the entertainment. Yet whites hold the power, and won’t let go. No Black team ownership. A sprinkle of Black faces in upper management. It took until 1989 for the N.F.L. to hire a Black coach for the first time in the league’s modern era. Not much has changed: Now there are three.The story, or, rather, the shameful passing over of Bieniemy, the offensive coordinator who helped power the Kansas City Chiefs to consecutive Super Bowls, puts a fine point on it. He is the best known, and most talked about, head coaching candidate in a small cluster of African-American coordinators in the N.F.L. But he continues to watch from the sideline as his white peers are chosen to lead teams.In the latest round of head coach hiring, there were seven openings. Seven opportunities for the N.F.L. to stand behind the slogans like “End Racism” that now line its fields and adorn its helmets. Seven chances, and Bieniemy was shut out again.What more can he do? His squad marched through the N.F.L. playoffs as if its opponents were stick figures. One more win, and he’s got back-to-back Super Bowl rings.The star quarterback Patrick Mahomes talks up Bieniemy every chance he gets. Andy Reid, the Chiefs’ head coach, says he’s a rare and gifted leader. Given Reid’s stature in the N.F.L., that’s like a blessing from God.Yet Reid continues to be dumbstruck at how his second in command keeps being overlooked. “I’m glad I have him, but I’m not so glad I have him,” Reid said last week. “I was really hoping he would have an opportunity to take one of these jobs. He would be great for any number of teams.”So why can’t Bieniemy get a fair shake?Naysayers claim he doesn’t call plays. But Reid and Mahomes say that’s not true. And when has not calling plays been an obstacle for white assistants hired to steer teams?Another chorus claims Bieniemy doesn’t interview or communicate well. But that belies his calm, sure manner while addressing reporters. Besides, plenty of white coaches seem incapable of expressing themselves clearly.Some say Bieniemy has not been hired because of brushes with the law that took place decades ago — including a fight in college after he was called a racial slur and an arrest on a drunken-driving charge in 2001. But this ventures into double standards for a league notorious for overlooking violent misdeeds off field with its players and blemishes with its white coaches.Does Bieniemy, 51, a former player in his 15th year as an N.F.L. assistant, somehow need more experience? Then how do we explain a league currently in love with a new prototype: the young white coach trumpeted for his genius despite little on his résumé. Consider the Los Angeles Chargers’ new coach, 38-year-old Brandon Staley. In 2016, he was an assistant coach at Division III’s John Carroll University. Now he holds the reins of an N.F.L. team.So much for experience when you look like an N.F.L. owner’s grandson.For a long while, during this same-as-it-ever-was hiring cycle, it looked as if it would be a complete shutout for Black coaches. Then, with one last job available, the Houston Texans hired the Baltimore assistant David Culley.Culley is 65. You read that right: retirement age, and he’s only now getting his first lead job in the league. He has been coaching for roughly 40 years. Is that really what it takes? Four decades of toil? It’s important to understand how discrimination alters pathways for N.F.L. assistants. But there’s another, less talked about worry: the stifling effect on the ambition of Black coaches all the way down the pipeline.Charles Adams is just one example.A few months back, I wrote about Adams and his journey as an African-American police officer and head coach at Minneapolis North high school. He inherited a struggling team from the toughest part of his city, turned it into a perennial power and won a state title. When you watch the Super Bowl and see the Tampa Bay Buccaneers rookie Tyler Johnson catching passes from Tom Brady, know that it was Adams who guided the young receiver through high school and still mentors him today.When we spoke recently, Adams told me how he used to imagine latching on with a college team and working up the ladder from there. Maybe the pros. Maybe head coach. Why not? For years, he applied for an N.F.L. fellowship that sends Black coaches to training camps so they can network and soak up knowledge. He never got a response.That’s a stinging blow. Seeing Bieniemy being constantly overlooked is another. Together the message is awful. Don’t think too big.“For many of us, it becomes ‘Why bother?’” Adams said.That’s the overlooked tragedy. Ambitious white coaches look at the N.F.L., see plenty of open lanes and keep charging forward. Ambitious Black coaches see roadblocks and dead ends — and often dim their expectations.The cycle continues. An age-old American tale.It will be great to see Amanda Gorman recite poetry at the Super Bowl. But when you do, think of Bieniemy and all the coaches who look like him. Think of their hopes and frustrations — of their dreams deferred, again and again.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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      The Talk of the Super Bowl Is Quarterbacks, Except One

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      #masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }Capitol Riot FalloutVisual TimelineInside the SiegeNotable ArrestsCapitol Police in CrisisThe Global Far RightAdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storySPORTS OF THE TIMESThe Talk of the Super Bowl Is Quarterbacks, Except OneThe N.F.L. has tried to move on from the controversy over Colin Kaepernick, but recent events suggest his critique of America’s racial climate has remained relevant.Eli Harold, Colin Kaepernick, center, and Eric Reid knelt during the national anthem before an N.F.L. football game against the Seattle Seahawks in 2016.Credit…Ted S. Warren/Associated PressJan. 25, 2021, 3:00 a.m. ETKap was right.Let’s not forget that.Let’s not erase his legacy the way the powers running the N.F.L. would like.As we barrel full steam toward the Super Bowl on Feb. 7, let’s not lose sight of the fact that Colin Kaepernick’s protest — his willingness to oppose the status quo and challenge America’s racial caste system — carried the profound weight of truth.Fans should remember. Team owners and the N.F.L. commissioner, Roger Goodell, should remember.What about the players? Since many of them have dropped their guard and allowed the message to be watered down, they need to remember too.The big game is less than two weeks away, with the Kansas City Chiefs seeking to successfully defend their title against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. The narrative will center on quarterbacks, and rightly so. Tom Brady and Patrick Mahomes aren’t just among the greatest to ever play, they are among the most captivating.But years from now, when historians assess the connection between professional sports and the state of the world in the current era, which N.F.L. quarterback will loom largest?I’ll bet on Kaepernick, once among the league’s most electric players, censured and shut out of the game since 2016. Kaepernick, whose kneeling protest during the national anthem tore at the heart of the one sport that most embodies America and its myths.Kaepernick, loved and loathed, celebrated as a champion for justice and denounced by politicians looking to hype racial resentment, no matter the costs.He has not just been at the center of the storm. At times he has been the storm. All of the other quarterbacks are throwing their beautiful spirals while watching safely from afar — careers well intact.We’ve just endured a presidential term of brazen demagogy from a man many N.F.L. owners have considered a great leader and friend. We’ve seen the rise of white supremacy. The stream of police shootings. The killing of George Floyd. Protests, the coronavirus pandemic and the deadly storming of the Capitol.Kaepernick’s critique of America foretold it all.But if you think everything is fine now that there’s a new face in the White House, think again. Remember that he began his protest not under former President Donald J. Trump, but in the waning days of the Obama administration. He knelt not just against the cracking structure of modern day racism, but its faulty foundation, laid down centuries ago and built upon ever since.His shadow still hangs over a league that heads to the Super Bowl acting as if he has never existed. N.F.L. owners — and their chief spokesman, Goodell — would rather slice him from collective memory and move on.“There is nothing more humbling for the billionaires who own N.F.L. teams than to be proven wrong, especially by a Black athlete who is seen as a thorn in their side,” Derrick White, a professor of African-American studies at the University of Kentucky and an expert on race and football, said when we spoke last week.That’s why the league settled the union grievance filed by the former 49ers quarterback and his former teammate Eric Reid. The pair claimed they were blackballed by the N.F.L. for protesting. A multimillion-dollar payout, replete with a confidentiality agreement, was easier to swallow than giving Kaepernick more airtime.After Floyd’s killing and protests against police brutality intensified around the world, Goodell was forced to admit the league had been wrong not to listen to players who had been speaking out against systemic racism for years. He summoned the courage to utter the phrase “Black Lives Matter.” And he carefully avoided mention of Kaepernick.The N.F.L. soon began co-opting the message. Sadly enough, the players have largely gone along with the plan. Kneeling protests waned to a trickle. The riot in Washington seemed to offer a prime opportunity for clamoring, unified protest. It didn’t happen. There were games to be played. Money to be made. Jobs to hold on to. And nobody with Kaepernick’s spine.You have to hand it to the czars of football. They’ve neutralized the message. They made just enough room for the previously unthinkable in a sport so conservative, so connected to the police and the military and the flag. Think of the helmets with the social justice messaging and the names of victims of police shootings, and the pithy phrases painted on the edge of fields.One such phrase: “It Takes All of Us.”Well, all of us clearly does not include Kaepernick. As much as he would like to, he will never play again. This season of chaos, when he wasn’t called upon even as teams were steadily depleted by the virus, put an end to any such hope..css-1xzcza9{list-style-type:disc;padding-inline-start:1em;}.css-c7gg1r{font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-weight:700;font-size:0.875rem;line-height:0.875rem;margin-bottom:15px;color:#121212 !important;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-c7gg1r{font-size:0.9375rem;line-height:0.9375rem;}}.css-rqynmc{font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-size:0.9375rem;line-height:1.25rem;color:#333;margin-bottom:0.78125rem;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-rqynmc{font-size:1.0625rem;line-height:1.5rem;margin-bottom:0.9375rem;}}.css-rqynmc strong{font-weight:600;}.css-rqynmc em{font-style:italic;}.css-yoay6m{margin:0 auto 5px;font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-weight:700;font-size:1.125rem;line-height:1.3125rem;color:#121212;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-yoay6m{font-size:1.25rem;line-height:1.4375rem;}}.css-1dg6kl4{margin-top:5px;margin-bottom:15px;}.css-16ed7iq{width:100%;display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-align-items:center;-webkit-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-items:center;-webkit-box-pack:center;-webkit-justify-content:center;-ms-flex-pack:center;justify-content:center;padding:10px 0;background-color:white;}.css-pmm6ed{display:-webkit-box;display:-webkit-flex;display:-ms-flexbox;display:flex;-webkit-align-items:center;-webkit-box-align:center;-ms-flex-align:center;align-items:center;}.css-pmm6ed > :not(:first-child){margin-left:5px;}.css-5gimkt{font-family:nyt-franklin,helvetica,arial,sans-serif;font-size:0.8125rem;font-weight:700;-webkit-letter-spacing:0.03em;-moz-letter-spacing:0.03em;-ms-letter-spacing:0.03em;letter-spacing:0.03em;text-transform:uppercase;color:#333;}.css-5gimkt:after{content:’Collapse’;}.css-rdoyk0{-webkit-transition:all 0.5s ease;transition:all 0.5s ease;-webkit-transform:rotate(180deg);-ms-transform:rotate(180deg);transform:rotate(180deg);}.css-eb027h{max-height:5000px;-webkit-transition:max-height 0.5s ease;transition:max-height 0.5s ease;}.css-6mllg9{-webkit-transition:all 0.5s ease;transition:all 0.5s ease;position:relative;opacity:0;}.css-6mllg9:before{content:”;background-image:linear-gradient(180deg,transparent,#ffffff);background-image:-webkit-linear-gradient(270deg,rgba(255,255,255,0),#ffffff);height:80px;width:100%;position:absolute;bottom:0px;pointer-events:none;}#masthead-bar-one{display:none;}#masthead-bar-one{display:none;}.css-1amoy78{background-color:white;border:1px solid #e2e2e2;width:calc(100% – 40px);max-width:600px;margin:1.5rem auto 1.9rem;padding:15px;box-sizing:border-box;}@media (min-width:740px){.css-1amoy78{padding:20px;width:100%;}}.css-1amoy78:focus{outline:1px solid #e2e2e2;}.css-1amoy78[data-truncated] .css-rdoyk0{-webkit-transform:rotate(0deg);-ms-transform:rotate(0deg);transform:rotate(0deg);}.css-1amoy78[data-truncated] .css-eb027h{max-height:300px;overflow:hidden;-webkit-transition:none;transition:none;}.css-1amoy78[data-truncated] .css-5gimkt:after{content:’See more’;}.css-1amoy78[data-truncated] .css-6mllg9{opacity:1;}.css-k9atqk{margin:0 auto;overflow:hidden;}.css-k9atqk strong{font-weight:700;}.css-k9atqk em{font-style:italic;}.css-k9atqk a{color:#326891;-webkit-text-decoration:none;text-decoration:none;border-bottom:1px solid #ccd9e3;}.css-k9atqk a:visited{color:#333;-webkit-text-decoration:none;text-decoration:none;border-bottom:1px solid #ddd;}.css-k9atqk a:hover{border-bottom:none;}Capitol Riot FalloutFrom Riot to ImpeachmentThe riot inside the U.S. Capitol on Wednesday, Jan. 6, followed a rally at which President Trump made an inflammatory speech to his supporters, questioning the results of the election. Here’s a look at what happened and the ongoing fallout:As this video shows, poor planning and a restive crowd encouraged by President Trump set the stage for the riot.A two hour period was crucial to turning the rally into the riot.Several Trump administration officials, including cabinet members Betsy DeVos and Elaine Chao, announced that they were stepping down as a result of the riot.Federal prosecutors have charged more than 70 people, including some who appeared in viral photos and videos of the riot. Officials expect to eventually charge hundreds of others.The House voted to impeach the president on charges of “inciting an insurrection” that led to the rampage by his supporters.Another new motto: “End Racism.”This from a league with a long, sordid history of discrimination. A league known to prize Black speed and strength while diminishing Black intelligence and leadership.N.F.L. rosters are 70 percent African-American. There are only two Black head coaches. The league used to tell African-Americans they would get lead jobs if they just put in more patient years learning the craft. Done. Then came an all-too-familiar course correction: The series of recently hired white coaches who are heralded for their genius despite their glaring inexperience.End Racism? Stop with the Orwellian hypocrisy.What if the league had not turned its back on Kaepernick? What if, from the start, it had listened to him and started a sincere dialogue with Black players who emulated his protest?How soon we forget his magnetic talent, lost in the passage of time and obscured by silly arguments that focus on his last struggling seasons leading a 49ers team with little talent and lackluster coaching.To remember his potential, check out the YouTube highlights.Watch his four touchdowns on the frigid New England night in 2012, when he dueled Brady’s Patriots and led the 49ers to a 41-34 win. Skip next to his playoff game in 2013 against Green Bay, when he rushed for 181 yards and outpassed Aaron Rodgers.What might have been is part of the tragedy now. To flourish, the N.F.L. needs singular stars. If Kaepernick had not been rooted from the league, maybe he’s one of the quarterbacks guiding a team to the Super Bowl. Maybe he’s even the talk of it.Of course, you aren’t likely to hear from Kaepernick as we approach the big game. Silence has become his mystique, which fuels an enduring power.So who will do it? Who will bring him up, give him his due and keep telling the story? Who will keep the movement front and center, raw and real, instead of the stuff of manicured public-relations campaigns?What a shame that this is an open question, since there is still so much work to be done.What a shame, because “Kap was right” is not hard to say.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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      Requiem for the 'Indestructible' Green Bay Packers of the 1960s

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      AdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyThe Great Read‘Every Two Months, One of My Teammates Dies’The Green Bay Packers of the 1960s produced a legion of Hall of Famers and won five championships under Coach Vince Lombardi. Their ranks have been devastated by death in the last 27 months.“But you begin to think of certain people, like Forrest Gregg or Bart Starr or Willie Davis, as indestructible,” said Bill Curry, a Packers center in 1965 and 1966. “So when they die, it’s not like a regular death. It’s like a punch to the sternum.”Credit…La Crosse Tribune/Associated PressJan. 22, 2021, 5:00 a.m. ETThe phone at Bob Long’s home in Brookfield, Wis., has rung too many times these last few years, but especially in 2020. Some calls came from former teammates telling Long, a Packers receiver in the mid-1960s, that another member of their Vince Lombardi-era dynasty squads had died. Many others came from Green Bay fans, phoning to express their condolences.“Every two months,” Long, 79, said, “one of my teammates dies.”Doug Hart. Allen Brown. Willie Wood. Willie Davis. Herb Adderley. Paul Hornung.Gone, all of them.The last four, who died over a nine-month span last year, are enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, royalty in an organization steeped in tradition. Together, the names evoke a wistful yearning for the teams that won five championships — including the first two Super Bowls — under Lombardi from 1961 to 1967.As the Packers chase a 14th N.F.L. title, a quest that continues Sunday against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers in the N.F.C. championship game at Lambeau Field, the deaths — and that of Ted Thompson, the general manager who drafted Aaron Rodgers and many other current Packers, on Wednesday — have freighted a glorious season with solemnity. Occurring in such swift succession, they stripped the facade of invincibility from titans of the sport, devastating the teammates left to mourn their friends from afar.“It snaps you back into reality,” said Dave Robinson, a Hall of Fame linebacker on Lombardi’s last three Packers championship teams. “We live in a fantasyland. Everything’s always been good or great — you play ball, you won your share of games, you won championships and were at the very top of your game. Nothing can go wrong. Then you get older and start losing teammates and realize how fragile life is. And you keep looking in the mirror saying, ‘Will I be next?’”In the last 27 months, nine starters from the 1965 championship team — nearly half — have died. The bruising fullback Jim Taylor and the sturdy left tackle Bob Skoronski did so within two weeks of each other in October 2018. As if following one of his powerful blocks, quarterback Bart Starr, an in-the-huddle extension of Lombardi, died a month after right tackle Forrest Gregg in spring 2019.Members of the Packers celebrated Christmas together in 1965. From left: Carroll Dale, Bart Starr, Zeke Bratkowski and Bob Long.Credit…Courtesy Long FamilyStarr’s death lacerated Bill Curry, his former center. The day Curry, now 78, reported to his first Packers training camp, as a rookie in 1965, he sensed someone else walking to dinner beside him. It was Starr, by then entering his 10th season, and from then on, Curry said, rarely did they leave each other’s side. Another dear friend, the backup quarterback Zeke Bratkowski, died in November 2019, and the bad news kept mounting.Reflecting on all the losses, Curry was surprised to realize that he had ascribed a superhuman quality to so many of these men, but the mind remembers what it wants to remember: Hornung, the playboy running back, so young and virile, zigzagging for touchdowns instead of suffering from dementia; Wood, the rangy free safety, picking off Len Dawson to fuel Green Bay’s rout of Kansas City in Super Bowl I instead of deteriorating as his cognitive functions declined; Davis, a fearsome pass rusher who never missed a game during his 10 seasons in Green Bay, dragging down quarterbacks instead of fading from kidney failure.“I guess if I had thought about it, or if somebody had warned me, I would have maybe protected myself,” Curry said. “But you begin to think of certain people, like Forrest Gregg or Bart Starr or Willie Davis, as indestructible. So when they die, it’s not like a regular death. It’s like a punch to the sternum. I mean, it drops you to your knees. No, no, he can’t be dead. Well, he is.”The Packers’ president, Mark Murphy, added: “It’s like your parents. You never expect them to die.”The immortals live on in video clips and in photographs, but what endures for their teammates is what makes their absences so much harder to bear: the intimate moments they shared, the ones that unfolded away from public view. From Wood, Robinson gleaned the importance of learning everyone’s assignment on defense, not just his own. Long still can’t fathom that Hornung once told him he’d be a superstar. Curry credits Davis with transforming his life.Curry, who called himself a “snot-nosed white kid” from outside Atlanta, had never played on an integrated team before joining the Packers, he said. Insecure, he worried how the team’s Black players would react to his Georgia accent. Instead, he was humbled by Wood’s kindness and how Davis, the defensive captain, promised to help Curry — the next to last pick in the 20-round draft — make the team.Whenever he felt like capitulating, his confidence frayed by Lombardi’s withering words, Curry ran to the defensive side to find Davis, whom he called Dr. Feelgood. With a smile, Davis told Curry to feel good, that he could do it.“It was an unexpected, undeserved, unrewarded act of kindness from a great leader, and those moments change lives,” said Curry, who would go on to coach 26 years in college football and the N.F.L. “I had no choice but to respond to that. I never looked at human beings, any human being, in the same way again that I had previously. And when I began to coach, it was my primary mission to be sure that nobody on our team ever felt the sting of racism in our locker room.”Bill Curry, the former N.F.L. player and coach, spoke at a memorial service for the Hall of Fame quarterback Bart Starr in 2019.Credit…Butch Dill/Associated PressIn an era of racial intolerance, it was Lombardi’s commitment to equality that galvanized the team. Welcoming Black players at a time when so many of his peers didn’t, Lombardi — whose disgust for discrimination was personal, having been bullied for his Italian heritage and for being Catholic while growing up in Brooklyn — created what the former tight end Marv Fleming called “a brotherhood.” Those relationships bound players across the decades, even when they rarely saw one another. Fleming, when reached last week, said he had just finished a video call, arranged by the Packers, with some old teammates.“It made me want to shed a tear,” Fleming said. “I’m 79 years young, I’m still skateboarding in Venice. But to hear, ‘Marvin, have you heard about so-and-so’ and you say, ‘oh no,’ those memories come back, those times when we were in the foxhole together.”A member of the Hall of Fame’s board of trustees for more than 20 years, Robinson, 79, who lives in Akron, Ohio, would always welcome old teammates and their wives in Canton, Ohio, for induction-weekend festivities. Reminiscing with them there, or at reunions and alumni functions arranged by the Packers, made him feel young again, he said, even if the players’ numbers were dwindling.“We’d get together every now and then, but it’s not the same,” Robinson said. “Every year it used to take a big table to sit us down. Now we can just sit around a coffee table.”Except when they can’t. The pandemic canceled the Packers’ traditional alumni gatherings, from golf tournaments to weekends at Lambeau, where, under normal circumstances, former greats would have been invited back to serve as honorary captains on Sunday. It has also deprived family and friends of traditional funeral rituals, upending a grieving process that helps the living cope and mourn.Curry thought he knew Bratkowski well. But at his funeral service, Curry learned he went to Mass every morning and did volunteer work afterward. Sending flowers or a card has rendered the players’ grief incomplete.Vince Lombardi, left, and the team’s backup quarterback, Zeke Bratkowski, celebrated in the Packers’ dressing room after an N.F.L. playoff game against the Baltimore Colts in the 1965 season.Credit…Associated Press“There was so much more to him, and you only learn that if you listen to family and priests and ministers talk about the person,” Curry said, adding: “I don’t want to do a Zoom service. I want to be there next to the family. I want to be with the remains of my friend, and I can’t do it. And that has really bothered me. It’s pure selfishness, but I’d give anything to be able to go.”Robinson said the memorial service for Adderley had been rescheduled a few times, in accordance with local guidelines for gatherings. Helping to anchor the left side of the Packers’ defense, the two men helped write a book, “Lombardi’s Left Side,” which also detailed their experiences playing in the racially charged 1960s.“Me and Herb,” Robinson said, “we were like two fingers in a fist.”It was their deep friendship that compelled Robinson to place a call to Wisconsin after Adderley died on Oct. 30. Troubled by health problems in recent years — a stroke, open-heart surgery — Long thanked his old friend for notifying him. They talked for a little while longer, and when he hung up he hoped it wouldn’t ring again soon.Sheelagh McNeill contributed research.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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      Mike Tomlin Reaches Another N.F.L. Postseason With Fewer Black Peers

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      AdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyMike Tomlin Reaches Another N.F.L. Postseason With Fewer Black PeersThe Pittsburgh Steelers’ coach hasn’t had a losing season in 14 years. His acumen and approach have stabilized the team even amid player controversies and as the N.F.L. has struggled with race.“I think whenever you’re a Black coach in his position, that other people put so much pressure on you to do everything,” Steelers center Maurkice Pouncey said of Mike Tomlin. Credit…Scott Taetsch/Getty ImagesJan. 8, 2021Updated 7:59 a.m. ETMaurkice Pouncey, the Pittsburgh Steelers’ Pro Bowl center, has been around Mike Tomlin long enough to decipher his coach’s body language.“You see him, and then the next thing you know, he’s so locked in,” Pouncey, a Steeler since 2010, said during a recent telephone interview. “You’re like, ‘Dang. I know not to mess around.’ ”Most players under his leadership came to respect Tomlin’s ability to wed football acumen with a sense of fairness and a consistency, engendering a behind-the-scenes kinship and historic success on the field.He has not had a losing campaign in his 14 seasons as a head coach, navigating the Steelers through controversies that could capsize other franchises. Through it all, Tomlin’s stone-cold facial expression has been as much of constant as the Steelers’ postseason berths — Pittsburgh hosts the Cleveland Browns in the first-round of the playoffs on Sunday evening — even as the N.F.L. has evolved greatly since he became the youngest head coach and second African-American coach to win a Super Bowl after the 2008 season at age 36.“He’s never lied to anyone,” Pouncey said. “And I think sometimes people get it misconstrued that he’s somewhat of a player’s coach. And I get it. He’s really cool with the players, but then when he comes in there, it’s all business.”In public, Tomlin is full of scowls and digestible platitudes showcased throughout games and in news conferences, a vastly different demeanor than his players see.“If you just listen to Coach T talk, he going to spit nothing but game at you,” said Ike Taylor, a cornerback who played a dozen seasons for Pittsburgh before retiring in 2015. “You just got to listen. He’s something like a pastor or a preacher or an evangelist. He just got a way with words where he can just reach out to anybody without even trying to.”Pastor Vernon Shazier occasionally accompanied his son, Ryan, to the Steelers’ facility before Ryan’s career-ending spinal injury in 2017. Tomlin, Shazier said, could tell someone that his play is unacceptable and warn the player that he’d soon be “going shopping” for a replacement if it continued, and then laugh with the player at his locker all in the same day.That candor allowed players like Taylor to forge what he described as an ongoing big-brother relationship with Tomlin.While Taylor was still active, Tomlin learned that he harbored aspirations of one day working in a team’s front office. Tomlin occasionally allowed him to eavesdrop on personnel discussions to gain a deeper understanding of the league’s behind-the-scenes maneuvering.Ike Taylor forged what he described as a big-brother relationship with Tomlin as a cornerback with the Steelers.Credit…Nick Cammett/Diamond Images, via Getty Images“Until it was time for them to really do business, I had to get out,” Taylor said. “I was probably one of the only active players who could sit in draft meetings and sit in on draft day with the organization. He gave me the green light to do a lot of things active players usually couldn’t have done, but that was the relationship him and I had.”Tomlin’s steadiness has been felt especially this seesaw season amid the pandemic. Pittsburgh began the season by reeling off 11 straight wins before its pursuit of a perfect season evaporated with three straight losses, as defenses started encroaching on the aging Ben Roethlisberger’s short-passing game. The Steelers capped their season with another loss to Cleveland in Week 17, though Roethlisberger did not play.Tomlin declined to speak for this article and he’s rarely gone into depth on his background the way he did during a round table discussion this summer with Vernon Lee and Carl Francis, co-founders of the Hampton Roads (Va.) Youth Foundation.Tomlin has been involved with the organization since he started as an N.F.L. assistant in Tampa Bay, helping to mentor the area’s youth. “Carl and I have considered him a partner in this endeavor,” Lee said. “Not just someone who’s coming back as a guest. It still shocks me to be quite honest with him being the head coach for the Steelers, how hands-on he is.”The three men, all natives of coastal southeast Virginia, discussed familiar streets, high schools and area legends. Tomlin eventually discussed the one motto that drives him.“Young people don’t care what you say,” Tomlin said in the talk. “They watch you move.”Tomlin should know. In the round table, he detailed growing up in Hampton, Va., with his older brother, Ed, “a product of a broken home. My parents separated before my first birthday and myself and my brother, we moved back in with her parents,” he said, referring to his mother’s parents.People looked out for their own in the 757, the area code for the seven cities that make up the Hampton Roads community. Adults steered Tomlin. His stepfather, Leslie Copeland, was a large influence. Tomlin followed Ed’s path into football, joining a league at age 7. Coaches of other teams showed genuine interest in the well-being of the young wide receiver, proving to Tomlin that if it took a village, he had found the correct one.Tomlin envisioned a career playing football by the time he arrived at Denbigh High in Newport News, Va. He doodled plays in class to the chagrin of his freshman geometry teacher, Gail Gunter. She warned him before calling his mother, Julia, after he failed to turn in a couple assignments.Gunter challenged Tomlin. Two years later, Gunter served as a counselor for the students competing in Odyssey of the Mind, a scholarly competition. The other students had recruited Tomlin to participate in constructing a vehicle but Gunter could not locate him when it was time to start.“Mike would come moseying on in after all the football players had left because he didn’t want them to see him coming into something that was academic,” Gunter said.The team finished second in the state. Tomlin had asked the other students not to disclose his involvement, which coincided with him asking Julia not to display his honor roll sticker on her car’s bumper.At the College of William & Mary, Tomlin continued drawing a distinction between football and his other pursuits. “I’ve referred to him before as a bit of a closet nerd even though he tries to downplay how smart he is,” said Terry Hammons, a fellow receiver and one of Tomlin’s closest friends at the university.As a student at the College of William and Mary, Tomlin trash-talked opponents on the football field but engaged with tough questions in the classroom.Credit…Cal Sport Media, via Associated Press ImagesDavid Aday, a professor of sociology and American studies, taught Tomlin in a criminology course. Tomlin sought to understand the racial, social and class links between mass incarceration, topics, Aday said, that are typically difficult to discuss.“The fact that he was a young Black man, some of the implications were a little more threatening, distressing,” Aday said. “There are a couple of ways you can deal with that. You can put your head down and say, ‘We’ll get through this conversation and move on.’ Or you can ask, ‘What’s going on here? What do we know that could help us to understand this?’”On the field, Tomlin talked trash to opponents and teammates alike, teetering the difference between inspiring his sideline and infuriating the other. He’d slyly caution Hammons to be safe before receiving punts — in essence, daring Hammons to return the ball.“Mike knew I had a bit of a Napoleon complex and he knew how to get me going,” Hammons said.Tomlin debated for more passes. He took over meetings with Hammons. During film reviews, Zbig Kepa, their receivers coach, sometimes dropped the remote on the table and told his boisterous crew to figure out the tape for themselves.“He was comedy on the field,” Kepa said. “Then, he would really keep that energy level going and communicate and ask questions in meetings.”His hopes of an N.F.L. career fading, Tomlin became the wide receivers coach at Virginia Military Institute in 1995, carving a path to stay involved with the game and using the intellect he had gained from studying it since his youth.He quickly worked his way up the college ranks with stops at Memphis, Arkansas State and Cincinnati, along the way learning the benefits of meticulously planning and documenting his days and charting goals in old Franklin Planners.“I got this Franklin Planner and I bought these cassette tapes, right?” Tomlin said during the round table. “And I committed to a day of watching these cassette tapes and organizing my life through this Franklin Planner. Just thoughts, quotes of the day, appointments, critical notes, call backs, et cetera, et cetera. I needed that organization because I was drowning in life at that time.”That propensity for planning paid off in 2007 when, after six seasons as an assistant in Tampa Bay and Minnesota, he interviewed to replace Bill Cowher as the Steelers’ head coach. Pittsburgh offensive coordinator Ken Whisenhunt and assistant head coach Russ Grimm were the favorites to win the job but Tomlin impressed owner Dan Rooney and team president Art Rooney II in his interviews by presenting a detailed plan for the franchise over the next calendar year.Tomlin in his first year as Steelers head coach in 2007. He inherited Hall of Fame quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, who is now in the twilight of his career.Credit…Joseph Sargent/Icon SMI, via Getty ImagesThe Steelers appointed Tomlin as the franchise’s third head coach since 1969 on the same day that two Black coaches, Tony Dungy’s Indianapolis Colts and Lovie Smith’s Chicago Bears, met for the first time in the Super Bowl.“Mike ended up getting his job at a time when there was a lot of discussion about African-Americans being able to get a job, being able to hold it if you got it and who was qualified,” said Terry Robiskie, a longtime N.F.L. assistant coach. “It was always the discussion that they could never find anyone that was qualified.”Tomlin’s hiring was viewed as a success of the Rooney Rule, named after Dan Rooney, the former owner of the Steelers, that requires teams to interview minority candidates for high-profile vacancies. Tomlin joined six other Black men with N.F.L. head coaching jobs the year he was hired; with the Los Angeles Chargers’ recent dismissal of Anthony Lynn after the 2020 regular season, the number of Black N.F.L. head coaches is down to just two — Tomlin and Brian Flores of the Miami Dolphins — in a league where nearly 70 percent of players are African-American.Tomlin is now a veteran coach. The career of Roethlisberger, the Hall of Fame quarterback he inherited, is winding down. Members of the stingy defense passed down to him are long retired. Tomlin’s reputation as a player’s coach was dinged through running back Le’Veon Bell sitting out the 2018 season while seeking a new contract and Antonio Brown’s cycles of drama.Change has swept the broader N.F.L. landscape, too. As the N.F.L. has struggled with its place in the national reckoning on race, Tomlin last year came to the defense of backup quarterback Mason Rudolph, who is white and was accused of using a racist slur toward Cleveland Browns defensive end Myles Garrett, who is Black, during a brawl between the two teams.“He brings the perspective as a Black man with children, but he doesn’t try to force his view on his players and that’s what he’s done from the beginning,” Hammons said.Instead, Tomlin allows his players to deliberate issues collectively to land on a unified response, “allowing them to have a vested interest in the ultimate decision,” Hammons said.That was the goal in 2017. Tomlin allowed his players to debate on whether they would stand or kneel for the national anthem to draw awareness to racial injustice and abuse. The roster did not reach a consensus and decided to stay in the locker room before a game against Chicago. Alejandro Villanueva, an offensive lineman and Bronze Star Medal recipient, stood by himself in the tunnel as the song played.Alejandro Villanueva of the Pittsburgh Steelers stood by himself in the tunnel for the national anthem before a game against the Chicago Bears in 2017.Credit…Joe Robbins/Getty Images“I think whenever you’re a Black coach in his position, that other people put so much pressure on you to do everything,” Pouncey said. “And he’s not here for that. And if you really know Coach Tomlin, he’s a football coach. That’s what he loves. That’s what he dedicates his whole entire life to.”Decades ago, Robiskie met Dungy when the pair roomed together for the East-West Shrine Game, a postseason college showcase. Their paths paralleled. They became friends as part of a small number of Black N.F.L. coaches and sometimes vacationed together with their wives.After dinners, Dungy, by then Tampa’s coach, often brought up the name of a young coach on his staff, full of potential, learning by the day. “Mike who?” Robiskie, then an assistant coach with the Browns, would say. “Tomlin? I’m going to get him just like I get you.”Years later, Robiskie, now a running backs coach for the Jacksonville Jaguars, estimates that his teams are 0-19 against Tomlin.To Robiskie, Tomlin has extended the legacy of coaches like Dungy, Smith, Dennis Green and Art Shell while staying true to himself.The others, Robiskie said, were low-key personalities. “Mike was going to laugh and joke and scream and if he had to get upset and cuss and fuss, he was going to get upset and cuss and fuss,” Robiskie said.He added. “We’ve all got to tip our hats off to him. He’s brought that trophy there once before and I, for one, I get on my knees and pray he brings them another one.”AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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