An Ode To Mike Leach (And Why This Game Is Ours Too)

An astute reader may have already made the connection to one of my heroes, the late Mike Leach. When it comes to football coaches not fitting the typical mold, one would be hard pressed to find a better example than The Pirate. For me, it's theology, history, political science, philosophy, and music that occupy my non-football life. For him, it was much of the same, perhaps with an unique emphasis on Native American history and, of course, Caribbean Pirates.

Growing up in West Texas, I learned to love Leach early in his tenure, probably around 2002 or so. When I was able to make the 90-minute drive to Jones AT&T Stadium, I always kept a watchful eye on the sideline to follow Leach. There wasn’t a lot to see from an in-game perspective; just a small, crumpled call sheet (the man clearly didn't believe in laminators), with a facial expression that seemed to indicate the presence of fresh dog crap in his general vicinity.

But beyond game day, it was his persona and his uncompromising drive to be himself, no matter what the broader fraternity of college football coaches wanted him to be. He didn’t play college football. He graduated with a law degree from Pepperdine. He spent his free time living like Jimmy Buffett down in Key West. He was perpetually late. He rambled. He mumbled. He talked geopolitics and Native American history more than he talked football with recruits, members of the media, and infamously, in his own marathon-style meetings with his own quarterbacks.

His interviews and press conferences were the stuff of legends. 

I have read his book, Swing Your Sword, a couple of times since beginning in the profession and I truly digested the whole thing; the guy had an incredible sense of how to run a program, how to build a culture, and, most relevant for our purposes here, how to unapologetically be himself. He knew jurisprudence inside and out. He would banter about esoteric case law with law students, and analyze the Israel/Palestine conflict with anyone interested in world affairs. He would spend late nights holding court and immersing himself and those around him in good food, good drink, and memorable conversation and intellectual debate.

In short, he was a man after my own heart. 

Above all, Leach, who we lost this past year (far too soon at the age of only 61), left a legacy that leaves an imprint on people like me. He maintained  myriad  interests, passions, and hobbies outside of football, all while revolutionizing the way the game is played on offense. Leach’s influence over offensive football spread like wildfire in both directions; from Texas High school football all the way to the NFL. It would be hard to overstate the manner in which the Air Raid system transformed offensive, and by extension, defensive football forever. 

Along with his mentor and Air Raid co-creator Hal Mumme, he showed how a team with average or inferior talent could become a national contender at the highest levels; the key was to use the space on the field with surgical precision. No defense, regardless of its level of elite talent, could cover the entire 100 by 54 yard gridiron all at once. No defensive back, however great, could be two places at once. Leach taught his quarterbacks and receivers the science of always “finding grass” against any coverage, and exploiting it. His passing concepts typically numbered fewer than 20, but each had dozens of contingencies built into each read and route. The offense was able to “make the defense wrong” at any given moment, by countering the existing defensive scheme in real time, creating open receivers and opportunities for big plays. The system was executed with such precision that even the most well-prepared defenses struggled to stop it, as Leach often knew the coverages as well as they did, knowing every seam, gap, and conflict that he could exploit. It was how he was able to build consistent winners at programs that historically struggled to compete with the big boys (Texas Tech, Washington State, & Mississippi State). 

I have to say, the fortitude that I worked hard to develop was significantly impacted by Coach Leach. I never personally met the man, but his career and one-of-a-kind persona served as an inspiration to me, as well as countless others. He showed that there is a place in this profession for contrarians, thinkers, readers, and oddballs; that there is a place for people who have passions and intellectual pursuits outside of the game, who can still thrive at the highest levels. Those that care as deeply for human beings and their well-being as much as they care about their X’s & O’s. “Strangers” like me owe an eternal debt of gratitude to Mike Leach for his unflappable commitment to being himself, and for his unwavering commitment to doing things the way he believed they should be done. Most of all, we owe him for blazing a trail for contrarians, intellectuals, and strangers like me in the coaching profession. Let me put it this way:

*In the final analysis, the game does not belong to the good ol’ boys. It does not belong to people who have a particular religious faith, or hold certain political convictions. It does not belong to any particular well-connected network of former players or big-time alumni. It does not belong exclusively to men who drive big trucks and hunt in their spare time. It belongs to all of us. It is a game invented and refined by Northeastern academics, expanded by blossoming young universities, and ignited by civic pride, community, and tradition in high schools from New York to Ohio to California to Texas; it ultimately became a secular religious experience in the college football cathedrals of the Deep South. It melts away divisions and gathers people around their local and regional institutions of education. The game was here before we got here and, if we preserve and defend it, it will survive long after all of us are gone.*

For those reasons, I remind myself that people like me have every bit as much of a claim to this game as anyone else. And, under the right circumstances, we just might thrive. If things break the right way, we might even find real, sustainable success.