them.
Forget all the doubters. Forget all the critics. Is there satisfaction in proving them wrong? Sure, but I don’t want to give those people the gratification of even dwelling on their words that long. There’s a motivator much more powerful than doubt. I play in honor of those who believe in me.
Coming Back Stronger
Earning My Nickname
Competition can bring out the best in a player. If the Chargers hadn’t drafted Philip Rivers in 2004, would I have been as successful that season? There’s no way to know. But the fact is, I knew I needed to bring my best that year—not only to fulfill the commitment I’d made to myself after the Chicago game, but also to win my job back.
Training camp came, and I was ready for a showdown. Despite our competitive rivalry from the start of his rookie year, Philip and I were friends. I respected him as a player and as a teammate, and now as a father to his five children. But San Diego had drafted him to take my job. And I wasn’t going to let that happen.
From day one, I needed to make sure that everyone on my team knew I was going to lead them. I asked Marty at the end of the first team meeting at training camp to take the other coaches and leave the room to give me a few moments to talk to my teammates. This was unusual, especially on the first day of camp, and especially from a guy who was supposed to lose his job that year. And that was what I loved about it. I didn’t care—I talked to my team about leadership, about commitment, and about fighting through adversity. I read them a few motivational quotes I had picked up in the off-season. We then set our goals together as a team. Most important, I looked every last one of those guys in the eye and didn’t flinch. In my heart I was telling them that they hadn’t seen anything yet and that I was ready to lead them. I believe they got the message.
In week one against the Houston Texans, I was named the starter, and Philip began the season as my second backup, behind Doug Flutie.
Winning on the road in the NFL is no easy task. We were playing in Reliant Stadium and were tied 20–20 in the fourth quarter. We drove into Texan territory and scored on a pass to Eric Parker. There was a power outage in the stadium on our next drive, and then we were forced to punt. A couple of plays later, though, we recovered a fumble and got a few first downs to run out the clock. By the time we hit the locker room, I had gone seventeen of twenty-four, for 209 yards and two touchdowns. It was a solid victory for us and a good start to the season for me.
The next game we faced the Jets, but this time it was a different story. I threw a couple of interceptions, which were bad enough blows to the ego. Then in the third quarter I suffered a blow to the head. It was an all-out blitz—Jon McGraw and Jonathan Vilma came untouched up the middle, and after I let go of the ball, they each took turns hitting me in the head like a pinball machine. Then my head smacked the ground. The first thing I remember after my vision cleared was staring at the ground and seeing everything spinning. I spat what felt like gravel out of my mouth. Three of my teeth were chipped.
At that point I didn’t know I had a concussion, so I stayed in the game. The play came into my headset, but I could barely comprehend the words. I felt like I was underwater. I handed off to LaDainian Tomlinson, and he went in for a touchdown. We celebrated, but I was out of it. I almost ran to the wrong sideline.
By the time I reached our sideline, everything was spinning. The doctors came over to look at me and did the normal routine for a potential head injury. They said three unrelated words—something like “Dog. Banana. Bicycle.” Then they asked me how I felt and checked me out. A couple of minutes later they asked, “What were those three words we said to you earlier?”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
At that point they knew there was a problem. They conferred
Forget all the doubters. Forget all the critics. Is there satisfaction in proving them wrong? Sure, but I don’t want to give those people the gratification of even dwelling on their words that long. There’s a motivator much more powerful than doubt. I play in honor of those who believe in me.
Coming Back Stronger
Earning My Nickname
Competition can bring out the best in a player. If the Chargers hadn’t drafted Philip Rivers in 2004, would I have been as successful that season? There’s no way to know. But the fact is, I knew I needed to bring my best that year—not only to fulfill the commitment I’d made to myself after the Chicago game, but also to win my job back.
Training camp came, and I was ready for a showdown. Despite our competitive rivalry from the start of his rookie year, Philip and I were friends. I respected him as a player and as a teammate, and now as a father to his five children. But San Diego had drafted him to take my job. And I wasn’t going to let that happen.
From day one, I needed to make sure that everyone on my team knew I was going to lead them. I asked Marty at the end of the first team meeting at training camp to take the other coaches and leave the room to give me a few moments to talk to my teammates. This was unusual, especially on the first day of camp, and especially from a guy who was supposed to lose his job that year. And that was what I loved about it. I didn’t care—I talked to my team about leadership, about commitment, and about fighting through adversity. I read them a few motivational quotes I had picked up in the off-season. We then set our goals together as a team. Most important, I looked every last one of those guys in the eye and didn’t flinch. In my heart I was telling them that they hadn’t seen anything yet and that I was ready to lead them. I believe they got the message.
In week one against the Houston Texans, I was named the starter, and Philip began the season as my second backup, behind Doug Flutie.
Winning on the road in the NFL is no easy task. We were playing in Reliant Stadium and were tied 20–20 in the fourth quarter. We drove into Texan territory and scored on a pass to Eric Parker. There was a power outage in the stadium on our next drive, and then we were forced to punt. A couple of plays later, though, we recovered a fumble and got a few first downs to run out the clock. By the time we hit the locker room, I had gone seventeen of twenty-four, for 209 yards and two touchdowns. It was a solid victory for us and a good start to the season for me.
The next game we faced the Jets, but this time it was a different story. I threw a couple of interceptions, which were bad enough blows to the ego. Then in the third quarter I suffered a blow to the head. It was an all-out blitz—Jon McGraw and Jonathan Vilma came untouched up the middle, and after I let go of the ball, they each took turns hitting me in the head like a pinball machine. Then my head smacked the ground. The first thing I remember after my vision cleared was staring at the ground and seeing everything spinning. I spat what felt like gravel out of my mouth. Three of my teeth were chipped.
At that point I didn’t know I had a concussion, so I stayed in the game. The play came into my headset, but I could barely comprehend the words. I felt like I was underwater. I handed off to LaDainian Tomlinson, and he went in for a touchdown. We celebrated, but I was out of it. I almost ran to the wrong sideline.
By the time I reached our sideline, everything was spinning. The doctors came over to look at me and did the normal routine for a potential head injury. They said three unrelated words—something like “Dog. Banana. Bicycle.” Then they asked me how I felt and checked me out. A couple of minutes later they asked, “What were those three words we said to you earlier?”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
At that point they knew there was a problem. They conferred
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