A smile that spreads across his freckled face at the mention of his kids speaks more of Tony Dungy’s greatness than the trophy he gripped in his hand after becoming the first African American coach to lead a team to Super Bowl victory.
A smile that spreads across his freckled face at the mention of his kids speaks more of Tony Dungy’s greatness than the trophy he gripped in his hand after becoming the first African American coach to lead a team to Super Bowl victory.
The quiet football giant slides into the back of the pickup, his lanky frame filling up the backseat where clothes and sports paraphernalia are strewn. “This reminds me of my truck,” he comments sonorously, fastening his seat-belt for the 25-minute drive to the Atlanta airport.
More than a year after retiring from his post as head coach of the Indianapolis Colts, Dungy hasn’t slowed his pace. Today he spoke to 12,000 Christian leaders in Atlanta, but he seems more excited to get home to Tampa, Florida, and to the hugs and kisses waiting for him from his three youngest kids, all adopted.
Dungy comes by his paternal instinct honestly. His own father, the late Wilbur Dungy, a college professor, poured character, excellence, and godliness into his children—the same qualities that would one day position Dungy to become an outspoken Christian, an NFL legend, and a family man.
It’s been a bumpy road to this point. As a hotheaded high school freshman on the basketball court, Dungy remembers getting worked up about bad calls.
“Venting,” he would call it.
“Dumb,” his father dubbed it.
Today the cool, unruffled 54-year-old version of himself has transferred his own father’s wisdom beyond his biological and adopted children. All of his former players are his kids, too, in a way. And so are the guys he meets in prison.
With his hand resting on the back of the seat and 20 minutes till reaching the airport, Dungy explains how he found his way to prison ministry.
FATHERS AND SONS
Growing up in Jackson, Michigan—home to what was once known as the largest walled prison in the world—young Dungy developed a distasteful opinion of the men who filled that prison: hard, tough, and rough. But in 1996, while serving as the head coach for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Dungy met Abe Brown, a retired high school coach who had started an outreach to prisoners. Brown encouraged Dungy to go with him to prison.
“I agreed to go with him . . . and when I went, I was surprised at how many young men that I saw. And I saw a bunch of 19-, 20-, 21-year-olds who looked like my kids.”
And who looked like his players, many of whom also grew up without fathers and who got into trouble . . . but didn’t get caught. Regular guys who just needed a little guidance. Dungy figured he could translate his coaching counsel to a razor wire setting.
“Even if one of your players has some problems or some issues, they’re not bad guys. You want to help them. And you get the same situation with an inmate, and the only difference is he’s behind bars.”
All through his tenure as head coach for “the Bucs” (from 1996 to 2002), Dungy made many visits to prisons. Football was always an easy conversation starter with prisoners, and Dungy soon made many fans behind bars, often receiving sketches, paintings, and poetry from inmates who were impacted by his visits.
After he was fired from the Bucs, he considered leaving football altogether and devoting most of his time to prison ministry. But then he got a call from the Colts, and he packed up his family for Indianapolis.
Three years into his stint in Indiana—just a year off from winning the Super Bowl—Dungy faced a father’s worst nightmare: His 18-year-old son Jamie was found dead in his apartment. Suicide.
Dungy’s demons came fast and strong. Where had he gone wrong as a father? How could he challenge other men to be better dads and lose his own son?
A QUIET STRENGTH
But friends from Indianapolis, Tampa, and all across the country buttressed him against despair, and his faith in a loving God sustained him against the false accusations.
Dungy later wrote in his book A Quiet Strength: “Why do bad things happen? I don’t know. Why did Jamie die? I don’t know. But I do know that God has the answers, I know He loves me, and I know He has a plan—whether it makes sense to me or not.”
Just one week after Jamie’s death, Dungy was back on the field watching his team finish the season and preparing for the next year’s ride to glory on the Super Bowl train.
A year after beating the Chicago Bears and winning the Lombardi trophy—a point most considered the height of his career—Dungy retired. Not so much to get away from the game, but so he could spend more time with his family, and prisoners.
He didn’t have to wait long.
MENTORING VICK
In 2007, Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick was indicted for operating an illegal dog fighting ring and sentenced to prison. Dungy agreed to serve as Vick’s mentor.
Concerned more for Vick’s soul than his football career, Dungy flew to the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas, to chat with the infamous athlete. What he found was a disgraced young man who had grown up without much guidance and who, Dungy believed, was eager to change his trajectory.
“Michael is so much like so many of the guys I’ve talked to and dealt with over the last 13 years. There are just two differences. Everyone knows his face and knows his name, whereas so many of the guys [in prison] would be nameless and faceless to the general public. And number two: Michael has a lot of people in his corner and had that blessing to get a second chance.”
While staying in touch with Vick—who recently got his second chance with the Philadelphia Eagles—once a week over the phone and sometimes in person, Dungy is now focusing his efforts toward creating second chances for the nameless Michael Vicks.
“In my book [Uncommon], one of the first chapters is about a young man who had a DUI homicide. Well, he’s spent 10 years in prison. He’s now out, but the first question on the questionnaire when you try to get a job is, Have you ever been convicted of a felony? And he has to put, Yes . . . He can never get to explain that [he’s changed]. And I think that’s the part that has to change if we’re really going to give people an opportunity to take advantage of a second chance.”
With Abe Brown Ministries, Dungy is helping many Florida prisoners get that chance. But to focus on that, he chooses to pass up other opportunities. He even said no to serving on President Obama’s faith-based council so he could do the things he cares about most: helping prisoners, encouraging fathers, and hanging with his own kids. He recalls a piece of advice a fellow coach once gave him:
“He’d say, “There’ll be a lot of things you could do, but there’ll be many of those things other people could. But there’ll be some things that you can do that no one else can.’ And that’s what I try to look at when I get offers and opportunities. Is this something someone else could do or is this something special that I might be able to do a little more effectively than someone else?”
The pickup pulls up behind the runway, and Dungy turns his unmistakable shaved head toward his private jet. In two days he’ll be in New York to comment on an NFL broadcast. But first, home to Tampa watch his teenage son Eric play Friday night football.
Tony Dungy has written two books, A Quiet Strength and Uncommon, and co-founded All Pro Dad, an organization that challenges men to spend more time with their kids. Tony and his wife, Lauren, are the proud parents of Tiara, Eric, Jordan, Jade, Justin, and the late James Dungy.
