The “It” Factor
I used to have a satin pillowcase with Charlie Waters’ face on it. He was the quarterback of the defensive backfield for the Dallas Cowboys during the glory years. The Doomsday Defense, of which he was a part, was notorious for being stingy, and skilled, and nasty humble-mean as they anchored the franchise that became America’s Team. They would take the field like a bunch of cattle rustlers just jogging out to do their job, and, more often than not, they’d jog back off three plays later, their grass and blood-stained uni’s the only sign that what they did was hard. Waters was the good looking ballhawk (hence the pillowcase) who locked down the middle of the field at free safety. I loved him for his wavy hair, his swiveling hips, and his uncanny nose for the ball. But Roger the Dodger Staubach was who I wanted to be when I grew up. He was the real QB. The guy standing behind center barking orders as he moved the Dallas Cowboys up and down the football field with stars on the sides of his helmet and juju in his arm.
Staubach was a hero. The real life kind who spent a year in Vietnam in between the Heisman and the Hall of Fame. Before quarterbacking the Cowboys for eleven years, he led the U.S. Naval Academy for four, where he was the poster child for servant leadership before the world made that a thing. When you watched him, it was hard to tell what he was better at holding, the heartbeat of the team or the ball with leather laces and white stripes around both ends. Roger Staubach had a canon for an arm and the kind of happy feet that caused more misses than a shaky hand on a gun. Those loose, elusive legs, and eyes that could feel ‘em coming, are what earned him the Dodger nickname. Staubach could make something out of nothing. And he very often did. He was Napoleon’s consummate dealer in hope, the guy with the ball in tow making teammates and fans (and even opponents) wonder if he might be the one Mahalia Jackson sings about, and Eddie Arnold before her, the one simultaneously playing football while holding the whole world in his hands.
When you watched him, it was hard to tell what he was better at holding, the heartbeat of the team or the ball with leather laces and white stripes around both ends.
The quarterback position might be the most important position in all of team sports and yet it might be the most poorly evaluated. (The point guard in me wants to argue, but I think we’re locked in at second place). While Roger Staubach came out a seeming no-brainer, not all of the great quarterbacks are. There’s no such thing as a mold, a shape that steels a destiny. Eddie Lebaron was the first quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys. He was 5’7”, 165, played 11 years in the NFL and fought in Korea in his spare time. Kyler Murray is 5’10”. He won the Heisman while in college and was named the NFL’s 2019 Rookie of the Year. On the other hand, Tom Brady is 6’4” and, unlike Eddie Lebaron, he stretches with bands when he’s not on the field. He’s also 44 years old and still playing and has a Super Bowl ring for almost every finger on his hands. Dan Marino and Troy Aikman are also 6’4”, and Big Ben Roethlisberger weighs in at 6’5” and a solid 245. Championship quarterbacks come in physical packages as varied as their gifts.
By lore, the quarterback is handsome, and charismatic and way tougher than he at first glance seems, a reputational divergence Broadway Joe created by wearing fur coats and Hanes Pantyhose on national TV. From Dandy Don to Johnny U to the guy who won’t eat tomatoes (that one we just call the GOAT), quarterbacks have always had their eccentricities. And where they excel on the field is generally in their mechanical uniqueness, too. Except for maybe Peyton Manning who does most everything by the book. Some are terrific if able to stay in the pocket, some are maestros if allowed to roll out. Some are genius at picking up blitzes, others at clicking through reads. Most have impeccable footwork, but Aaron Rodgers hardly ever sets his feet and Eli Manning fades away. Fran Tarkington was known for scrambling, Jim Plunkett for his rocket arm, and Brett Farve for breaking all the passing records as well having a hard time being able to quit.
Quarterbacks are hard to evaluate because their success quotient depends upon so many factors, not the least of which are hidden underneath the skin. Tom Brady was drafted in the 6th round out of college and was the 7th quarterback taken overall. Even his college coach tried to bring in a guy to beat him out his senior year. Kurt Warner was undrafted out of Northern Iowa. He played arena ball and stocked groceries for $5 an hour at the local Hyvee before becoming a two time MVP. Peyton Manning was taken 1st in the draft. That one turned out just as planned, though many experts ridiculed the pick when it happened because Ryan Leaf scored better on all the things they could put a measuring tape around. What’s the difference between Tom Brady and Giovanni Carmazzi? A lot of things we can’t quite put our finger on, and it makes us lose our minds.
Evaluation can be tricky. Sometimes it’s hard to see what’s really there through the strain of looking so hard for what you want (or hope) to find. Sometimes the real deal is eclipsed by bias, the sort we carry simply because we are human, that subtle lens that shapes our looking, the one we don’t even know we have. And sometimes the stuff you just can’t see-- no matter how well or hard you look--trumps all the stuff you can.
Finding “It” is never easy.
When he came out of college, Tom Brady was long and lanky, his game soft, and his skill set undeveloped. He didn’t run fast and he couldn’t jump high. Nothing about him was very pretty, despite his chiseled face and the dimple in his chin. Pro scouts didn’t all miss the obvious; the obvious wasn’t there. Neither was the breadcrumb trail to ‘greatest of all time’.
Because “It” is like that. Maddening because it’s so impervious to evaluation. Slippery. Tough to quantify. Impossible to put in a box, or teach to the kiddos who sign up to play football at camp. Trying to measure it is like trying to measure air. I guess someone could try to build a test for it, like Angela Duckworth did for grit, but even then I don’t think it could tell you who’d be standing in the end. Because you can’t draw a circle around “It” or highlight it in yellow even when you know it’s there. It’s like the black hole that doesn’t show up in photographs. It’s there and it’s real and we know it, but it’s not a thing you prove on paper no matter how hard you might try.
Baker Mayfield came to Norman to play for the Sooners after being a walk-on quarterback at Texas Tech. He came in, sat out for a year, played for two, and went to Cleveland carrying his Heisman where they picked him to come save the Browns. He had “It” peeking out of his headband, it just didn’t show up in his file. Baker is fast, mostly when chasing down his teammates to celebrate a giant play, and he becomes superhuman when a play gets busted up and the game is on the line. Chaos is his opponent’s worst nightmare because that’s when “It” takes over and Bake becomes like the kid at Christmas, rifling through the poop to get to the pony. And he seems to like it best that way. Messy and ugly and borderline impossible. That’s where he’s most at home--when the weight is on his shoulders, and “It” is leaking from his pores.
Baker scored slightly above average on the Wonderlic, the NFL’s assessment that supposedly helps predict who will soar and who will crash at the quarterback position. Ryan Fitzpatrick scored 48/50. Patrick Mahomes, 24. Brady and Manning were both in the low 30’s. So pretty much this test tells us little about who can and can’t or will and won’t be able to get it done.
Tests like the Wonderlic and Grit provide information about how an individual might handle stress or diffuse conflict or make quick authoritative decisions, but sports aren’t played on paper and football certainly isn’t flat. So, the tests are, more or less, admission tickets. They get a guy in the gate but not necessarily in the game. And they certainly can’t predict who will be able to summon the angels to come along for the ride.
The real quarterback superstars have pockets stuffed with “It”. “It” is how they sound in the huddle. It’s what they say, and how they look. It’s how they work and what they do to prepare and how they take care of their bodies and their minds. It’s also how they love their teammates and how much they love the game. And what their instincts tell them in the middle of the fray.
The ones who have the gifts but don’t become the superstars usually lack “It” (except for maybe Sam Bradford who really just needed an offensive line). “It” has shades the naked eye can’t see. “It” doesn’t care where you came from or who you trained under. It floors all kinds of personalities and body types and a variety pack of skills. And it moves through those who have it like water to a low spot on a leaky roof, finding its way to the moment even when the experts say there simply is no way that it should have gotten in.
Roger Staubach was and is my hero. I met him about 20 years ago at an awards event in Dallas and he was even better in person than he was in a helmet an pads. I have a jersey, still, hanging in my spare bedroom closet. It’s white with the number twelve in blue outlined in silver on the front and on the back, an exact replica of the one I wore in the front yard when I was a kid, throwing spirals to my brother as he ran post routes through the neighbor’s yard. That jersey is my talisman for “It”, the Roger Staubach kind that never fades away.
Sherri Coale
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