Perspective | White NFL coaches must a take a stand to combat systemic racism

Andy Reid rose from his chair and, at 6-foot-3 and portly, cut an imposing figure while walking to a microphone in the center of the room. In the middle of a heated discussion about coaching diversity, the Kansas City Chiefs coach challenged an audience of NFL head coaches, executives and owners.

“I want to know about my guy,” multiple people in attendance remembered Reid saying of his offensive coordinator, Eric Bieniemy, a Black man and perhaps the most accomplished active assistant who has never been a head coach. “About one-third of the teams in this room have interviewed him. I’ve had a few of my guys become head coaches, none of them more prepared than Eric Bieniemy.”

It was late March, seven weeks after former Miami Dolphins coach Brian Flores sued the NFL for racial discrimination. With the league in crisis, and with the bosses all in one place, Reid was among a few prominent coaches who recognized the moment. They realized the time for complacency was over. They could not be White and passive anymore.

Reid kept stumping for Bieniemy.

“If you think you know something about him that I don’t,” Reid proclaimed, “call me.”

He stood and stared, lips pursed beneath his thick, graying mustache, suggesting the emergence, finally, of an advocate imperative for progress in the plodding pursuit of football equity: the White coach, untangled from privilege and myopia, who refuses to watch from the sideline.

On that March day, NFL decision-makers entered the ballroom of a swanky resort in Palm Beach, Fla., ready for confrontation. They were at the annual league meetings, an opulent business retreat, but they were not there to luxuriate.

The Breakers hotel buzzed with speculation that Flores soon would amend his lawsuit to add more plaintiffs. With the latest hiring cycle complete, White head coaches looked around and saw just five men of color, two of whom were Black. At a session about the career mobility of Black coaches, the profession’s long and vexing culture of silence dissipated.

The session turned into “a lot of aggressive discussion,” according to one person briefed afterward. Others in the room described it as “emotional” and “authentic” and “powerful.” All spoke on the condition of anonymity because of the sensitivity of the topic, but they painted the picture of a tense atmosphere in which unrestrained honesty prevailed over feelings.

Houston Coach Lovie Smith spoke from a Black perspective, but the audacity of White men calling out mostly White owners increased the urgency. Seattle Coach Pete Carroll, passionate and long-winded, called for team owners to venture beyond their sheltered lives and hire the best leaders, not familiar faces. While expressing his exasperation, Baltimore Coach John Harbaugh told the audience, “Hey, if you need names, let me know.” Indianapolis Coach Frank Reich trembled with emotion as he detailed how African Americans have enriched his life in football.

The effort to combat systemic racism in the NFL needs the best and most secure coaches to acknowledge the problem. It needs them to influence change. Inevitably, it means respected White coaches must exit the film room and take a stand. They are not needed to be saviors or racial justice warriors but simply responsible stewards of a sport so terrible at hiring. Most choose not to brandish their power, though.

When Flores filed his lawsuit in February, he disclosed the infamous “wrong Brian” text messages to provide a peek into the NFL’s backroom behavior. New England Coach Bill Belichick, who has won six Super Bowls with the Patriots, accidentally sent word to Flores that he was getting the New York Giants job. Flores hadn’t even interviewed yet. Belichick evidently thought he was writing to another former assistant, Brian Daboll. In initiating his lawsuit, Flores used the texts as evidence of a sham interview. Belichick has said he “can’t comment” on the matter.

Belichick has so much sway that teams keep leering at coaches connected to him even though most of his NFL proteges haven’t succeeded without him. But the promotion of minority candidates hasn’t been a priority. He neither impedes nor intentionally tries to advance racial progress. He just coaches ball, and few have done it better. But he missed a chance to be a major part of a solution.

Fourteen of Belichick’s former players or assistants have become head coaches. Just two are Black: Flores and Romeo Crennel. In his approach, Belichick is much like Bill Parcells, his Hall of Fame mentor. They welcome anyone who can help them win. They don’t consider intentionality an important factor, though.

“Just purposely going forward and do something for somebody, I wouldn’t do that,” said Parcells, who had three African Americans among his 15 former players or assistants who went on to lead franchises. “He had to be able to coach. And if he could coach, then I don’t care what he looks like.”

On the surface, it is an objective statement, but it ignores the subjectivity of coaching, which owners and front-office executives have abused throughout NFL history to make leadership monolithic. Coaches should step back and see all of the dimensions. Instead, they sequester themselves from real life, obsessing over the next game, worried about their disposability. The job pressure makes them care about little beyond the granularity of each hour.

Since 1990, the average full-time NFL head coaching stint has lasted 4.1 years. That is evidence of both the fickle nature and the hiring ineptitude of the league’s franchises. It shreds the misguided assumption that the best candidates always get hired and that inclusion is merely a virtue mission. If NFL teams were more assiduous about identifying coaches, there wouldn’t be so much failure and turnover in a league legislated for parity.

Just eight current coaches have held their jobs for more than five seasons. Six of them have won the Super Bowl. One, the San Francisco 49ers’ Kyle Shanahan, lost in the Super Bowl. The eighth coach, Sean McDermott, guides a Buffalo Bills team widely considered to be a championship favorite this season.

One of these eight is Black: Pittsburgh’s Mike Tomlin.

On the list of most coveted football assets, the long-tenured head coach ranks behind only the franchise quarterback. He is hard to find, obscured by constant NFL acts of irresponsibility. For healthy stewardship of the game, the people who can lead must lead. The people who have knowledge must share. The people who can speak truth to owners must speak.

With profane candor, former Tampa Bay Buccaneers coach Bruce Arians slices through the delusion of coaching meritocracy. The hiring game is dirty and loathsome, he said. Most owners don’t have a deep understanding of the sport. General managers chase leaguewide trends. Self-interested coaches pay off favors, engage in disingenuous promotion of candidates and use their authority to maintain the same old standard. And the coaches who could do some good often keep their heads down, consumed with winning and focused on survival.

“It’s unbelievable. It’s the same ol’ s—,” Arians said. “The coaches know who can coach, but we’re not always thinking about our messaging. I think there is a huge disconnect between who TV and broadcasters and the media are pushing and who can actually do the job. I look at it as it’s my job to hire the best people, make it an eclectic mix because that makes me better, and have them ready when it’s their time to shine. It’s just making sure your head is out of your ass and helping the game grow.”

The hiring drawback extends past race. The sport is so with homogeneous, elitist thought that each one sorts of remarkable expertise will get missed.

Ten years ago, Arians left the game out of resentment. He had helped Pittsburgh win two Super Bowls, the first as wide receivers coach and the second as offensive coordinator. The previous two Steelers offensive coordinators, Mike Mularkey and Ken Whisenhunt, had been rewarded with head coaching jobs elsewhere. No one called to interview Arians. He was a White coach on a Black path.

In January 2012, the Steelers announced Arians would retire, but Tomlin and the organization had decided not to renew his contract because of philosophical differences over his ultra-aggressive, pass-heavy, quarterback-endangering style of offense. He was broken. In a football culture of conformity, he was a maverick who couldn’t possibly handle an entire team. Arians, 59 at the time, thought he would stay retired.

“I figured being a head coach in the NFL wasn’t in the cards for me,” he said. “I couldn’t keep the damn job I was good at because of politics. A lot of the time, the people in this league are more concerned with keeping the status quo and pigeonholing coaches than letting go and trying something different that will work better. I was frustrated, but I was fine with leaving all that s— behind.”

Arians was destined for a second act. He returned to the NFL soon after he left. Chuck Pagano convinced him to be his offensive coordinator in Indianapolis. After Pagano was diagnosed with leukemia in 2012, Arians served as the interim coach and led the Colts on a magical 9-3 run. The maverick really could do it all.

At 60, Arians accomplished his dream when Arizona hired him to be its head coach. Then he went to Tampa Bay, acquired Tom Brady and won Super Bowl LV with the Buccaneers two seasons ago. All the while, Arians employed the NFL’s most diverse coaching staff — Black and White, men and women, young and old — a group that he considers his crowning achievement.

Arians owns three championship rings. He developed a reputation for grooming elite quarterbacks and orchestrating flashy offenses. He won 62.4 percent of his games as an NFL head coach. But he hopes to be remembered most for succeeding his way — and, because of what he went through, he made sure it was an inclusive way.

“I was 60 when I got a chance,” Arians said. “I could do what I want and not give a s—.”

Bill Walsh was 48 when he acquired a probability. He preferred to remind folks that the league made him wait too lengthy.

He was an assistant in Cincinnati when Paul Brown retired from coaching. Walsh should’ve replaced him. However, Brown didn’t think Walsh’s professorial approach would work. He declined to push Walsh for other jobs, too. Like that of Arians, Walsh’s experience strengthened his desire to embrace fresh faces and ideas.

“People thought he was too cerebral, too soft,” said Harry Edwards, the renowned sociologist, civil rights activist and longtime friend who eulogized Walsh during his 2007 funeral. “He would say: ‘I wasn’t a hardcore coach. And I’m not going to change. Because this is a better way.’ ”

In the mid-1980s, Walsh noticed shifting demographics in the locker room. For the first time, the NFL had become a majority Black league. Walsh, already coaching a championship San Francisco 49ers organization, called Edwards for help with an idea.

“He was concerned that his Black players didn’t have the same post-playing options,” Edwards said. “What Bill wanted to create was a system that, in its totality, made them better football players by caring for them off the field.”

Edwards was intrigued. He consulted with Walsh and the organization as they implemented programs that covered counseling, prevention of drug use, financial planning, tax assistance and college degree completion. They also initiated the Bill Walsh Diversity Coaching Fellowship, which has helped a who’s who of Black coaches enter the business for more than three decades.

No White coach nourished diversity more than Walsh. From the time San Francisco recruited him in 1979, he established himself as an important figure in changing the game. He hired assistants without bias. He was an early identifier of young players, regardless of talent level, who could lead and teach the game. He inspired many to pursue coaching careers, including Tony Dungy, who became a Hall of Famer and the contemporary model for developing minority coaches.

Combine his coaching tree with the fellowship, and Walsh has a broad and enduring network.

“Bill Walsh was a very special coach,” said Ray Rhodes, a former Walsh assistant who coached the Philadelphia Eagles and Green Bay Packers. “He not only just talked it. He acted upon everything. He opened the door for me. He gave me an opportunity to come right into coaching.”

Said Herm Edwards, the previous coach of the New York Jets and Chiefs: “You’re talking about a guy that was a change agent as a head coach.”

Late in the 1988 season, the job at Stanford University came open. Word reached Walsh that Mike Holmgren, the 49ers’ quarterbacks coach, was being considered. Walsh was perplexed. He called Holmgren into his office.

“How did this happen?” Walsh asked pointedly.

Holmgren, who is White, explained that he wasn’t campaigning for the Stanford job, but he had a family connection. A friend of his brother-in-law was on the board of trustees. Walsh chose to be intentional about endorsing an assistant he thought was a better fit: Dennis Green, his wide receivers coach.

“Well, listen, Mike: You’re not ready for Stanford,” Walsh told him. “I’m recommending Denny for Stanford.”

Walsh suggested several lower-profile college jobs for Holmgren. Green, a Black man who later coached the Minnesota Vikings and Arizona Cardinals, got the Stanford job.

At first, Holmgren was offended that Walsh thought he was too green. He moved past it quickly. Though he disagreed, Holmgren comprehended Walsh’s lesson about merit, access and race.

A few weeks later, San Francisco would win its third Super Bowl under Walsh. After 10 triumphant seasons, he retired as an NFL coach, leaving no doubt that his approach was indeed a better way.

Holmgren has regrets he can’t quite verbalize. The game was so good to him, but it tortured one of the best people he knew: Sherman Lewis.

As assistants on a loaded San Francisco staff, Holmgren, Rhodes and Lewis dreamed together. They envisioned becoming head coaches. The first to ascend would hire the other two as coordinators.

Rhodes and Lewis told Holmgren they would be working for him. Holmgren disagreed because he respected them so much and they had been part of the 49ers’ dynasty for longer. But his friends laid out the particulars: Holmgren coached quarterbacks under Walsh, then became offensive coordinator under George Seifert. And he was White. In the early 1990s, the NFL had one Black head coach. Rhodes and Lewis knew they would be working for Holmgren.

In 1992, the Packers hired Holmgren, who had been courted by six teams. He tabbed Rhodes to run the defense and Lewis to guide the offense, though Holmgren would call the plays. He was the first head coach in NFL history to hire two Black coordinators. Rhodes and Lewis represented half of the league’s Black coordinators at the time.

By 1995, Rhodes was named the head coach in Philadelphia. Seven assistants from Holmgren’s time in Green Bay were elevated to top jobs. Five were on the offensive staff that Lewis managed: Andy Reid, Steve Mariucci, Jon Gruden, Mike Sherman and Marty Mornhinweg.

Lewis never received an opportunity.

At Holmgren’s side, Lewis helped develop the Packers into a Super Bowl champion and a consistent force. The Green Bay variation of Walsh’s West Coast offense became one of the most popular schemes in the sport. But the man who did most of the teaching was overlooked.

“All those years, we worked side by side in the offensive room in San Francisco,” Holmgren said. “He was exactly what Coach Walsh loved in a coach. He’s not a screamer or yeller. He’s a great teacher, with a great sense of humor. In Green Bay, he did it all. He ran all the meetings, did the install, everything. The only thing I kept for myself was the red-zone stuff. The only reason he didn’t call plays during games was because that was one of the fun things about coaching for me.”

Holmgren, who was 43 when he took the Green Bay job, would “get so mad I couldn’t think straight” throughout some video games. That’s when Lewis stepped ahead.

“I don’t always like to admit this because I never did anything wrong, you know?” Holmgren said, laughing before turning serious. “Sherm was the only one who was allowed to talk to me in the headset. When I was angry, I would say: ‘Sherm, take it. I’ve got to catch my breath.’ And he would take over for a while, and we would be more than fine.”

In 1999, Holmgren left Green Bay for the Seattle Seahawks to serve as head coach, general manager and executive vice president. The Packers hired Rhodes to replace him. Holmgren asked Lewis to come to Seattle. He declined because Rhodes offered him the chance to call the plays. He thought it would complete his résumé. Later, Lewis was a coordinator for Minnesota and Detroit, but he ended his career as one of the most successful assistant coaches never to run his own team.

Holmgren’s tone changes as he thinks back. He recommended Lewis often, but could he have been more persuasive? Should he have been more proactive and unabashedly campaigned for him? Did he fail to share enough of the credit for the Packers’ success?

“It still bothers me,” Holmgren said. “I thought I did everything I could, but I just couldn’t help him enough.”

Kyle Shanahan, whose father, Mike, won two Super Bowls as the Denver Broncos’ head coach, came to the 49ers in 2017 determined to shun any sense of entitlement. He made a purposeful effort to build a staff that reflected all of America — in terms of race, gender, religion and sexual orientation, as many good coaches with different perspectives as he could find — and the variety only enhanced the quality.

In 2020, after the murder of George Floyd, Shanahan criticized the NFL for having just four minority head coaches and two minority general managers.

“We have everything, and it’s not just to show people that we’re trying to be diverse,” said Shanahan, who has had two assistants of color, Robert Saleh (Lebanese American) and Mike McDaniel (biracial), hired elsewhere as head coaches. “It’s because I’ve been around these people, and they are really good at what they do. We can’t win without these people, and that’s just how it works out.

“I don’t know why the numbers [throughout the NFL] aren’t like that, but the numbers are wrong. That’s stuff that, hell yeah, we want to fix. … Those numbers don’t lie. That’s what makes it a fact. That’s what White people have to admit.”

But for Shanahan and other young offensive minds in his network, their success inadvertently creates a problem. The competition’s copycat desire to hire assistant coaches most like the trendsetters exacerbates an imbalance that they would like to remedy.

Los Angeles Rams Coach Sean McVay is 36, and his tree already has produced four head coaches — three of them from the offensive side, all of them White. Unconscious bias complicates appreciation of a phenomenon known as the Sean McVay effect because, so far, it has elevated the same kind of under-40 coach from a staff with a diverse array of gifted teachers.

“I’ve been around a lot of great coaches with a lot of different backgrounds,” McVay said. “It’s the people that make this place so special.”

McVay tries to redirect the hype to some of his deserving Black assistants: defensive coordinator Raheem Morris, defensive line coach Eric Henderson and assistant head coach/tight ends coach Thomas Brown. He doesn’t want the perception of his brilliance to block progress. But can a coach, programmed for self-protection, manage to stay altruistic? Do other teams care to consider Rams assistants who don’t resemble McVay?

The coach downplays the Sean McVay effect. He wants those making hires to realize ingenuity lies in ideas and initiative, not appearance and age.

Bruce Arians was done hoping. For his final coaching act, he wouldn’t leave fairness to chance. After returning to Tampa from the league meetings, he announced his latest retirement. And his defensive coordinator, Todd Bowles, would replace him.

Arians, 70, has health issues. He reportedly has a strained relationship with Tom Brady, and though Arians denies the claims, whispers persist that the quarterback played a role in his departure. But the coach’s explanation was more profound: He had long imagined being part of a succession plan.

In the past two hiring cycles, Arians relived his buried pain through his hopes for coordinators Bowles and Byron Leftwich. Arians anticipated job offers for both. He was mistaken.

Because of his Pittsburgh experience, Arians is set off by the shunning of championship-caliber coordinators. As preparations for the 2022 season began, he was torn. He retained his top two assistants, but disappointment interfered with his gratitude.

“We were at the top of the league, and they were being slept on,” Arians said. “At least they got interviews, but it kind of felt like Pittsburgh all over again to me.”

Arians ditched a solid chance to win another Super Bowl and persuaded the franchise to elevate Bowles, whom he had coached in college at Temple. If the rest of the league couldn’t recognize the former Jets coach deserved a second chance, at least Arians could.

Who knew variety had to be so subversive?

During the heated session at the league meetings, a few team owners grew angry. They despised the stereotypes that they are too eccentric and removed from reality to make sound decisions. A couple of them shot back. None of the coaches backed down, and executives such as 49ers General Manager John Lynch spoke to broaden the feedback.

Then other owners gave testimonials that echoed the coaches’ sentiments, led by Indianapolis’s Jim Irsay, Kansas City’s Clark Hunt and the Jets’ Woody Johnson. They touted the value of running franchises that have hired multiple minority head coaches, but there was humility in their tone. Their comments, according to people in the room, felt like “a rallying cry.”

Of course, the NFL has perfected vague, conciliatory acceptance of blame. It seems Commissioner Roger Goodell lowers his head at the end of every hiring cycle and admits the need to do better. But the vows made at this convention felt more personal and, perhaps of greater significance, the threat of future face-to-face conflict loomed.

White coaches, untethered from apathy, took over a discussion that shook owners from their positions of comfort. It was a cathartic moment but not yet a breakthrough. It won’t take long to find out whether the March conflict made an impact. The next hiring cycle — already underway after the Carolina Panthers fired Matt Rhule in October — provides the latest opportunity.

Even if there is immediate progress, more than a century of NFL history suggests the league will revert to exclusion. One noisy moment won’t be enough. A broken system needs the leading coaches to lend more of themselves to fixing it.