Quiet Strength by Tony Dungy, Nathan Whitaker

Wisconsin with the run, winning 24–3. I even threw that touchdown pass to set the record. And we were happy to have Wisconsin hand over Paul Bunyan’s Axe.
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    When I arrived in Minneapolis in the summer of 1973, I was eager to start learning the no-huddle offense from Coach Tom Moore as soon as possible. I also wanted to familiarize myself with the campus and begin a summer job.
    The school lined me up with a position at a meatpacking plant called Feinberg’s. It was within walking distance from where I was living—about fifteen blocks—which was ideal because I didn’t have a car. My shift started at 6 a.m., which gave me time in the afternoon to work out and spend time learning the offense with Tom.
    There were two minor difficulties with the meatpacking job. First, I had never worked so hard in my life, before or since. Second, I always seemed to have stray dogs following me from work to the university’s football offices. I didn’t feel like I was in danger of being attacked, but it took me about three days to figure out what was attracting them—the smell of pastrami.
    I stuck with that job all summer, remembering what my dad had taught me about learning from every experience. I definitely learned one thing—I never wanted to work in a meatpacking plant again. It made me value my football scholarship and free college education much more. After that summer, I found jobs on my own, without the university’s assistance. No more meatpacking.
    The summer after my freshman year, I had a great job working for Cargill on a research farm in Elk River, just north of Minneapolis. I would pick up three inner-city high school boys and drive them to the farm, where we helped with some of the research projects. Despite the early schedule—we had to be there at 7 a.m., meaning we left around 6 a.m.—I really enjoyed it. The farm tested different types of animal feeds. We would measure the amount of food that was given and what was left over (in the troughs, thankfully) and weigh the animals periodically, among other tasks. We all found it fascinating. I got to know the high school boys through our conversations on the way to the farm since we were usually too tired to talk on the way back. It was one of the first times I really understood that not everyone had a dad at home.
    In my third year, I hit the jackpot, landing one of those office jobs I had always heard about—an internship with General Mills. Our team was introducing a new cereal, Golden Grahams, into the national market by testing it in three or four cities and creating an advertising campaign. It was like being on The Apprentice —without the worry of getting fired. I finally felt like I was putting my business courses to good use. But I also realized that neckties and I were not compatible. I still get a headache if I wear a tie for more than fifteen minutes.
    By my senior year, my reputation as a football player was building, and the jobs were a little easier to find. I was much better at avoiding early mornings, farm animals, meat-rending machines, and ties. That summer I worked in the sporting goods department of Dayton Hudson’s flagship department store in downtown Minneapolis. Right before the season started, the Minneapolis Tribune ran a preseason Big Ten section with a story about me, along with my photo. With my huge afro and suit, I looked as if I had just walked off the stage from a Sly and the Family Stone gig. The caption asked, “Would you buy a tennis racket from this man?”
    Probably a fair question.
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    In the end, I carved out a pretty nice college football career under Coaches Stoll and Moore at Minnesota. I graduated as fourth all-time in total offense in the Big Ten, a two-time team Most Valuable Player, and captain my senior year. I was also a two-time Academic All–Big Ten, all the while having a blast running our innovative offense.
    We played Illinois my senior year, and they executed very sophisticated schemes on defense,