Prologue
CONCEPTS
HE EXITS MEMORIAL STADIUM through Gate 12, the brick walls of the arena towering behind him, and makes his way toward the Everest Training Center across the street. Hip-hop music throbs from speakers, its bass so strong you feel it in your chest. I Milly Rock on any block / I Milly Rock on any block. Along the white walls, stretches of crimson contain white lettering that remind all who enter of national titles won and other honors achieved. The walls and white ceiling and striking green turf envelop him as he joins a crowd of players and coaches and staff, among whom he looks at home. There’s a faint but distinct smell of sweat, of young men at work.
Lincoln Riley moves lightly on his feet, bouncing to the music, as the Oklahoma offense gets loose for some light drills. There’s a pair of slide sandals inexplicably strewn on the turf in the middle of everything. Lincoln searches for their owner: Baker Mayfield, the team’s star Heisman finalist from the season before. The kid’s making some quick warm-up throws wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and nothing on his feet but socks.
“Hey,” Lincoln says, his Texas accent thick. “Nice shoes. Try not to get stepped on.”
Then Lincoln moves along, leaving the star quarterback, the Heisman contender, the future of this team’s season, to continue playing football in socks.
Lincoln moves like an athlete in his crimson Dri-FIT team shirt, black shorts, and gray running shoes, and he works up a light sweat as he makes his way around the field. From quarterbacks to running backs to receivers, he fist-bumps here, shoulder-checks there, bobs his head and shoulders, bobs in rhythm with the beat—more or less—all with a grin on his face. It’s a Monday night in August 2017, and the season starts soon.
He’s thirty-three years old, and he’s the head coach of the Oklahoma Sooners, one of the best college football programs in the country. Growing up, he never thought he would end up here. He grew up six hours west, in a tiny town called Muleshoe in West Texas, close to New Mexico, about as far west as West Texas goes. He was as close to the aliens in Roswell as he was to any football powers.
Practice begins.
Baker tosses footballs to running backs working on routes. He’s accurate and their hands are good. He doesn’t get stepped on. Lincoln lets it slide for now. He’ll have plenty more serious problems with Baker soon enough.
Lincoln organizes receivers for release drills, lining them up against each other to practice the violent art of breaking free. They snatch their defender by the forearm, the elbow, the whatever, fling them out of the way, and sprint past.
Lincoln lines up across from the biggest receiver there. (“I’ve never been one to just stand on the sidelines,” he says. “I like being in the mix.”)
“All right, ready now,” he says. He takes the defensive position.
The receiver stands some six and a half feet tall and his biceps are thick. This is a big young man, more built than most receivers so tall.
“Ready,” Lincoln says. He lowers his head and looks up at the receiver, his chin jutting out as he speaks, and a charge of competition fills the air. “And. Go.”
The receiver launches forward, snatches Lincoln’s right wrist and yanks, pulling Lincoln aside. The receiver flies free. Lincoln, going with the momentum from the pull, turns in a half-circle. He claps and roars at the kid for a job well done. Then he lines up again, against another receiver, and tells the others to do the same. And they all go again. Soon a dozen football players are whooping and hollering, their noise echoing around the building, feeding off their coach and the energy he gives them, their grunts and roars blending with the music.
Lincoln shakes his arm and rolls his shoulder. “Dang,” he says. “You really start to get that tinglin’ feeling after a while.” He’s downplaying it, but when the receivers yank his arm and pull free, for an instant before turning to clap and cheer, Lincoln winces. His shoulder hurts.
* * *
A couple hours later, Lincoln settles into a soft and beautiful brown leather couch in his office across the street, where he tells the story of what happened to that shoulder, and what it means to hurt yourself and then heal.
Before he was a coach, he was a player with big dreams that he failed to achieve, and despite fantastic success as a coach, he still feels pain from that failure. He feels it, physically, in his body, to this day. That may sound like a curse, but it has also been a gift as he has allowed it to teach him, to make him the coach the young men in his charge need. His story is as much about becoming a man as it is about becoming a coach.
Many who know Lincoln say he was born with a gift, with a different sort of brain, with a unique ability bordering on genius. But then, watching a hometown star achieve great things has a way of distorting the past: some in town who knew him well claim that he was also his high school class valedictorian or salutatorian, which he wasn’t. Lincoln, for his part, pushes aside any such talk. He says he’s just lucky. He’s lucky he got to work with good coaches, he’s lucky he got to coach good players, he’s lucky in a lot of other ways. He doesn’t care for when people try talking him up as a genius. He appreciates the sentiment—he knows they mean well—but he can’t help but disagree. “I came up in good environments to learn,” he says.
When Lincoln downplays his accomplishments like this, it can come off as almost disingenuous, because when you trace the course of his life, this obvious pattern emerges: where he goes, teams don’t just get better, they are transformed. And yet, when he talks about not being a genius, about being lucky, you believe that he believes it, too. He really seems to think that he’s only gotten here because of other people. And, of course, it’s true. None of us are who we are on our own.
Lincoln, however, seems hyperaware of how other people have affected him—or at least he would much rather talk about other people than himself. He worries about people thinking that he thinks he’s “got everything all figured out.” He made the mistake of acting that way when he was younger. He also made the mistake of believing that he did have to have everything all figured out, and he saw how that hurt him. Now, part of the joy he gets from what he does is feeling that there’s always something else to learn.
Right now, he’s trying to figure out how to balance the new demands on his time while also maintaining healthy relationships with his players. He’ll text players, call them, stop them in the halls or on sidewalks around campus and just … catch up. And it’s the nature of the relationship, the things they talk about and how they talk about them. “There’s a lot to it,” he says. “You feel like you’re half football coach, half academic counselor, half Dr. Phil. Yeah, there’s a lot of that. But it helps them. It’s necessary to play at a high level to get them all mentally into place. And balancing all that to find what they do well. It’s almost like having a new puzzle each year and you just gotta make all the pieces fit.”
He sometimes finds himself concerned about not getting to know them well enough. “You spend so much time with them, depend on each other so much—how can you not care about them?” he says. “I don’t feel it in terms of success or winning or not—I don’t have to convince myself to feel that. I just can’t imagine doing my job if not. I really can’t.”
Lincoln starts to say something else, but he thinks about it first, as though knowing it might sound too over-the-top. But then he says it anyway: “I just care about these guys almost as much as my own daughters. I just don’t know how else to say it … My motivation to get to know them goes way beyond just, Oh, if I get to know them better they’ll play better or I can reach them more. I understand that’s one of the benefits of it, but I would do it even if it wasn’t a benefit. I enjoy doing it. It’s one of the best parts of this game.”
When the season begins in a few weeks, Lincoln will have just turned thirty-four. He’s the youngest major college football head coach in the country.
His new office is enormous. Eighteen hundred square feet. And it is extraordinary. You know new car smell? This has new office smell. It’s not all that different, just with more leather. Leather couches and chairs form a meeting area in the center. A desk sits to the right when you walk in, another couch is to the left, and huge windows are straight ahead, letting sunlight pour in. Two flat-screen TVs adorn walls, massive, one on each end. The room is like a miniature cathedral, just with more dark wood and crimson. His wife, Caitlin, takes their young daughters, Sloan and Stella, with her when she brings Lincoln his lunch most days. Sloan runs to the windows every time and says, “How high up we are!”
This office wasn’t made for him. It was made for Bob Stoops, Oklahoma’s coach for the previous eighteen years. A case in the corner displays a slew of Stoops’s rings and watches, prizes from championships and bowl games won. Stoops retired suddenly in June and said Lincoln should replace him. He had put the case of watches and rings in here as a diversion months ago. He knew he was going to retire, but he wanted to keep the impression that everything was normal until the time came to let Lincoln take over.
It can be overwhelming. “You gotta get away from it sometimes,” says Ruffin McNeill, his assistant head coach and longtime friend. “Go somewhere and have a great time and forget you’re a coach for a little while. It’s going to be waiting on you when you get back.”
Sometimes, Lincoln takes his wife and daughters to a lake three hours south, near Dallas. Other times, to Vermejo Park in New Mexico, where they hike and explore and fish. He’s long turned to the water for solace, for escape, starting with when he was a boy. He loves this life, he loves this job, he loves what he does, but sometimes he just has to get away.
This life can strain a man in unnatural ways. Sometimes it can threaten to stretch him into a person beyond who he wants to be, the demands of such a prominent and powerful position fraying the more pure and innocent parts of himself that made him into the kind of man who could get here. That’s another thing a coach must always be figuring out: how to maintain what he’s doing without losing who he is in the process. There’s a part of him, a part he might be a little blind to sometimes, that can want too much, feel too hungry.
A gold chain around Lincoln’s neck glints in the low office light. “It’s my wedding ring,” he says. “I hate wearing rings. I hate wearing things on my hands.”
This aversion to rings is not unusual where he comes from. “We’re from West Texas,” Caitlin says. “And a lot of farm workers—like my dad and his dad, neither one like wearing one. For safety.” A breaking of tradition, in the name of not getting hurt.
Lincoln chuckles, remembering where he was in life when he got the necklace. “I don’t know if it’s pure gold or not,” he says. “We probably couldn’t afford pure gold at the time we got married.”
It has certainly been a journey from there to here.
He’s here because, as Ruffin says, “Not only is he smart, he’s also wise.” An affable African American man nearing sixty, Ruffin comes off a bit like a jolly much-older brother. He explains, “Coaching is a lot about grasping concepts, and Lincoln sees the concepts very well.”
By “concepts” Ruffin means offensive and defensive formations, the way players are aligned on either side of the ball. Certain concepts make certain things more and less possible. Some favor runs, or prevent runs, while others open up the passing game or enhance your defense against it. Football is the art of using your concepts to explore and then exploit the weaknesses of your opponents.
“The best coaches,” Ruffin goes on, “make the quickest adjustments. If something’s hurting here, they have answers. He does that well. He’s good at having the answer.”
If something’s hurting, having the answer.
In his office, on his couch, Lincoln tells a story about something hurting and the answer he found to it. The answer wasn’t what he wanted it to be.
The answer also made all of this possible. It taught him new levels of what makes not only a successful coach, but a successful man. It taught him commitment and grit and how to beat long odds. It brought him relationships and growth and heartache, and with the heartache, wisdom. It moved through humble pockets of gridiron Americana along the way, carving through small Texas towns and football meccas and ghettos alike. It showed him his gifts and how to make the most of them. And it introduced him to people without whom he could have never made it here.
For better and worse, none of us are who we are on our own.
He learned how to grow from a boy into a man, and then into a better man. He learned how to be shaped and reshaped by the people and places he encountered throughout his life. He learned the pain that sometimes comes with the shaping, the hammering of chisel into stone. He learned to live with pain when it hurt the most, and how to play with the pain, and even harder, how to heal. He learned to find what was hurting him and to find answers for it. He learned the difference between growing pains and killing pain. He learned about growth. And joy. And love.
He learned a lesson an old high school coach used to talk about a lot: Don’t do things that are gonna hurt you.
Which brings us to the shoulder.
He rolls it some as he talks.
In a way, everything comes back to that shoulder and how he hurt it.
“So stupid,” he says, shaking his head.
* * *
The shoulder’s been hurting for nearly twenty years. It hurts more today because the receivers’ drill pulled on the old injury, but he can always feel it. When he talks about what it took for him to get here, that means talking about that shoulder and how he hurt it and the astonishing effect hurting that shoulder had on his entire life. He’s learned to look at it as a gift of its own. It helped him become the coach he is now. It gave him deeper empathy for the struggles his players face. He’s been where they are now. He’s been one of them, only to lose the ability to carry on as such. In some ways, he still feels like one of them. We can grow from the things that hurt us, but we never forget who we were when we first got hurt. So he’s always reaching out, always wondering how he can better help them.
He rolls his shoulder again. Tender is the gift that came from pain. Doesn’t always feel like a gift, really. But that’s another kind of concept that goes beyond the field. Pain and the answer to the pain, and the meaning of healing, and how to deal when he healed in a way that prevented him from living the life he was planning to live before he hurt himself, in a way that took something from him that he wasn’t ready to give up. Such a thing can destroy a person, or it can steer him toward a life he never thought possible. There’s no way to know how things will turn out, of course. The only thing that’s certain is that after a man breaks, as he learns how to heal and puts himself back together, he will become someone different. He’ll have new strength filling in where the cracks were. New wisdom. And new hunger.
Copyright © 2020 by Brandon Sneed
