Later, when Jerry Rice, our great receiver, joined the team, he would stand in front of a full-length mirror as he got dressed before a game, not because he was vain or adoring himself—maybe there was a little of that—but mostly because he was just looking at that uniform; he was looking at perfection; perfection was what was in his mind when he entered the arena.
Jerry Rice was a professional and looked like a professional. And it all helped him in some way to think and perform like a professional. That “perfect” appearance—“
appropriate
appearance” is more accurate—applied to others in the organization as well, because it is part of the motif that directs thinking into a mode I view as conducive to high performance. That perfect appearance was a predicate of perfect performance.
Of course, our coaching staff was meticulous and tenacious in analyzing and then teaching the requirements of each player’s position—much more so than on any other team I knew of. Here’s one very small example: After careful analysis, they identified thirty specific and separate physical skills—actions—that every offensive lineman needed to master in order to do his job at the highest level, everything from tackling to evasion, footwork to arm movement. Our coaches then created multiple drills for
each
one of those individual skills, which were then practiced relentlessly until their execution at the highest level was automatic—routine “perfection.”
Linemen were taught multiple blocking techniques to capitalize on what they saw across the line of scrimmage; most teams taught far fewer. Quarterbacks were coached on the refined requirements of a three-step, five-step, and seven-step drop back; how to hold the ball;
where
to hold the ball (the tip of the football must never drop below waist level on a pass play); scanning the
entire
field for receivers; when to throw and not to throw; throwing the ball at different velocities and different trajectories; and hundreds of other elements, both mental and physical.
Passing routes were designed down to the inch and then practiced until receivers learned how to be at that exact inch at the exact moment the ball arrived. On paper my diagrams of plays resembled detailed architectural drawings. And they required the same exactness in construction—execution—that a good contractor brings to building a skyscraper. If he’s sloppy in following the architectural schematic, the building falls down during the first stiff wind.
Our practices were organized to the minute—like a musical score for an orchestra that shows every musician what to play and when to play it. Our coaches then drilled the team so they could “play it” better and better. The specificity of detail and bombardment of information involved in doing this are mind-numbing to the casual observer—perhaps like the specifics of your own profession to an outsider.
My Standard of Performance applied to marketing, office personnel, and everyone else with the details applicable to their jobs, even to the extent of including specific instructions for receptionists on how to answer our telephones professionally. All of this increasingly demonstrated to others and to
ourselves
that we were on top of things, neither sloppy nor inattentive, and contributed to a greatly heightened sense of “this is who we are,” even though a strong case could have been made that “who we are” wasn’t much based on the initial won-lost records during my first two seasons: 2-14 and 6-10. Of course, that was part of my challenge—turning the self-image of the organization on its head, from toxic to top-notch.
More quickly than you might imagine, a transformation occurred in the quality of the team’s attitudes and actions. An environment developed in which adherence to the details of my Standard of Performance became second nature as we worked to become absolutely first class in every possible way on and off the field.
Our groundskeepers raised their level of play to a point where Candlestick Park’s football field was increasingly among those in the best shape of any natural surface in the NFL, despite its proximity to San Francisco Bay, which produced a soggy subsoil and a mushy topsoil, and the effects of our winter rainy season. They often succeeded in spite of having these tremendous obstacles to overcome.
Maintenance workers, ticket takers, parking lot attendants, and anyone receiving a paycheck with the emblem of the San Francisco 49ers on it were instructed as to the requirements of their own job’s Standard of Performance and expected to measure up.
In fact, to encourage positive thinking, pride, and self-esteem, I insisted that specific equipment carrying the emblem of the San Francisco 49ers be treated with respect. For example, players were told their practice helmets, which carried our emblem, should never be tossed around, sat on, or thrown in the bottom of their lockers: “Wear it, hold it, or put it on the shelf in your locker.” The same applied to their game helmets, of course.
The San Francisco 49er emblem, and the helmet it was affixed to, signified that they were members of an organization with pride and high behavioral expectations. It was similar to saluting the American flag: Show it respect, because it represents who you are and what you value.
Respect for the emblem was important because it represented something very significant, namely, respect within the organization for one another. I would tolerate no caste systems, no assumption of superiority by any coaches, players, or other personnel. Regardless of the size of an employee’s check or the requirements of his or her job, I made it clear that he or she was 100 percent a member of our team, whether he or she was a superstar or secretary, black or white, manager or maintenance man.
In keeping with this philosophy, I forbade the traditional hazing of rookies and walk-ons—making them the butt of humiliation or physical punishment. When they arrived, I informed them, “You are a San Francisco 49er. As long as you’re here, you will be treated like one.” And it was true. They were respected, full-fledged members of our organization from day one and were treated as such until they proved otherwise. Of course, when they “proved otherwise” they were not subjected to hazing; they were subjected to termination.
Scouts, usually considered outliers who stopped by occasionally with information and opinions on prospects, were treated right by us. They came to feel like real members of our organization, rather than pizza delivery boys who showed up when called with hot tips about players.
The Prime Directive Was Not Victory
From the start, my prime directive, the fundamental goal, was the full and total implementation throughout the organization of the actions and attitudes of the Standard of Performance I described earlier. This was radical in the sense that winning is the usual prime directive in professional football and most businesses.
Thus, in the beginning our players, coaches, and staff heard little talk from me about winning anything, and certainly not by some arbitrary date. In fact, during our second season one of the staff members went to Eddie DeBartolo and complained that I was adrift in minutiae and had no stated goal for the 49ers when it came to winning games, conference titles, or Super Bowl championships.
The staff member was wrong. I had very profound and organization-changing goals, but he didn’t accept my philosophy and was fired when I heard about what he had done behind my back. His betrayal was unacceptable. However, he was correct that I had no grandiose plan or timetable for winning a championship, but rather a comprehensive standard and plan for installing a level of proficiency—competency—at which our production level would become higher in all areas, both on and off the field, than that of our opponents. Beyond that, I had faith that the score would take care of itself.
In pursuing this ideal, I focused our personnel on the details of my Standard of Performance—trying to achieve
it
—rather than how we measured up against a given team (i.e., the score). “Let the opponent worry about that” was my thinking. I sought to channel the concentration of the 49ers toward improving performance on the field and throughout the organization with as little force as possible from outside influences such as the media, fans, friends, or the standings. This was a formidable task, but in large part I accomplished it.
Consequently, the score wasn’t the crushing issue that overrode everything else; the record didn’t mean as much as the season progressed, because we were immersed in building the inventory of skills, both attitu dinal and physical, that would lead to improved execution. That was the key. (The losses hurt, and the wins felt good. But neither was the primary focus of my effort or attention. At least, in the beginning. Unfortunately, that changed for me down the line.)
I directed our focus less to the prize of victory than to the process of improving—obsessing, perhaps, about the quality of our execution and the content of our thinking; that is, our actions and attitude. I knew if I did that, winning would take care of itself, and when it didn’t I would seek ways to raise our Standard of Performance. At least, that was my plan. It may not sound very grandiose, but it was very comprehensive and was the platform from which I launched the turnaround.
During this early period I began hiring personnel with four characteristics I value most highly: talent, character, functional intelligence (beyond basic intelligence, the ability to think on your feet, quickly and spontaneously), and an eagerness to adopt my way of doing things, my philosophy. These included assistant coaches I was very familiar with—managers—to install and nurture my organizational values and job criteria.
I sought intelligence in employees, not just for the obvious reason, but also because a dull-witted staff member who’s aggressive creates anarchy; when you have one of those who thinks he’s intelligent in your midst, look out. The bull-headed know-it-all is a destructive force on your team.
In that regard I sought individuals who had the ability to work with others. A fundamental element in this is not only the ability of a person to understand his own role and how it fits into the organization’s goal, but a knowledge or understanding of other people’s roles. Part of my job was to facilitate this mutual understanding and appreciation.
Individuals who didn’t measure up in various ways were removed without fanfare (usually), and those who challenged my authority did so at risk.
The Top Priority Is Teaching
In a very real way, everything I did was teaching in some manner or other. I would take out a calendar and plan when I would talk about different subjects with individual players, with a squad, with the entire team, with position coaches, staff members, and others. I would discuss a topic from every angle, every approach, never repeating it the same way, such as when I spoke on the subject of communication and
interdependence
—trying to keep the idea fresh and not become rote.
I was insisting that all employees not only raise their level of “play” but dramatically lift the level of their thinking—how they perceived their relationship to the team and its members; how they approached the vagaries of competition; and how willing they were to sacrifice for the goals I identified.
Much of this relates to the respect and sensitivity we accorded one another and to an appreciation of the roles each member of our organization fulfilled. Each player had a connection to and was an extension of his teammates.
On the field (and elsewhere) the assistant coaches and I were conscientious about educating players so they appreciated that when Jerry Rice caught a touchdown pass he was not solely responsible, but an extension of others—including those who blocked the pass rushers, receivers who meticulously coordinated their routes to draw defenders away from him, and the quarterback who risked being knocked unconscious attempting to throw the perfect pass. Jerry was taught the same. Likewise, Joe Montana understood that he was not some independent operator, but an extension of the left tackle’s block and the efforts of many others.
This concept applied beyond the team itself. Players had a connection to—and were an extension of—the coaching staff, trainers, team doctor, nutritionists, maintenance crew, and, yes, the people who answered the phones. Everybody was connected, each of us an extension of the others, each of us with
ownership
in our organization. I taught this just as you should teach it in your own organization.
Victory is produced by and belongs to all. Winning a Super Bowl (or becoming number one in the marketplace, or reaching a significant quarterly production quota, or landing a big account) results from your whole team not only doing their individual jobs but perceiving that those jobs contributed to overall success. The trophy doesn’t belong just to a superstar quarterback or CEO, head coach or top salesperson. And this organizational perception that “success belongs to everyone” is taught by the leader.
Likewise, failure belongs to everyone. If you or a member of your team “drops the ball,” everyone has ownership. This is an essential lesson I taught the San Francisco organization: The offensive team is not a country unto itself, nor is the defensive team or the special teams, staff, coaches, or anyone in the organization separate from the fate of the organization. We are united and fight as one; we win or lose as one.
Leaders sometimes wonder why they or their organization fail to achieve success, never seem to reach their potential. It’s often because they don’t understand or can’t instill the concept of what a team is all about at its best: connection and extension. This is a fundamental ingredient of ongoing organizational achievement. (Of course, incompetence as a leader is also a common cause of organizational failure.)
Combat soldiers talk about whom they will die for. Who is it? It’s those guys right next to them in the trench, not the fight song, the flag, or some general back at the Pentagon, but those guys who sacrifice and bleed right next to them. “I couldn’t let my buddies down,” is what all soldiers say. Somebody they had never seen before they joined the army or marines has become someone they would die for. That’s the ultimate connection and extension.