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patience. Years later, when I got hooked myself, in my hand, I realized how much it hurts. Remembering my dad’s patience that day when Linden’s hook was caught in his ear, I finally understood the importance of staying calm and communicating clearly.
     
    My father taught physiology at Jackson Community College. Both he and my mom had advanced degrees from Michigan State: she an MA in English and he a PhD in physiology. But you’d have been hard-pressed to know that my dad was Dr. Wilbur Dungy. He always introduced himself as Wil, and that was how everyone knew him. In fact, after he had known my dad for eight years, my friend Lovie Smith, now the head coach of the Chicago Bears, ran across something that referred to my dad as “Dr. Dungy.”
    “Tony, is this right? I’ve talked with your father countless times over the years and spent many a practice with him. He’s a doctor ?”
    My dad didn’t have the financial means to attend the University of Michigan coming out of high school, so he started at Jackson Community College, which gave him the experience of learning in a college setting. He then went to the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. After earning his undergraduate degree, he joined the Army Air Corps. Then, after returning and teaching for a year at a segregated high school in Alexandria, Virginia, my dad went back to Jackson Community College, where he became one of the first African American professors in the state community college system. While working on his PhD at Michigan State, my dad continued to teach one class a week at JCC.
    Although my dad always considered the University of Michigan his alma mater, those three years at Michigan State—while my mom and dad earned their advanced degrees—had a dramatic impact on me. We were there from 1963 to 1966, and while I vividly remember looking at microscope slides with my dad, I remember being just as enthralled by Duffy Daugherty’s Spartan football teams. Those Michigan State teams ultimately altered the trajectory of my life in an unexpected way.
    As for the slides, my dad earned his doctorate by studying the effects of cigarette smoking on laboratory rats. He never did tell me how he got the rats to smoke all those cigarettes, but that wasn’t the point. I saw many slides of normal rat hearts and lungs, and I also saw stunning slides of rat hearts and lungs that had been exposed to and damaged by cigarette smoke. From the third grade on, I’ve never had any desire to experiment with any of that stuff—a valuable side benefit of my dad’s education. It also taught me something I have put to use as a coach: if I want my players to remember something, one picture isn’t worth a thousand words—it’s better .
    We moved back to Jackson in 1966 after my dad’s graduation, and he resumed teaching full-time. His goal was to provide students who needed to start at JCC the same eye-opening college experience he had enjoyed. Like my mom, he focused on squeezing every bit of potential from his students, especially those who were struggling. My mom and dad were a perfectly matched set.
    My father often said, “If you’re going to be a good teacher, you can’t just teach the A students. A good teacher is one who helps everybody earn an A.” Note that he didn’t say he would give anybody an A but that he would help his students earn it. There’s an important difference.
    I remind my assistant coaches of that approach every so often. My dad believed you can’t teach only one way with only one syllabus, because while some students might get it, others won’t. Students have different ways of learning and connecting, and it’s the teacher’s job to make sure they are all doing so. In the same way, coaches must help players earn an A—that is, learn the material we’re presenting—by communicating in a way that makes sense for each individual player. That’s one reason I’ve always hired coaches who value teaching and communication.
     
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