| |  Hard work has put Lovie Smith on top
By Len Pasquarelli
ESPN.com
NEW ORLEANS -- In a darkened room, St. Louis Rams defensive coordinator Lovie
Smith sits with one hand on the remote control to a well-practiced videotape
machine and two eyes trained on the monitor in front of him. The images
on the screen go back and forth and fast and slow like some old Keystone
Kops movie.
A stickler for hustle, that trait a byproduct of a life that includes a
bachelor's degree from Tulsa and a doctorate from Hard Knocks University,
the man most responsible for reversing the fortune of a St. Louis defense
nothing shy of miserable a year ago is surgically dissecting every snap. He
is seeking out the slackers -- an underachieving label never attached to him -- the defenders who did not run to the ball on every play.
|  | | Lovie Smith turned the Rams into one of the best defensive teams in the NFL. |
Woe to the player whose jersey number doesn't appear in the frozen frame
when Smith hits the "pause" button and begins taking inventory of who was
and wasn't around the football.
They have a name in St. Louis for the esoteric statistic created to signify
those defensive MIA's, the players who weren't involved in the tackle, or at
least within a three-yard radius of the stop. They are called "loafs," and
the Rams defense has a quota of 11 per game, one per player. Take this one
to the bank: As a feisty linebacker at Big Sandy (Texas) High School, a Tulsa
defensive back and an assistant coach, Lovie Smith never had a "loaf" appear
on his gridiron report card.
"He is driven to succeed and, at the root of that, is a tremendous work
ethic," said Larry Marmie, the former Arizona State coach for whom Smith
worked as an assistant, and a man whom the St. Louis coordinator still
acknowledges as one of the primary catalysts in his life. "Lovie knows just
one speed. He's a pedal-to-the-metal kind of guy and he's not one to lighten up
off the throttle. At the same time, he always has things under control and
in perspective, on and off the field. He knows how it's supposed to be."
Apparently, at the point of conception, Smith didn't know what he was
supposed to be. Everyone in his family thought his mother, Mae Smith, was
carrying a girl when she was pregnant with her fourth of seven children. Set
to be named after his Aunt Lavana, the family called a quick audible when
the doctor announced to Thurman Smith that Mae had given birth to a
son, and thus the handle "Lovie" was settled upon.
Funny thing, but some of the kids who used to tease Smith about his name
three decades ago were among the onetime classmates who phoned this week
seeking Super Bowl tickets.
No one is teasing him now, not after his ballyhooed "Cover Two" scheme
catapulted the St. Louis defense from a No. 23 ranking in 2000 to a No. 3
standing this season. Not after a unit that surrendered the seventh-most
points in NFL history last season improved by nearly 40 percent this year.
The defensive blueprint, borrowed from Tony Dungy and Herman Edwards in
Tampa Bay and boosted by eight new starters, clearly was an instant
success.
The "over" defensive front, borrowed from Edwards, has been especially
effective against the pass and has helped to transform the Rams into an
opportunistic defense. The "under" scheme, in which the secondary shifts to
a "Cover Three" alignment, has performed well versus the run.
It has been, particularly in light of having eight new starters, the
definitive collective quantum leap. But as good as the story is, the
personal saga of Lovie Smith might be even better.
The dramatic defensive upgrade has made Smith a hot commodity in the league,
a man in demand by the media, an assistant who soon figures to be a
head coach. Some league officials relish the fact that Smith, an African-American, is on the fast track, but he is quick to point out the
pendulum can quickly reverse itself. A year ago, Baltimore Ravens defensive
guru Marvin Lewis was in this same position, but his star slipped a bit this
season.
Smith is cognizant that the mandatory 15 minutes of celebrity can evaporate
quickly. If that's the case for him, the St. Louis assistant won't lose
much sleep over it. Smith wants to be a head coach someday, but he is so
grounded, a man of such quiet dignity and impressive articulation, he won't
need that kind of validation to declare personal fulfillment.
"I'm confident in myself," Smith said. "I'm confident I've taken care of the
things in my life that I can control. The other things, well, there are just
some elements you can do nothing about. But I think my life is in order and
I've built on a lot of experiences along the way. I know that, when it comes
down to crunch time, I can walk the walk."
That's true even from a literal standpoint.
As a teenager, with his father in the hospital, Smith was called upon to
repair the thermostat in the clunker that served as the family car. His
mother warned him not to tighten the thermostat too much for fear it would
break. "She basically told me that if I broke it, we'd all have to walk
until we somehow saved enough money to buy a new car."
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Lovie doesn't stomach guys who do anything half-assed. He'll put up with a lot, but loafing -- that's one thing he won't tolerate. He doesn't ask anyone to work harder than he does, but he sets such a pace it's hard to keep up sometimes. ” |
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— Bill Kollar, Rams defensive line coach |
He broke it and, for several months, the family walked to every destination.
Fortunately for Smith, his mother wouldn't allow any of his brothers and
sisters to blame him for the setback. Her credo was that whatever is done is
done, move forward from it and commit it to the rear-view mirror.
One of Smith's other onetime bosses, former Tulsa and Ohio State coach John
Cooper, remarked this week about his protégé's tunnel vision. He noted that
Smith is not one to dwell on history, but rather a coach focused on creating
it, a man with his eye on the prize.
He earned three prizes, a trio of state titles, at Big Sandy High School,
where there were but 34 seniors in his graduating class. All six of his
siblings still reside around Big Sandy, about 120 miles east of Dallas, and
his mom remains there as well. He and a younger sister are the only children
of Thurman and Mae Smith to earn college degrees. His parents stressed
education to all their kids but couldn't afford college tuitions, not if
the family was to have food in the pantry.
"They always wanted to give us a better life," Smith said. "And they tried
hard. We were, as I look back on it, kind of the richest poor family I knew.
There was a lot of hardship to overcome and we got through most of it."
Most, but not all, as Smith's father died in prison four years ago after a
long battle with alcohol. Smith acknowledges he is the offspring of an
alcoholic but still speaks fondly of his dad, noting he was "one
of the best people" he ever met. Every year on Father's Day, though, he
phones Marmie, who has served, in a sense, as a surrogate.
Smith's oldest son, Mikal, has battled a brain tumor the Rams coordinator
chooses not to discuss. Fourteen years ago, another son, Matthew, nearly drowned. He had no pulse and was bluer than a Rams helmet, but he somehow survived. As with Mikal's tumor, Smith will not talk
about the incident. His wife, Mary Anne, and he rely on their staunch faith
to get them over the tough times.
"One thing no one can deny," said Dungy, "is that Lovie has earned
everything that has come his way. He didn't have anything handed to him,
that's for sure, and he's the kind who appreciates the good times when they
come. I know he's loving this week, getting ready for a Super Bowl, being in
a position to prepare for a game like this. And I'm sure he's working his
tail off."
It is, of course, a labor of love. Or, more appropriately, a labor of Lovie.
Having taken a brief hiatus from coaching years ago, going from high school
game-planning to punching a time clock in a factory, Smith doesn't mind the
long hours. In fact, he relishes the end result of the time spent
game-planning, scheming, plotting, conniving. He will sit for hours and
patiently review videotape, seeking an area of vulnerability, as long as
it's not on his own unit.
"Lovie doesn't stomach guys who do anything half-assed," said Rams defensive
line coach Bill Kollar. "He'll put up with a lot, but loafing -- that's one
thing he won't tolerate. He doesn't ask anyone to work harder than he does,
but he sets such a pace it's hard to keep up sometimes. The fact is, he's
afraid to fail, and he's going to do everything he can to avoid it. And he
expects you to do the same."
Len Pasquarelli is a senior writer for ESPN.com.
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