His defeated football team
kneeling around him, the head coach stood in the
middle of a semicircle of muddied jerseys and
grass-stained egos. He pulled off his cap and
rubbed his bald head, searching for the right
words, a message that would stick better than the
missed tackles that had driven him crazy for the
past hour.
He quickly and sternly silenced a groundswell of
grumbling about the officiating, then started his
speech.
"The difference between winning and losing comes from
here," he said, tapping his chest and leaning in for
emphasis. "It comes from the heart. You have to want
it. Football is about desire and toughness. It's about
reaching down and ... and ...
"Hey, is anybody listening to me?"
Uh, no, actually. Nineteen players were looking in
about a dozen directions. Some were giving hand signals
to their parents, who impatiently jangled car keys.
Others were distracted by pony-tailed, giggling
cheerleaders. Some glanced at the long line and
wondered if the refreshment stand would be out of hot
chocolate by the time this boring sermon was over. So,
the coach did what he does best: He punted.
"Practice on Monday night," he said with a sigh. "See
you then."
In just about any other setting, people would have been
hanging on every word from Jeff Feagles. A Rotary
meeting of Giants worshippers somewhere in New Jersey.
A Big Blue Travel reception on the eve of a critical
road game. A Super Bowl victory rally on the steps of
New York City Hall.
But here, on a crisp Friday night, under the lights at
scruffy Veterans Field in Ridgewood -- where there are
no goalposts, only 80 yards between end zones, and a
luxury box is a minivan pointed toward the field with
the heater running -- one of the greatest punters in
NFL history simply couldn't compete with the call of
hot dogs and Kit-Kat bars.
"You have to remind yourself that they're 9 years old,"
Feagles said.
Translation: The kids are not impressed. They can tune
him out like any other adult.
The guy is 42 and still playing in the NFL, and just
about every time his right foot hits the ball, he sets
a record. He has played in all 324 regular-season games
since his career began, punting 1,596 times for 66,254
yards. And when he has to drop one inside the
opponents' 20-yard line, Feagles hit punts like Tiger
Woods hits wedges. If there weren't a bias against
punters, he would be a Hall of Fame slam dunk.
But when it comes to his resume, this is what the kids
hear: Blah, blah, blah.
"They know he's a professional football player," parent
Mark Miller said. "But, to them, he's just 'Coach
Feagles.' He's like their Little League coach or
basketball coach."
On the eve of the season, Feagles invited the parents
and players to his home and let them behind the velvet
ropes of his 21-year career. They saw game jerseys from
his days with the Patriots, Eagles and Cardinals,
Seahawks and Giants. They held game balls. They
caressed memorabilia from the unlikely Super Bowl
triumph last February.
"Now, that was cool," running back Quincy Peene said.
But when they left the house, they left Jeff Feagles,
NFL punter, in the basement. Out here, in the real
world, where they see him every day in warmups and
sneakers, he is one of them. With four sons (who are
terrific athletes) and a thirst to coach, Feagles is a
fixture at any local sports event.
"Ike Hilliard came here one day and everyone went
nuts," high school student Ryan Ghaderi said. "Mr.
Feagles is probably more famous, but he's just Mr.
Feagles. He's not Jeff Feagles, Giants punter. Not to
us, anyway."
And because he is just one of them, he is open to the
ribbing. They still laugh about the time he volunteered
to coach a seventh-grade lacrosse team. Feagles already
had coached football, basketball and baseball in town.
Did he know anything about lacrosse?
"Not a thing," Ghaderi said. "He would say things and
we would go, 'Huh?' and laugh. He tried to sound like
he knew what he was talking about, but he was ..."
"Clueless," Chris Ebert said.
On the other sideline of the peewee football games,
they are usually clueless, too. Ken Crowley, a parent,
was snapping photos for the Ramsey football website
when someone pointed to the Ridgewood coach and
suggested he might want to take a few shots of him.
"That guy?" Crowley said. "Why?"
Minutes after Crowley was told, Ridgewood was stopped
for a 3-yard loss on a fourth-and-1. Crowley walked
past with a smirk on his face. "I bet he wished he had
punted that time," he said. (Incidentally, Feagles'
team didn't punt once.)
During games, he paces the sideline. Coaches are
allowed on the field, but Feagles sends his offensive
and defensive coordinators. Once in a while, during a
timeout, he'll sprint into the huddle, say a few words
and scat. But mostly, he shouts from a distance: "Get
the ball!" or "Make a play!" when his team in on
defense, and "Block! Block! Block!" when his kids have
the ball. But it's all under control.
"I don't want to act like an idiot in front of the
kids," he said. "You can get your point across without
ranting and raving."
We know what you're thinking: Maybe he could make that
point to his excitable boss, Tom Coughlin. But Feagles
smiles and insists he has learned a lot from his gruff
coach -- organization, attention to detail, motivation
and lists ... lots of lists, because Feagles The Coach
has more jobs than Coughlin.
He is head coach (compiling the playbook), equipment
manager (fixing chin straps on the fly), trainer
("Where does it hurt?"), parent (his son, Zach, is a
running back and linebacker), team psychologist ("Don't
quit! Don't ever quit!"), traveling secretary ("Does
everyone have a ride home?") and head of security.
Early in the game, his defense stripped a running back
and the ball was returned for a touchdown, but an
official called a questionable penalty -- about 20
yards from the play -- and the TD was nullified. Some
of the coaches and parents grew mouthy. Feagles calmed
them. The controversial play turned out to be the
difference in the game, but he wouldn't allow his
players to blame the referees.
That's the message he was trying to deliver when no one
was listening. Of course, like Coughlin, he could fine
his players.
"They're 9," Feagles said with a laugh. "We run sprints
instead. What am I going to do, take their lunch
money?"
Hey, it might get their attention.
(nj.com)