Living On The Edge

Paul Attner

That's how it always has been for MIKE SHANAHAN, who takes it to the max whether he's trying to win a Super Bowl or performing death-defying stunts

The eerie part about it is that Mike Shanahan never let anyone drive his motorcycle. He didn't feel comfortable sitting on the back, allowing someone else to steer. But on this day, his friend begged him to make an exception. Mickey Bertini was contemplating buying a cycle, and he wanted to test-drive Shanahan's. So they switched seats and the two college sophomores, home on a break, headed into downtown Chicago.

It was dark when they came to an intersection. The light was green. But a car coming from a cross street never slowed down. It went through the red light and slammed into the bike. The impact was so enormous that Shanahan was tossed across the street, over the sidewalk and almost against a nearby building. Bertini absorbed more of a direct blow. Within 30 minutes, he was dead.

Shanahan limped back to the motorcycle and wrestled with some spectators trying to steal it. The car sped away, never stopping. Later, Shanahan realized his ankle was hurt badly enough that he needed crutches. He helped bury his friend, days before police caught the hit-and-run driver.

So why is a shiny new Harley sitting in Shanahan's garage, with barely 25 miles on the odometer, waiting for its owner to finish with this Super Bowl nonsense so he can drive it into the Colorado mountains, away from the whirlwind of pro football and into the serenity of mile-high air? And why does Shanahan dream of a time, once his coaching career ends, when he and some buddies can drop out for six months and ride their Harleys around the country, without an annoying schedule to dictate their days?

For the same reason that Shanahan annually seems to dance with high-risk foolishness, be it bungee jumping or jumping off a 60-foot cliff or driving a race car for the first time at speeds up to 160 mph or hang-gliding so high that he needed clearance from a local airport. For the same reason he is undeterred by the up-close confrontations with death that periodically visit his life.

"He's come close to killing himself more times than I want to remember," Peggy Shanahan, his wife of almost 22 years, says with a nervous laugh. Before Peggy began dating Mike at Eastern Illinois University, where they were students, she had noticed this fearless guy who would join some mutual friends and challenge a local spillway, which would swell up from heavy rains and turn into rampaging rapids. That's when Shanahan would jump in and see if he could remain afloat.

On this one day, the water was particularly dangerous and it was stupid for anyone to test the surging turbulence. But Mike and a buddy did anyway, and they quickly were pulled under and disappeared. Agonizing seconds went by and everyone got scared because it looked like they wouldn't resurface. They finally did, winded and frightened. Mike admitted he thought he might die. Years later, Peggy read in a newspaper that a student drowned in the same spillway.

Shanahan has had last rites read to him once, alter he was speared in the kidneys on a tackle while playing quarterback as a 150-pound junior for Eastern Illinois. The internal hemorrhaging was so immense that a priest thought Shanahan might not survive. His heart stopped for 30 seconds and he lost the kidney, but he lived. A couple of weeks later, he was riding river rapids on a raft, defying doctor's orders. When his coaches refused to let him at least punt, he became a student coach.

It's all about The Edge. There's something in Shanahan that entices him to be on the edge with everything he does, forcing him to max out, test his limits, challenge his abilities; whether as coach of the Broncos in attacking a defense ... or the guy who plays 72 holes in a day and wonders why everyone else is fired ... or the fun seeker who stays up all night in Vegas working the gaming floor ... or the crazy man who feels invigorated by the devilish challenges that most sane people would avoid, realizing they are not cats but mere mortals. The resulting rush he receives, whether from winning games or getting back on a motorcycle or surviving the odds on a spillway, gives him a feeling of serenity that most of us achieve from, well, more mundane accomplishments.

"I like to do things that are exciting," he says. "I have always lived that way. When I was young, we'd jump off the 10-meter board that most kids my age would avoid. That's how I got used to heights. I found I wasn't afraid. I know there are risks involved in some things I do, but it's fun. I think about what's happened. Why wasn't I driving that motorcycle? Why didn't I die when I got hit on the football field? The only way to live with it is to say the guy upstairs has a plan for you and you try to make the best of it. So I'll get back on a motorcycle, do whatever. I figure when it is your time, it's your time. So I don't hold back."

That's why, in 1995, he had to have control of Denver's football operations, despite the questions that stamped the move: How people thought it was really dumb for him to walk away from the 49ers, where he had been designated as George Seifert's successor, and go to the then-aging, struggling Broncos, not just as coach but as the football czar; how his 8-12 record in one-plus seasons as Raiders coach made his hiring by Broncos owner Pat Bowlen seem curious at best and misguided at worst. But for Shanahan, all this put him where he wanted to be: on The Edge with his career. So that if he succeeded, the rush he would feel, having done it with his structure and his plans and his philosophies, would far surpass anything he had previously felt from football. Which it did, when a year ago the Broncos beat the Packers for the NFL title in one of the great upsets in league history.

And now The Edge is back, in the form of more history, knowing that only Lombardi, Noll, Shula and Johnson have won two straight Super Bowls, and in the form of Dan Reeves, his old mentor and no longer dose friend, whose presence in Sunday's game against the Falcons--and the resulting ill feelings and harsh memories that have been rekindled from their former association--not only adds to the challenge but brings the anticipation of a new rush that would make a second championship just as fulfilling as the first.

Yet Shanahan will stand before the public in the days preceding this extravaganza and reveal nothing of the adrenaline flowing through his body. He will be uptight and tight-lipped, his mouth rarely widening into a smile. Put Jimmy Johnson or Bill Parcells, two other NFL strongmen with similar coaching powers, in this spotlight and they exploit it for everything it's worth. Their booming personalities, full of charm, wit, commanding presence and humor, hog attention and create mystique. Shanahan cares little about playing to an audience, about emoting philosophies, about creating an aura of either raw bullying (Parcells) or coldhearted decisiveness (Johnson). His is not a world of Image. His universe is about efficiency and intelligence and proper use of time, and he doesn't desire to embellish his persona with prodigious storytelling or deft give-and-take.

Johnson, Parcells, Lombardi and Shula--they all grabbed a room, whether full of players, fans or media, and manipulated it with their own particular tune, prodding and entertaining and teaching and dictating. That is not Shanahan, even if he also can be funny and engaging and commanding and fearsome when he chooses.

The result is that Shanahan, of all the elite coaches in the league, is the farthest removed from the larger-than-life category that once embraced Lombardi and Shula and now includes Johnson and Parcells, winners of four Super Bowls between them. Even his players usually only see the cerebral Shanahan who choreographs an incredibly well-planned, no-nonsense organization, where details are so important that he can even sit in his office and monitor position meetings live over dosed-circuit television or, later, on tape.

What they see mostly is the Shanahan depicted in an 8 by 10-foot photograph on the wall outside his office. The picture, selected personally by Bowlen, shows a close-up of Shanahan on the sideline, his eyes blazing with anger, his mouth open and curled. This is the Shanahan who despises wasted motion, who expects perfection, who is obsessed with the very idea of success, who relies less on physical and motivational intimidation--he'll rarely resort to the blatant mind games employed by Parcells or Johnson, or scream in the face of players--and more on cocky confidence built from thorough preparation and an air of invincibility.

"It's absolutely Mike the coach," howls Peggy about the mural. She is sitting in a meeting room near her husband's office, no more than 15 strides from that picture, which hovers as a guard to the inner sanctum. "He saw it and didn't like it, but I said, `Mike, that's you. That's how you look.'" Peggy and Cindi Lowe, Shanahan's secretary, wonder what must go through a player's mind when he's summoned to the coach's office and must first look at that angry man.

"No wonder," Shanahan says, "no one comes to see me anymore."

It is those eyes that do his disciplinary work. Shanahan has a thin face, with pointed features, and he is moderate in stature, average by normal standards in both height and build. But in his out-of-proportion world, he is strikingly slight. There is nothing intimidating about the man, not until you reach those glimmering eyes.

"He has piercing eyes," 49ers longtime offensive line coach Bobb McKittrick says of Shanahan, who was San Francisco's offensive coordinator from 1992 to '94. "He has a distinctive look about him. He has hard eyes. Business eyes."

This is the Shanahan who can stop you dead with a flashing look, who can explode with a wicked temper, who can make emotional decisions with the startling, unemotional, single-minded detachment of all successful coaches, always putting winning, not his own popularity, first.

He is a players coach, but not in the pure definition of the term. He addresses his Broncos briefly every day, then they rarely hear his voice even in practices, where he stands back, observes and seemingly sees everything. And he hardly ever embarrasses them in front of their peers. He has no desire to be their buddy, even if John Elway is one of his closest friends. But they appreciate his ability to be upfront and straight with them: These are the rules, these are your duties. Do them the way we want and we win; do them the way you want and find another employer. He rewards them, too, for success, not only in big ways (he controls contracts), but in little things players love. Breakfast and lunch every day at the complex; no hitting in practices; no helmets on Fridays as long as they win; individual rooms at hotels; empty seats next to them on the team plane; no organized routine on Mondays.

This is the thinking Shanahan at work, the man obsessed with the minutia (at the start of training camp, the Broncos receive a notebook outlining everything they will do virtually every minute of every day for the rest of the season); the man McKittrick says is the best of all the assistant coaches he has worked with in his 20 years with the 49ers, a span that includes Mike Holmgren and Dennis Green and all the rest--a man so talented that McKittrick says, "He can look at a defense for a quarter and tell you accurately what their defensive philosophy is and what they are trying to do while others need to go over game after game and not be as accurate"; the man who has a notebook full of lectures on everything from public relations to distrust of management to dealing with two losses in a row to even the issue of a player trying to change another's religious beliefs--notes he uses for lectures throughout the season, attempting to be proactive about potential problems, talks that are so meaningful that receiver Rod Smith repeats some of them to his kids; the man with no toleration for 30-minute water-cooler breaks either for himself or his staff, but with days so in sync that appreciative Broncos coaches go home in the middle of the evening, never needing to sleep in their offices.

Not that the Broncos can't smile and enjoy themselves. Theirs is a happy locker room, and winning keeps the organization upbeat. But Shanahan sets a tone that puts efficiency above frivolity. Tight end Shannon Sharpe, the team comedian, is a gifted mimic, and he's not shy about revealing his routines even to those being imitated. He does a great Shanahan. Except his coach will never see it. "Can't risk it," Sharpe says. "What if he doesn't laugh? He might give me that look."

"Some people think they are born on third base, that they hit a triple just by showing up, that they have earned the right to succeed," says Shanahan, who has as much authority as any coach in the NFL, controlling everything from the draft to free agents to the salary cap. "My dad always told me that if I really liked something, that I should do it with a passion. I had to work to get to first base, and now I want to make sure I have the success to maintain the lifestyle I want to live."

He knows about first base. After graduating from Eastern Illinois, he wanted to experience coaching at a Division I school. Using some contacts, he got a job at a University of Oklahoma dorm that paid $100 every two weeks. He began hanging around the football office and helping an assistant on Barry Switzer's staff, and when the team picture was being taken someone suggested "Coach Mike" should be included. Switzer had no idea who Shanahan was, but he agreed. Eventually, Switzer learned his last name and hired him as a graduate assistant. That was in 1975. Shanahan now is earning $2.4 million a year.

But hidden deftly behind those eyes, behind that public figure that reveals so little of himself, is another Shanahan. The Irish rogue who loves The Edge.

The scruffy-looking intruder with the long hair, hat and sun glasses knocked on the bedroom door of the Vail condo. The couple inside opened the door and were shocked. "What do you want?" they asked, before the husband took off after the intruder, who now was running into the hallway.

"What do you want?" the intruder snarled, staying just ahead of his pursuer, who was growing more agitated. They raced down the hallway until they reached the elevator.

Then the intruder turned to his pursuer. "John," said the intruder, "do you realize you are standing out here in the hallway in your underwear?"

That's when Mike Shanahan took off the wig and the sunglasses and joined in a good laugh as his friend, John Woodward, finally realized who he had been chasing.

The Shanahans were in Vail as part of an annual vacation they take with the Woodwards and two other couples, just as they have done for the past decade. The wig had been given to Shanahan's son, Kyle, now a freshman football player at Duke, as a gag gift, and his father thought it would be hilarious to see how many friends he could fool by wearing it.

Shanahan the practical joker? When he was with the 49ers, they played a preseason game against the Raiders. In warmups, he told quarterback Elvis Grbac to throw a pass that would just miss Raiders owner and archenemy Al Davis, who was on the field. Grbac did and Shanahan howled. "He just thinks he is so funny sometimes," Peggy says, rolling her eyes.

"You couldn't ask for a better guy to be with," says Jim Freer, a managing partner for a national accounting firm who was a neighbor when Shanahan coached the Raiders and now also vacations with the family. "He's a guy's guy, considerate, funny. I've seen him grow, too. Before, he was just interested in football. Now, he is like an information sponge, so observant. He's played in a tournament with me in Pebble Beach that includes a lot of business leaders, and you can see him soaking up what they said about their lives."

What the Freers see is the unbridled Shanahan. His teen-aged daughter, Krystal, has the same wacky instincts and they goad each other into becoming more reckless every year. It was Krystal who wanted to bungee jump in Cancun; her dad wound up not just jumping but doing tricks and somersaults to the delight of everyone but Peggy, who remained in her hotel room, convinced her husband was certifiably nuts. The race car? He joined friends at a test course near Las Vegas, but he wound up driving the fastest, topping off at 160 mph. The jump off the cliff in Jamaica? That was Shanahan's idea, and he admits it hurt his feet. But if he could handle 10 meters as a kid, why not higher as an adult?

The Shanahans have developed a network of dose friends during their various stops along a coaching journey that now has lasted 24 years. Among his best buddies are Elway, 38, and Bowlen, 54; Shanahan, 46, is the only coach in the league who regularly vacations with both his owner and quarterback. His friendship with Elway grew out of their years when Shanahan was an offensive assistant with the Broncos and spent hundreds of hours every season with his quarterback. The casual, mellow Bowlen is an exercise buff who works out regularly in the team's weight room, a place Shanahan also frequents. Their relationship began with casual exercise conversation; now, they and their wives take yearly trips to Hawaii at season's end.

"Mike and I are a lot alike," says Elway, whose celebration of last year's long-elusive Super Bowl triumph included a couples-only vacation with the Bowlens and Shanahans in Honolulu, then with Mike and Peggy in Kono. There, the Elways and Shanahans sipped wine and watched a tape of the victory over the Packers. That's also where coach and quarterback rented Harleys and got caught far away from their hotel in a heavy rainstorm, much to the merriment of their wives.

"We are very competitive and we like to win," Elway says. "We enjoy each other's company. We are around the same age, so it was natural to have common interests. He's a workaholic, but he also knows how to have fun. He can get away and go at it."

It hasn't always been natural for Shanahan to frolic. He was the typical oldest child in a large family, the serious overseer of five brothers and sisters. His father was an electrician and they grew up in a blue-collar Chicago enclave near O'Hare Airport, in a neighborhood spotted with industry, where sports and the influence of coaches affected Mike's life. He was anything but the class down, nor was he more than an average student. Only when his so-so grades pushed him to The Edge, when he had to do better to move on to the next step in his education, did he improve.

When Shanahan was younger, his serious side thought it sacrilegious to take more than a week's vacation. Now he gets away for a good month starting in June. "When I do something, even away from the office, I like to do them full-speed," he says. "I play hard." He rarely reads a book--his reading time is devoted to newspaper stories about the rest of the league--loves watching movies and occasionally can be a couch potato. But the times he goes out with the boys, he laments that everyone except he and Elway tend to go home early. "It's not like we go out all the time, so if you go out and have a beer, why not go out?" To provide The Edge he needs to exercise seriously, he engages Bowlen, a triathlete, in constantly evolving bets about tests of their physical prowess. The current $2,000 bet, now in its second year, will be won by Shanahan if he can run a 5-minute mile on a treadmill before Bowlen can press his own body weight 10 times.

Yet to Mike Heimerdinger, the reckless Shanahan is not surprising. Heimerdinger, the Broncos' receivers coach, was Shanahan's roommate at Eastern Illinois. The two became fast friends, partners in shenanigans and avid golfers who thought nothing of walking on to the back nine of the most exclusive private courses, daring to see if they would be kicked off. At one particularly elite club, they joined a twosome that soon learned of their scam. Turns out one of the other men was president of the club. But he liked the brazen youngsters so much, he bought them a beer afterward.

"I've played him in golf forever and every time I think I have him down, and he's behind a tree or in a trap or something, he'll hit this shot within two feet or drop a 50-foot putt and for two holes I'll be muttering," says Heimerdinger, who knows his six-handicap friend has a swing so convoluted that golf pro Roger Maltbie once said it should be impossible for him to hit the ball. "Everyone in our business is a competitor, but some people compete on a different level. Heck, he even drives a car faster than anyone."

So now the challenge will be beating Reeves. And if he wins, if he hacks out a bit of history for himself and his team, then maybe he might reward himself in the offseason. He's always wanted to fly in an F-16.

But not just to enjoy the ride. There's no edge in that. "I want to see how many G's I can pull," he says. "Some people can take more than others before they black out." He'll determine the norm, then try to beat it.

Then what's next--walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls?

RELATED ARTICLE: HE SAYS, HE SAYS, HE SAYS

The off-field scenario unfolding before this year's Super Bowl is unprecedented in the 33-year history of the game. Never have three of the leading figures in the game been this quarrelsome and this mistrustful of each other. This much we know: The next time John Elway, Dan Reeves and Mike Shanahan meet on the golf course, as they did last year, don't expect them to exchange pleasantries again.

With his decision last week to discuss at length his relationship with Elway and Shanahan when he was the Broncos' coach, Reeves chose to reopen the wounds and make sure this would not be a Super Bowl dominated by the usual manufactured hype. My goodness, these folks really don't like each other very much.

Reeves was the Broncos' coach when Elway joined the team as a rookie in 1983. Despite three Super Bowl appearances together, these two fiery, emotional men had a stormy relationship. The demanding, impatient, quick-tempered Reeves can be difficult to work with; Elway, frustrated by Reeves' emphasis on a conservative running game and gifted with an ad-lib ability that ran counter to his coach's set ways, could be just as stubborn. Shanahan--who was an assistant with the Broncos in two different stints (1984-1987 and 1989-1991) before being fired by Reeves, his once good friend, after the '91 season--served as a buffer between the two.

Elway has described his last few years with Reeves, who was fired after the 1992 season, as "hell." Reeves has slammed Elway's immaturity. In the middle of all this is Shanahan, who, in Reeves' opinion, sided with Elway. Reeves believes Shanahan turned Elway against him, in part by not informing Reeves that Elway was unhappy with the head coach. Reeves claims the first time he learned the full extent of Elway's complaints was when he read a newspaper article in 1990. Reeves also says that Elway, who was calling his own plays in 1990, was guided in his choices by Shanahan--without approval from Reeves. Reeves says he has no proof to substantiate any of his claims.

Shanahan denies any conspiracy. He says he acted as a peacemaker, that Reeves was aware of Elway's unhappiness, that he tired of his role and finally brought the two men together and told them to work out their difficulties. He denies plotting out plays with Elway behind Reeves' back. He says he turned down the Broncos' head-coaching job after Reeves was fired to avoid any look of impropriety. Reeves, bothered by Elway's friendship with Shanahan, refuses to back away from his stance. Shanahan says Reeves' charges of insubordination damaged his reputation, that he is searching for a fall guy. Elway says Reeves' handling of Shanahan further damaged his relationship with Reeves. He says that if he had played more of his career under the more flexible Shanahan, he would have enjoyed even greater personal success.

Don't invite these three men to the same football clinic. Unless you want to learn about something other than X's and O's.

Senior writer Paul Attner covers the NFL for THE SPORTING NEWS.

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