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My freshman football coach, Sid Edwards, put new meaning into the term “work like a dog”.
I was a quarterback for Catholic High School in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and the two-a-day practices under the hot August sun would make even the strongest guys feel like dirty stray dogs. Which was exactly what Sid wanted. He’d tell us over and over that we should be the dogs nobody wanted. The hungry dog. The dog that had to fight for every scrap and wasn’t welcome at any door. Sid didn’t want us to ever be the kind of dog you see riding in the front seat of an air-conditioned car. He taught us that pampered dogs grow lazy while desperate dogs fight harder to survive.
Sid ignited passion, helped build confidence and just made people better. He insisted that we never become complacent with the successes we had. It didn’t matter if I had thrown four touchdown passes the game before; I was never assured I would be the next week’s starter.
I owe a lot of my success to Sid, but he’s not the kind of guy to bask in a player’s success. He’s the kind of guy who says, “Y’all go
