Tony Dungy navigates a world in which sport was once viewed as vital to building character but now is dominated by the dollar. Tony Dungy speaks deliberately and enthusiastically and maintains an unhurried demeanor: He speaks with the power of what is possible. 4½ years after spending time with a former NFL superstar, he still regrets what he sees as a major failure: He believes he could have saved the life Michael Vick once had, the one he'll never have again.
The Colts were in Japan for a preseason game against the Falcons. Coach Dungy, coach Jim Mora, quarterbacks Peyton Manning and Mike Vick were going to different events to promote the game, so they got to know each other more. Warrick Dunn had Vick that Dungy liked to fish. They agreed to get together and go fishing when they got back home. It never happened.
When the dogfighting stuff came out, Tony Dungy never stopped thinking about what might have happened with eight hours on a boat. He thinks maybe he could have been to redirect Vick from his ultimately destructive path. What type of individual honestly believes that, given a single afternoon casting a fishing line into the sea, he could have been the one to change the course of another person's history? Tony Dungy believes deeply in God and the gift that God has given – the ability and power to reach and rehabilitate by listening.
In his first year outside the NFL since the early 1980s, Dungy is a unique and powerful figure. He has developed a huge profile while emerging as a confidant of NFL owners, coaches and the commissioner. He is a connected insider, yet strives to maintain a special rapport and credibility with the disadvantaged. Unlike many of the league's ex-coaches, who use the broadcast booth as a paid couch until another position on the sideline opens, Dungy has used the platform to establish himself as a substantive voice. On one broadcast, Dungy offered criticism of the lack of Black Division 1 football coaches. At a time when deep labor issues are beginning to intensify, Dungy allowed himself to be positioned as a bridge between management and the players.
At a time when the sports culture influence has been reduced by extremes -- basketball coaches caught having sex in restaurants, golfers said to be having sex everywhere, lots of much money, lots of guns, too much temptation at the expense of accountability, decency, self-respect -- Tony Dungy often is viewed as the moral compass of American sports. With that comes power. For owners unsure of the latest troubled athlete in need of a second chance, Dungy can provide the Good Housekeeping seal or the killing third strike. He is uniquely positioned, the serious power broker, the voice upon which the powerful often depend to mediate the gap between themselves and their young, extremely wealthy employees. He does not, of course, provide redemption. Messengers do not have that power. It is a role he has never actively sought, but he has accepted the mission, and the rare and subtle combination of nationwide respect and moral authority have transformed Dungy into one of sport's most powerful figures, and he is at once aware that he must gauge whether those seeking his help are only using him to launder their soiled images or truly desire redemption.
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