Seifert and Alex Gibbs, the long-time offensive line
coach considered football’s premier zone-blocking
guru; and when he became the head coach in Denver
in 1995, he applied everything he learned from nine
previous stops.
Shanahan’s philosophy starts on the ground, specifi-
cally those outside-zone runs. By sending most plays
wide of the tackles, he sought to effectively cut the
field in half—he could attack five to seven players more
easily than all 11. He also wanted all his plays to look
the same at the start, whether it was an outside-zone
run, a drop-back pass or a play-action bootleg.
Because Shanahan ran the outside zone, he needed
faster—and typically smaller—linemen. Most teams
weren’t looking for those types of players, so he con-
structed dominating run games at discount prices. The
Broncos won back-to-back Super Bowls in 1998 and
’99 with an offensive line featuring starters drafted in
round 7 (center Tom Nalen), round 10 (guards Mark
Schlereth and Brian Habib) and not at all (tackle Tony
Jones). After losing three previous Super Bowls, Elway
accepted the run-heavy approach, and running back
Terrell Davis, a sixth-round pick, secured his bust in
Canton during that dominant stretch.
What did all of this tell Shanahan? That his system
worked. That great quarterbacks mattered, of course,
but that efficiency at that position mattered more. He
taught them like Walsh taught him, to read with their
feet, to move in rhythm, spin through progressions, limit
risk. If Elway could buy that philosophy, anybody could.
Shanahan also grounded his approach in an inventivespirit. As offensive coordinator in San Francisco, he
once suggested to his head coach, Seifert, that the 49ers
line Jerry Rice up in the backfield. Seifert blanched,
at least until he saw linebackers trying to shadow the
greatest receiver of all time. Where offensive football
in those days generally featured coaches listing what
they could not do, Shanahan helped usher in a new
era. “The Can Generation” is what retired quarterback
Trent Dilfer calls it.MIKE MCDANIEL grew up in Greeley, Colo.,
obsessing, like most kids in the Centennial State,
over the Broncos. He became a Denver ball boy, then
a wideout at Yale. After graduation in 2005, when it
came time to ask Shanahan for a letter of recommenda-
tion, the coach suggested he intern for the team, for
free, instead. McDaniel was exactly the kind of intel-
lectually curious young coach Shanahan wanted. He
graduated from mindless
tasks like helping repair
scout-team jerseys to work-
ing for Kyle Shanahan as
an offensive assistant in
Houston (2006–08).
A late-season collapse in
2008—and third straight
nonplayoff year—cost Mike
Shanahan his job in Denver.
He was out of the league for
a year before the Redskins
tabbed him to replace Jim
Zorn, who had been unable
to develop Jason Campbell
into a franchise QB. Shana-
han would be Washington’s
new quarterback whisperer.
McDaniel joined him at
Redskins Park in 2011. Once there, he found an envi-
ronment unlike anything he ever could have expected,
where ideas were not so much encouraged as expected,
and to not evolve was tantamount to a fireable offense.
“It was Steve Jobs—that aesthetic,” McDaniel says. “We
weren’t outside the box; we didn’t have one.”
Mike Shanahan filled his staff with young, motivated
coaches; most were early 30s or younger, many in their
first or second jobs. “A bunch of overambitious, average
athletes,” McDaniel says. “We’re all Napoleon Complex
dudes. And we’re competing against people that are the
exact opposite dichotomy—they’re [thinking], What did
Bill [Belichick] say to do?Ó
JOH Shanahan saw the future in the unlined faces that
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“It was a
Steve Jobs
aesthetic,”
says McDaniel.
“We weren’t
outside the
box; we didn’t
have one.”