It was Week 14 of the 2000 season. The Colts were in an early 14-0 hole to the Jets, and Moore was incensed. “Peyton,” he barked at Manning on the sideline, “we’re going no-huddle the rest of the game.” The QB nodded, and while their second-half rally came up short, a thought lingered in Moore’s mind during the flight home.
“Why are we waiting to get down 14?” he asked Manning.
Manning wanted to start in the no-huddle and wanted total control at the line of scrimmage. He felt he’d earned it. So that evening, Moore decided the Colts were going to speed up — a decision that would reshape NFL offenses for years to come. They’d start every game in the no-huddle, called Lightning. Manning would have complete command, perhaps more than any other quarterback in league history.
“Defenses want to substitute every three plays, but they ain’t doing that against us,” Moore says. “Their ass is gonna stay on the field.”
It was an audacious gamble, handing over that level of responsibility to a third-year QB who’d thrown a league-record 28 picks as a rookie. Previously, Moore would dial up three plays — a run to the right, a run to the left and a pass — and Manning would decide on one, depending on the defensive front he saw. In Lightning, it was one play with options Manning could check into. Or, he could scrap it altogether and call a new one. The QB would run the show.
“Tom basically said, ‘We’ve got this really smart quarterback, and we’re going to let him use his brain as a weapon,'” says Christensen, then the Colts’ wide receivers coach. “Honestly, not a lot of coaches back then were secure enough to do something like that, just turn their system over to one player.
“But it gave Peyton so much confidence. It’s not like Tom was giving the keys to Jim Sorgi or Curtis Painter.”
Most of the time, when Moore would begin rattling off the call, Manning would pound his chest, their signal that he knew the rest. Moore would wave back from the sideline. You got it, kid.
“Not every QB wants that type of responsibility,” Dungy says. “But we had one who did.”
Peyton Manning won four MVP awards partnering with Moore in Indianapolis. (Al Messerschmidt / Getty Images)
The Colts finished in the top three in scoring five straight seasons. Manning started piling up MVP awards. Before every game during that stretch, Moore would leave his QB with a few words before he jogged onto the field: Play smart, not scared.
That’s how Moore coached and how he called plays: without fear. The success that followed? That was the players, Moore insisted. Any failures were on him.
“I always used to tell Peyton this: You throw the touchdowns, I call the interceptions,” Moore says. “If you think you should do something, do it, and if they don’t like it, they can come see me. You can do no wrong. Don’t call plays and checks at the line of scrimmage wondering if it’s the right play. That’ll drive you crazy.
“You know what you’re doing. Do your thing and don’t ever, ever look back. If you make the wrong decision, you didn’t — I didn’t do a good enough job coaching you. I’ll take the hit.”
Manning remembers that speech, almost verbatim, two decades later. “I never took that for granted,” he says.
‘Two men in a phone booth. One comes out.’
During film sessions in Indy, Moore would show his players cut-ups of opponents slacking late in games, singling out their best players to drive the point home. This thinking would plant the seeds for some of the most memorable comebacks in league history.
“Including one right over my shoulder,” Moore says from his office in Tampa, a nod to the 21-point deficit the Colts erased in four minutes against the Bucs in 2003.
As Manning pointed out, the Colts’ skill position players were in tremendous shape, rarely taking a rep off in practice. Add in Moore’s intolerance for mistakes and the unit grew into a finely tuned machine, especially late in games.
“We’re talking 70,000, 80,000 fans on the road screaming bloody murder,” Clark says, “and we were as cool as the other side of the pillow.”
His mind goes back to one night in New England, the Colts clinging to a slim second-half lead, not wanting to give Brady a chance to rally. Deep down, Moore knew the Patriots had no answer for Edgerrin James, so he dialed up the same run play, “Belly,” a dozen times in row.
“Literally, 12 times straight,” Clark says. “We ran Belly right up their ass.”
James kept moving the chains. Not even Bill Belichick could figure a way to stop him. The Colts won going away.
“I promise you,” Clark says, “Tom Moore goes to bed thinking about that drive at least once a month.”
‘Take the mystery out of it, brother.’
Moore was always going to coach as long as he could. While he was a graduate assistant at Iowa in the 1960s he tried a semester of law school but hated it. His backup plan if it didn’t work out? The FBI.
“But then I got a job at the University of Dayton, and that was that.”
After his run in Indianapolis ended in 2010, Moore spent seasons as a consultant with the Jets (2011) and Titans (2012). Later that winter, an old friend called him up, asking him to come with him to Arizona, where he’d been hired as the new head coach.
“I’m getting the gang back together,” Bruce Arians told him.
“I’m in,” Moore replied. “Hell, it’s better than cleaning up dog sh–.”
In the desert, Moore helped Fitzgerald, then a decade into his career, find a different gear. The wideout can still remember the old coach barking at him during practices, refusing to let him ease up.
This is what Marvin Harrison would do … This is what Reggie Wayne would do … When I was in Pittsburgh, and we told John Stallworth to block Jack f—ing Tatum, he would put his face in Jack Tatum’s ear …
“I loved being coached hard like that,” Fitzgerald says now.
The 11-time Pro Bowler credits Moore with the single greatest quote he ever heard on a practice field. One afternoon, the Cardinals were sloppy, and the curmudgeonly old coach had seen enough.
“Men, the grass is greenest right next to the septic tank,” Moore told them.
“Everybody always thinks, ‘Oh, if I sign here, if I go work with this quarterback, everything works out,'” Fitzgerald explains. “What Coach Moore was saying was you gotta go through some hard sh–, some hard times, some really, muddy, nasty situations, in order to define who you want to be in this league.
“The funniest thing about it: I was like 31 when he said it, but everyone else on that team was in their early 20s. I was like, these m—–f—ers don’t know what a septic tank is!”
‘Sundays at 1 p.m.? Now that’s powerful.’
It’s pushing 100 degrees in Tampa and training camp’s not yet a week old. Moore lumbers around the Bucs’ practice field with a frown on his face, chirping at players too young to know where he started.
When one of those players, left tackle Tristan Wirfs, hears that Moore coached Lynn Swann back in the day, he shakes his head.
“Oh my God, really?”
Wirfs remembers watching Moore work with Brady, thinking to himself, “Tom Brady’s literally seen everything in this league, but if there’s one guy who’s seen even more, it’s that guy.”
In Korea, Moore led a team from the U.S. Army’s 7th Infantry Division in a game called the Sukiyaki Bowl. (Courtesy of Tom Moore)
Moore got the job with the Bucs when Arians became the team’s coach in 2019. When Arians stepped down in 2022, Todd Bowles kept Moore on.
“He tells the truth, and believe it or not, young players like it when you tell them the truth,” Arians says. “One thing Tom ain’t gonna do is bullsh– you.”
His mind, especially when it comes to offensive football, remains as sharp as ever. This past summer, former Jets QB and current FOX analyst Mark Sanchez flew to Moore’s offseason home in Hilton Head, S.C., for four days of film study. He needed Moore to help him better articulate the game.
For a while, it used to bug Moore that he never landed a head-coaching job. He interviewed once, with the Lions in 2006, but the gig went to Rod Marinelli. More than anything, he’s grateful. For the players he’s worked with. The coaches. The executives. For the moments that have stayed with him, like the four Super Bowl wins he’s been a part of and the rush he still gets before kickoff.
“Sunday at 1 p.m.? Now that’s powerful,” Moore says.
He ruled out retirement a long time ago. Sitting around? Relaxing? To him, that sounds miserable. Tom Moore was born to coach. He’ll do it until he can’t.
“I’m never quitting,” he says. “I’m doing this until they carry my ass out boots first.”
***Left out the table bc it didn’t format correctly on mobile
It was Week 14 of the 2000 season. The Colts were in an early 14-0 hole to the Jets, and Moore was incensed. “Peyton,” he barked at Manning on the sideline, “we’re going no-huddle the rest of the game.” The QB nodded, and while their second-half rally came up short, a thought lingered in Moore’s mind during the flight home.
“Why are we waiting to get down 14?” he asked Manning.
Manning wanted to start in the no-huddle and wanted total control at the line of scrimmage. He felt he’d earned it. So that evening, Moore decided the Colts were going to speed up — a decision that would reshape NFL offenses for years to come. They’d start every game in the no-huddle, called Lightning. Manning would have complete command, perhaps more than any other quarterback in league history.
“Defenses want to substitute every three plays, but they ain’t doing that against us,” Moore says. “Their ass is gonna stay on the field.”
It was an audacious gamble, handing over that level of responsibility to a third-year QB who’d thrown a league-record 28 picks as a rookie. Previously, Moore would dial up three plays — a run to the right, a run to the left and a pass — and Manning would decide on one, depending on the defensive front he saw. In Lightning, it was one play with options Manning could check into. Or, he could scrap it altogether and call a new one. The QB would run the show.
“Tom basically said, ‘We’ve got this really smart quarterback, and we’re going to let him use his brain as a weapon,'” says Christensen, then the Colts’ wide receivers coach. “Honestly, not a lot of coaches back then were secure enough to do something like that, just turn their system over to one player.
“But it gave Peyton so much confidence. It’s not like Tom was giving the keys to Jim Sorgi or Curtis Painter.”
Most of the time, when Moore would begin rattling off the call, Manning would pound his chest, their signal that he knew the rest. Moore would wave back from the sideline. You got it, kid.
“Not every QB wants that type of responsibility,” Dungy says. “But we had one who did.”
Peyton Manning won four MVP awards partnering with Moore in Indianapolis. (Al Messerschmidt / Getty Images)
The Colts finished in the top three in scoring five straight seasons. Manning started piling up MVP awards. Before every game during that stretch, Moore would leave his QB with a few words before he jogged onto the field: Play smart, not scared.
That’s how Moore coached and how he called plays: without fear. The success that followed? That was the players, Moore insisted. Any failures were on him.
“I always used to tell Peyton this: You throw the touchdowns, I call the interceptions,” Moore says. “If you think you should do something, do it, and if they don’t like it, they can come see me. You can do no wrong. Don’t call plays and checks at the line of scrimmage wondering if it’s the right play. That’ll drive you crazy.
“You know what you’re doing. Do your thing and don’t ever, ever look back. If you make the wrong decision, you didn’t — I didn’t do a good enough job coaching you. I’ll take the hit.”
Manning remembers that speech, almost verbatim, two decades later. “I never took that for granted,” he says.
‘Two men in a phone booth. One comes out.’
During film sessions in Indy, Moore would show his players cut-ups of opponents slacking late in games, singling out their best players to drive the point home. This thinking would plant the seeds for some of the most memorable comebacks in league history.
“Including one right over my shoulder,” Moore says from his office in Tampa, a nod to the 21-point deficit the Colts erased in four minutes against the Bucs in 2003.
As Manning pointed out, the Colts’ skill position players were in tremendous shape, rarely taking a rep off in practice. Add in Moore’s intolerance for mistakes and the unit grew into a finely tuned machine, especially late in games.
“We’re talking 70,000, 80,000 fans on the road screaming bloody murder,” Clark says, “and we were as cool as the other side of the pillow.”
His mind goes back to one night in New England, the Colts clinging to a slim second-half lead, not wanting to give Brady a chance to rally. Deep down, Moore knew the Patriots had no answer for Edgerrin James, so he dialed up the same run play, “Belly,” a dozen times in row.
“Literally, 12 times straight,” Clark says. “We ran Belly right up their ass.”
James kept moving the chains. Not even Bill Belichick could figure a way to stop him. The Colts won going away.
“I promise you,” Clark says, “Tom Moore goes to bed thinking about that drive at least once a month.”
‘Take the mystery out of it, brother.’
Moore was always going to coach as long as he could. While he was a graduate assistant at Iowa in the 1960s he tried a semester of law school but hated it. His backup plan if it didn’t work out? The FBI.
“But then I got a job at the University of Dayton, and that was that.”
After his run in Indianapolis ended in 2010, Moore spent seasons as a consultant with the Jets (2011) and Titans (2012). Later that winter, an old friend called him up, asking him to come with him to Arizona, where he’d been hired as the new head coach.
“I’m getting the gang back together,” Bruce Arians told him.
“I’m in,” Moore replied. “Hell, it’s better than cleaning up dog sh–.”
In the desert, Moore helped Fitzgerald, then a decade into his career, find a different gear. The wideout can still remember the old coach barking at him during practices, refusing to let him ease up.
This is what Marvin Harrison would do … This is what Reggie Wayne would do … When I was in Pittsburgh, and we told John Stallworth to block Jack f—ing Tatum, he would put his face in Jack Tatum’s ear …
“I loved being coached hard like that,” Fitzgerald says now.
The 11-time Pro Bowler credits Moore with the single greatest quote he ever heard on a practice field. One afternoon, the Cardinals were sloppy, and the curmudgeonly old coach had seen enough.
“Men, the grass is greenest right next to the septic tank,” Moore told them.
“Everybody always thinks, ‘Oh, if I sign here, if I go work with this quarterback, everything works out,'” Fitzgerald explains. “What Coach Moore was saying was you gotta go through some hard sh–, some hard times, some really, muddy, nasty situations, in order to define who you want to be in this league.
“The funniest thing about it: I was like 31 when he said it, but everyone else on that team was in their early 20s. I was like, these m—–f—ers don’t know what a septic tank is!”
‘Sundays at 1 p.m.? Now that’s powerful.’
It’s pushing 100 degrees in Tampa and training camp’s not yet a week old. Moore lumbers around the Bucs’ practice field with a frown on his face, chirping at players too young to know where he started.
When one of those players, left tackle Tristan Wirfs, hears that Moore coached Lynn Swann back in the day, he shakes his head.
“Oh my God, really?”
Wirfs remembers watching Moore work with Brady, thinking to himself, “Tom Brady’s literally seen everything in this league, but if there’s one guy who’s seen even more, it’s that guy.”
In Korea, Moore led a team from the U.S. Army’s 7th Infantry Division in a game called the Sukiyaki Bowl. (Courtesy of Tom Moore)
Moore got the job with the Bucs when Arians became the team’s coach in 2019. When Arians stepped down in 2022, Todd Bowles kept Moore on.
“He tells the truth, and believe it or not, young players like it when you tell them the truth,” Arians says. “One thing Tom ain’t gonna do is bullsh– you.”
His mind, especially when it comes to offensive football, remains as sharp as ever. This past summer, former Jets QB and current FOX analyst Mark Sanchez flew to Moore’s offseason home in Hilton Head, S.C., for four days of film study. He needed Moore to help him better articulate the game.
For a while, it used to bug Moore that he never landed a head-coaching job. He interviewed once, with the Lions in 2006, but the gig went to Rod Marinelli. More than anything, he’s grateful. For the players he’s worked with. The coaches. The executives. For the moments that have stayed with him, like the four Super Bowl wins he’s been a part of and the rush he still gets before kickoff.
“Sunday at 1 p.m.? Now that’s powerful,” Moore says.
He ruled out retirement a long time ago. Sitting around? Relaxing? To him, that sounds miserable. Tom Moore was born to coach. He’ll do it until he can’t.
“I’m never quitting,” he says. “I’m doing this until they carry my ass out boots first.”
***Left out the table bc it didn’t format correctly on mobile