Wall Street Journal article on Justin Tucker
The Bigfoot of Baltimore
Owings Mills, Md.
In this town, you see lots of kids wearing his No. 9 jersey. Adults, too. A kicker. It feels a little eccentric, a personal statement in purple. Football fans usually fly the digits of the starry quarterback, the fleet receiver, the fearsome lineman patrolling the middle.
The kicker?
“It’s an honor that anybody would even think to go and buy a Justin Tucker No. 9,” Justin Tucker tells me. “That means the world.”
But of course they wear his number in Baltimore. Tucker’s the MVF, Most Valuable Foot, central to the identity of his team and this city. That’s Tucker in commercials for the local convenience store heaven, Royal Farms. That’s Tucker, a trained bass-baritone opera singer, a music major at Texas, singing “Ave Maria” at the Baltimore Basilica over Christmas.
That’s Tucker doing it again, last Sunday night, winning another game as the clock expired, sinking the rival Bengals, the coolest hoof in the game. The NFL’s data and analytics department noted that Tucker’s 43-yard winning kick was so on the money, so dead center, it would have been successful were the uprights only a half-yard wide.
“‘Automa-Tuck’,” is how Ravens linebacker Patrick Queen put it.
Did you catch Tucker’s generous postgame interview on TV, in which he nerded out about the pleasure of getting the football delivered with “12 o’clock laces” and deflected glory to Ravens snapper Nick Moore and rookie holder Jordan Stout? Tucker seemed to invent a new statistical category when he credited Stout with his “first career game-winning hold.”
“From there, I’m just a system kicker,” Tucker said. “The ball kicks itself at that point.”
Yeah, right. System kicker. Ball kicks itself. By almost every metric, Tucker’s the best there is, the best there’s ever been, already, at age 32. He’s a lifetime 98.9% on extra points, hovering over 91% on field goals, and that winner against the Bengals was his 61st successful fourth quarter or overtime kick in a row. Over his eleven seasons, he’s 17 for 17 on kicks in the final minute of regulation or OT.
Mmm-hmm, that’s right: he’s perfect. Oh, and last season Tucker set the NFL’s field-goal distance record, too, with a 66-yard winner against Detroit.
It’s rare, but every once in a while, a talented human being finds their precise talent. That’s Justin Tucker.
Sitting here at a table inside the Ravens practice facility, Tucker describes his methodical approach. Practice is a critical, offseason tinkering routine. In the “lab,” as he calls it, Tucker may tweak his approach. Once a modification is made, repetition is essential. It sounds dull. He loves it.
“The Bruce Lee principle,” he says. “Practicing one kick 10,000 times, not just practicing kicking 10,000 times.”
Tucker considers kicking as much of a mental task as it is a physical one, a combination of technique and compartmentalization.
“People think we’re hanging out at practice kicking a few balls,” he says. “I’m physically swinging my leg and trying to explode through each kick, but I’m also really working on my mind. I’m trying to improve my ability to focus. Even on the practice field, I’ll be breaking a pretty significant mental sweat in December and January when it’s 30 and 40 degrees out here.”
One point three seconds. It’s a Tucker mantra, the time he says he needs, from snap to kick, to lock in and get it done. Every variable is considered: temperature, wind speed, surface. Turf tends to be springier than grass. Domes are domes. Baltimore’s stadium, on the water with natural grass and no roof, is hardly placid.
“I’ll jog out onto the field to attempt to kick, and the streamers on the top of the goal posts will be blowing at each other,” he says. “I just have to take a moment and laugh about it, because it is funny.”
Before and after those 1.3 seconds, Tucker allows himself to be human. All those edgy feelings you feel at home, watching a kicker get ready? Tucker thinks it’s healthy to feel those.
“I’ll have all of the thoughts, from anxiety and fear to confidence, excitement, exhilaration, joy, celebration with my teammates and my coaches,” he says. “All of those feelings exist and they’re important. They need to be acknowledged.”
“They can be put away for 1.3 seconds while I see the snap, see the hold and see the ball off my foot.”
He is so good he changes the way the Ravens operate, and the way head coach John Harbaugh coaches. In close, late-game situations, Baltimore’s offense effectively plays on a shortened field, since Tucker is so reliable from long distance. Opponents have to tweak their approach, too. Leave too much time on the clock, as Cincinnati did Sunday? You’ll find yourself at Tucker’s mercy.
“I thank God we’ve got Tuck on our side,” Ravens quarterback Lamar Jackson said the other night.
Kicker is habitually football’s loneliest, most volatile position—the skinny player off to the side, isolated, only as good as his last attempt. Tucker’s a franchise pillar, as much a part of this team as Jackson or Harbaugh or the red-eyed bird on the helmet. It’s why the Ravens recently re-signed Tucker to a four-year, $24 million extension, record money for a foot.
It’s why they wear Justin Tucker’s No. 9 in Baltimore.
A kicker. Theirs.
The Bigfoot of Baltimore
Owings Mills, Md.
In this town, you see lots of kids wearing his No. 9 jersey. Adults, too. A kicker. It feels a little eccentric, a personal statement in purple. Football fans usually fly the digits of the starry quarterback, the fleet receiver, the fearsome lineman patrolling the middle.
The kicker?
“It’s an honor that anybody would even think to go and buy a Justin Tucker No. 9,” Justin Tucker tells me. “That means the world.”
But of course they wear his number in Baltimore. Tucker’s the MVF, Most Valuable Foot, central to the identity of his team and this city. That’s Tucker in commercials for the local convenience store heaven, Royal Farms. That’s Tucker, a trained bass-baritone opera singer, a music major at Texas, singing “Ave Maria” at the Baltimore Basilica over Christmas.
That’s Tucker doing it again, last Sunday night, winning another game as the clock expired, sinking the rival Bengals, the coolest hoof in the game. The NFL’s data and analytics department noted that Tucker’s 43-yard winning kick was so on the money, so dead center, it would have been successful were the uprights only a half-yard wide.
“‘Automa-Tuck’,” is how Ravens linebacker Patrick Queen put it.
Did you catch Tucker’s generous postgame interview on TV, in which he nerded out about the pleasure of getting the football delivered with “12 o’clock laces” and deflected glory to Ravens snapper Nick Moore and rookie holder Jordan Stout? Tucker seemed to invent a new statistical category when he credited Stout with his “first career game-winning hold.”
“From there, I’m just a system kicker,” Tucker said. “The ball kicks itself at that point.”
Yeah, right. System kicker. Ball kicks itself. By almost every metric, Tucker’s the best there is, the best there’s ever been, already, at age 32. He’s a lifetime 98.9% on extra points, hovering over 91% on field goals, and that winner against the Bengals was his 61st successful fourth quarter or overtime kick in a row. Over his eleven seasons, he’s 17 for 17 on kicks in the final minute of regulation or OT.
Mmm-hmm, that’s right: he’s perfect. Oh, and last season Tucker set the NFL’s field-goal distance record, too, with a 66-yard winner against Detroit.
It’s rare, but every once in a while, a talented human being finds their precise talent. That’s Justin Tucker.
Sitting here at a table inside the Ravens practice facility, Tucker describes his methodical approach. Practice is a critical, offseason tinkering routine. In the “lab,” as he calls it, Tucker may tweak his approach. Once a modification is made, repetition is essential. It sounds dull. He loves it.
“The Bruce Lee principle,” he says. “Practicing one kick 10,000 times, not just practicing kicking 10,000 times.”
Tucker considers kicking as much of a mental task as it is a physical one, a combination of technique and compartmentalization.
“People think we’re hanging out at practice kicking a few balls,” he says. “I’m physically swinging my leg and trying to explode through each kick, but I’m also really working on my mind. I’m trying to improve my ability to focus. Even on the practice field, I’ll be breaking a pretty significant mental sweat in December and January when it’s 30 and 40 degrees out here.”
One point three seconds. It’s a Tucker mantra, the time he says he needs, from snap to kick, to lock in and get it done. Every variable is considered: temperature, wind speed, surface. Turf tends to be springier than grass. Domes are domes. Baltimore’s stadium, on the water with natural grass and no roof, is hardly placid.
“I’ll jog out onto the field to attempt to kick, and the streamers on the top of the goal posts will be blowing at each other,” he says. “I just have to take a moment and laugh about it, because it is funny.”
Before and after those 1.3 seconds, Tucker allows himself to be human. All those edgy feelings you feel at home, watching a kicker get ready? Tucker thinks it’s healthy to feel those.
“I’ll have all of the thoughts, from anxiety and fear to confidence, excitement, exhilaration, joy, celebration with my teammates and my coaches,” he says. “All of those feelings exist and they’re important. They need to be acknowledged.”
“They can be put away for 1.3 seconds while I see the snap, see the hold and see the ball off my foot.”
He is so good he changes the way the Ravens operate, and the way head coach John Harbaugh coaches. In close, late-game situations, Baltimore’s offense effectively plays on a shortened field, since Tucker is so reliable from long distance. Opponents have to tweak their approach, too. Leave too much time on the clock, as Cincinnati did Sunday? You’ll find yourself at Tucker’s mercy.
“I thank God we’ve got Tuck on our side,” Ravens quarterback Lamar Jackson said the other night.
Kicker is habitually football’s loneliest, most volatile position—the skinny player off to the side, isolated, only as good as his last attempt. Tucker’s a franchise pillar, as much a part of this team as Jackson or Harbaugh or the red-eyed bird on the helmet. It’s why the Ravens recently re-signed Tucker to a four-year, $24 million extension, record money for a foot.
It’s why they wear Justin Tucker’s No. 9 in Baltimore.
A kicker. Theirs.
