Confronting his demons saved Dave Canales’ marriage — and made Panthers coach an ‘optimist bully’

CHARLOTTE — His face flushed with emotion, his eyes welling with tears, Dave Canales grows quiet and lets the silence linger.

It’s a Sunday morning in mid-August, a half-hour before the Panthers’ eighth practice of training camp. Canales is sitting on a leather couch inside a suite at Bank of America Stadium, steps from the field he’ll coach on this fall. He’s 43 but looks 33, trim, tan, awash in energy and ambition.

Eighteen months ago he was a little-known Seahawks position coach, the guy who spent a decade begging his boss for a promotion. “Can I interview for the QB coaching job?” Canales kept asking. “You’re not ready,” Pete Carroll kept telling him.

Now, having been an offensive coordinator for all of one season, he’s stepping into the toughest job in the league. He has to fix the worst team in football and restart the career of last year’s No. 1 pick, all while an owner known for impatience — David Tepper’s fired three coaches in five years — watches intently.

Canales chased the challenge, wanting the gig other coaches backed away from. He’s not merely eager for the season but bullish on the Panthers’ prospects. Listen to him talk and you’d think he was taking over a playoff team, not one fresh off 2-15.

“An optimist bully,” his quarterback last year in Tampa, Baker Mayfield, called him on a recent episode of “Pardon My Take.”

Canales hears that and smiles. “I’ll be honest,” he says, slowly turning serious, “my outlook, how I coach, it all stems from my faith.

“There’s a common theme for my life. The Lord will provide.”

Then he pauses, his mind churning through the lessons that carried him this far and the demons he confronted along the way. That’s when the words slow and the tears come.

“It’s not some BS mindset positivity thing,” he finally musters.

Canales wouldn’t be sitting here, convicted as he is, vulnerable as he is, if not for the weekend a few years back when the truth finally trickled out of him. For years, the bright young assistant moving up the NFL coaching ladder was hiding something.

And not until he sat next to his wife at a marriage conference did he come out with it. “Babe,” he stammered, “I’m not the man you think I am.”

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“Are you ready?” David Tepper asked him.

Canales had been waiting years for that question.

Still, he left his second interview with Carolina brass — a two-hour sit-down at Panthers owner Tepper’s house in Charlotte two days after the Bucs’ divisional playoff loss — conflicted. Canales flew back to Tampa wrestling over the questions he left unanswered, particularly about what his staff would look like. There were too many unknowns. The next day, he spent four hours on the phone, frantically calling coaches around the league.

“Hey, if I get this job, are you in?” he kept asking.

His climb was quick, emblematic of the modern NFL: if you can coach quarterbacks — Canales can — your phone will ring. As a wide receiver at Azusa Pacific in the early 2000s, Canales caught just 27 passes across four seasons. After graduation he took a job in commercial real estate and sold cowboy boots on the side. “Hated the boots,” he says now. “I was freaking miserable.”

The aim, always, was to open a sports performance facility and train aspiring athletes. So when 19,000 square feet opened up at his father’s church south of Los Angeles, Canales, his brother and his cousin pooled their money together, bought some used weights from a 24-hour fitness center, painted the walls and opened the doors.

Five kids became 15. Fifteen became 30. Within a year, 50 were stopping by every week to train. The football coach at nearby Carson High — where Canales had suited up five years earlier — wondered where all his players were working out. He called Canales and offered him the JV coaching job.

First game, his squad was routed, 34-14. No matter. Canales was hooked. He decided that sideline was all he wanted for the next 30 years. He was going to turn his alma mater into a juggernaut.

Two years later, his wife, Lizzy, changed his mind.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she told him, “but you’re really good at this. You can take this coaching thing as far as you wanna go.”

The dream shifted. “She was giving me license to go,” Canales says now.

He fantasized about becoming a head coach in the Pac-12 and chasing a national championship. The couple gave themselves a five-year window to see if Dave could land a low-level gig on a big-time staff. If it didn’t work out, they decided, they’d always have Carson High.

Three years later Canales was coaching the tight ends at El Camino College, working as a substitute teacher to make ends meet and fighting traffic on the 110 every Tuesday so he could get down to USC’s football offices and sit in the back row of Steve Sarkisian’s offensive meetings. Sark, then the Trojans’ offensive coordinator, played quarterback for El Camino in the early 1990s and wanted to give Canales a chance to get his foot in the door.

He took it. A year later, Carroll, USC’s head coach, hired him as a video assistant and strength coach.

A year later Carroll was gone, off to Seattle. Canales followed, taking an offensive quality control position on his staff. Truth told, he was thrilled to have a key card that let him in the building. In five years he’d gone from JV to the NFL.

He lasted 12 years in Seattle, filing away lessons from Carroll in case he ever got his own shot. “You gotta do it your way,” coach used to tell him, “because if you do it your way, you’ll never get exhausted. You can pull off you every day.”

The Seahawks won a Super Bowl and came a yard short of another. Canales climbed from grunt to offensive whiz, the QB whisperer who helped lift Russell Wilson to some of his most prolific seasons, then turned Geno Smith into the league’s Comeback Player of the Year. That earned Canales his first shot at calling plays since he was at Carson High. As offensive coordinator in Tampa last season, he helped resurrect former No. 1 pick Mayfield’s career.

“I just want you to know that you’re more important to me than football,” Canales always tells his quarterbacks before they leave the locker room. “I love you, I’m proud of you, and I’ve got your back.

“Now let’s go get ’em.”

There’s no secret, he says, in flipping the trajectory of a QB’s future. Canales wants them cocky, unafraid to fail. Fear doesn’t just lose on Sunday, it buries careers. “There’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Canales reminds them. “You’ve seen every blitz. Every coverage. You’ve run every pass play. Trust in that.”

The day after Canales’ second interview with the Panthers — after he’d spent all morning calling coaches feverishly trying to build out a staff — his phone buzzed on the drive home. It was Tepper, who had recently fired Titans coach Mike Vrabel over to his house for a last-minute interview.

“I’m glad you called, Mr. Tepper,” Canales began, “because I’ve got a lot of ideas about the staff …”

A moment later, he was talking so fast he had to pull over. Tepper interrupted.

“Dave, Dave, no need for that right now,” he said. “How would you like to be the head coach of the Carolina Panthers?”

Canales could barely speak.

Finally, he screamed.

“Whaaaaattttt?!?!?”

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What he told his wife next, sitting beside her at the marriage conference, shattered her.

“I’ve been unfaithful to you.”

Tears trickled down his cheeks. Hers too.

“I know,” Lizzy told him. “I’ve known for a long time.”

The higher Canales ascended in his profession, the more he spiraled in secret: a pornography addiction bled into infidelity, and his infidelity left him buried in guilt and shame.

Alcohol became his release. Out to dinner with his growing family — the Canaleses have four kids — Dave would down three beers at the table and sneak in a shot at the bar on his way to the bathroom. Out with other coaches, he’d tuck his wedding ring into his pocket and drink until he couldn’t see straight.

“Life on the road with a per diem and a hotel alone, for me that was a recipe for disaster,” Canales writes in “This Marriage? The Question That Changed Everything,” a book he and Lizzy penned together in 2022. “It was like trying to put out a fire by pouring gasoline on it.”

He first cheated on Lizzy a month before their wedding.

When she would press him, he’d grow quiet, walling her off. Then he’d try to push the guilt from his mind. Once, after a tense back-and-forth, he slipped out of the house and hit the bars with a buddy, intent on drinking as much as he possibly could.

It was Lizzy who pushed Dave to leave Carson and chase his dream, Lizzy who picked up a nanny job while he was a low-level assistant at El Camino because they needed the extra money, Lizzy who stayed home to raise their young kids while he worked late, chasing the next promotion, and the next promotion and the next promotion.

Once, while she stood in line at the grocery holding her toddler in her arm, Lizzy was told her debit card wasn’t working. “Do you have a different form of payment?” the cashier asked.

Lizzy panicked. It was payday, she told herself. There should be money in there.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t,” she finally said. She left the groceries at the store and cried the whole way home.

Her husband’s confession at the conference turned out to be the couple’s first step towards healing. It spurred a deeper conversation about Dave’s vices, about his narcissism, about how he was leaving his family behind.

Through sobs, they collapsed into each other’s arms.

Lizzy was furious. She was lost. She was scared. “But,” she finally told him, clenching his hand, “I still don’t wanna do this life with anyone else.”

It took two years of counseling. The pain would hit Lizzy in waves, the deception and the disbelief overwhelming her as she tried to process it all. They decided to write “This Marriage” in hopes of helping other couples. It was their faith, both write, that allowed them to do so.

Tony Dungy, the Hall of Fame coach, first connected with Canales at a forum for Christian coaches a few years back. Canales shared his story that day, scars and all. Dungy was floored. He became a mentor, a sounding board and a pillar of support. A few years later, he wrote the foreword for “This Marriage.”

“It’s one thing to share your story with a bunch of coaches you trust, but to take it public and try and help others? That’s unique. That’s hard. That’s special,” Dungy says.

For Dungy, Canales’ journey called to mind his favorite Bible verse, Matthew 16:26. What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?

“It’s made him a better man, and I believe it’s made him a better coach,” Dungy says. “Now, does that mean you’re gonna win more? Not necessarily. There’s a lot of factors that go into that. But you’ll be wiser, and you’ll benefit, and so will the people around you — starting with your players.”

His confession, and the work it took to save his marriage, changed Canales’ lens. On life and on football. It’s why a simple question — “Are you really an optimist bully?” — stirs him to tears on a Sunday morning a half-hour before practice.

It’s taught him there’s a plan. A purpose. And that it’s not his.

“That frees me up to just go for it,” Canales says. “To just call my favorite play. To let our guys play fast. It frees me up to think, ‘This day is amazing, and I can’t wait to see what God does with it.”

He smiles. He gazes out at the empty field. Then, after the tears have stopped and his emotions have eased, he finally circles back to what his old quarterback called him earlier this summer.

“So,” Canales says, “does all of that make me an optimist bully?

“Absolutely it does.”

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He refuses to wear a hat on the sideline. He wants his players to see him as a person — “not just a hoodie and a hat.” He won’t wear sunglasses, either, so he can look them straight in the eyes. Last season, members of the Bucs’ offense would stumble off the field, steaming over a turnover, expecting an eruption. Canales would never raise his voice.

“Guys, you know what happened?” he’d calmly ask. “We missed a block. That’s it. Next play.”

His approach — driven less by outcome than attitude — sounds great in August but won’t if the Panthers are 1-7 come November. Most significant will be how Bryce Young, the Panthers’ second-year QB who struggled immensely last season, responds.

“I think Dave’s gonna be so good for Bryce,” Panthers general manager Dan Morgan says, watching practice one morning. “Bryce’s personality is very flat-lined. Dave’s gonna be optimistic with everything, positive with everything. Guys today need that type of leadership.”

What struck Canales most after he arrived in Charlotte last winter was the tenor of the team: This group wasn’t broken, he decided, even after 2-15. He wouldn’t have to rebuild the culture, a process that took Carroll three long years in Seattle. Canales liked where the defense was at under Ejiro Evero, whom he kept on as coordinator.

The offense was the issue. The scheme needed an overhaul. “Don’t have enough touchdown makers,” Canales told himself after watching the film. “And the line needs a lot of help.”

The Panthers traded for a wide receiver, Dionte Johnson, and drafted another in Xavier Legette. Morgan dished out $89 million in guaranteed money to lure guards Robert Hunt and Damien Lewis in free agency. They shifted Austin Corbett to center.

The motive was clear: until they can better help and better protect Young — the kid was sacked 62 times last season, second-most of any rookie ever — this team’s going nowhere.

“We did not help Bryce in any sort of fashion last year,” Corbett admits. “Up front, it was just ugly.”

The quarterback was one of Canales’ first calls after he took the job. “When you gonna be in town?” he asked. “Let’s have dinner.”

So the two sat down one night. “Tell me your story,” Canales began. “Start from the beginning.”

When Young started to detail his rookie season, his new coach stopped him.

“No, I don’t just mean last year. I mean the whole story.”

Young went all the way back to high school. Dinner lasted three hours.

Canales still remembers the first time he watched Young play. He was still in Seattle, watching Alabama in a bowl game on TV, and he couldn’t stop staring at No. 9.

Tight game, fourth quarter, and Young oozed California cool. No smiles. No screams. No outward reaction to anything.

“Look at his face!” Canales shouted at his brother-in-law, who was sitting next to him. “That kid is made of the right stuff.”

Now in Carolina, the coach who’s built his name on reviving tenuous careers at the position will find out if Young can bury 2023 and move on. The verdict will define Canales’ head-coaching tenure.

Young’s career, for the time being, rests in Canales’ hands.

“I’m speaking for Bryce a little bit when I say this, but I think last year was the best thing that ever happened to him,” says veteran receiver Adam Thielen. “He’s had a lot of success in his life. High school. College. Then to just come here and … look, you never want that, and I’m sure he’d say he wishes it didn’t go like that, but when he’s three, four, five years in the league, I think he’ll look back and say, ‘I learned so much about myself and my team.’

“You can build off that. He’s the type of guy to take it the right way.”

Thielen was another player whom Canales sought out. The receiver swung by the coach’s office one afternoon after a lift. “I’d love to sit down and hear about your vision,” Thielen told him, thinking they’d get something scheduled in the coming months.

“How about dinner tonight?” the coach replied.

“The guy’s an open book,” Thielen says now. “Players respect that.”

“We can tell BS from not,” Corbett adds. “Dave’s just so genuine. He’s just so him.”

“We could start 0-6 — not that we wanna start 0-6 — and he’s gonna be the same guy every day,” Morgan says. “We know this isn’t gonna be perfect. It’s gonna take some time.”

It will. The Panthers have the thinnest roster in the league. Their starting quarterback ranked 38th in EPA per dropback last season, behind the likes of Mac Jones and Desmond Ridder. In the spring, Morgan shipped his best pass rusher, Brian Burns, to the Giants. Carolina hasn’t had a winning record in six years.

Inside the stadium suite, the new head coach climbs to his feet, anxious to see what the day has in store. It’s pushing 100 degrees outside, and the sun is stifling. Dave Canales is wearing no hat, no sunglasses. He starts to walk toward the practice field, then stops.

“Thanks for making me cry before practice,” he says. “And for the reminder of what’s important.”

(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; photo: Grant Halverson / Getty Images)