The 48-Hour Rule (Okay, 52)

Feel it. Learn it. Use it. Then turn the page.

I joked at the press podium yesterday about the “52-hour rule.” My math snafu made people laugh, blame it on “Unc University”. But my sentiment is serious. After a tough loss you get a window. Some say 24 hours, some 48…or 52. The number matters less than what you do inside it. The clock starts when the whistle blows. You feel the sting long enough to understand it, then you make a choice: “I hate this feeling so much that I do not want to feel it again.”

The moment yesterday I realized the math wasn’t mathin’

That window is not for excuses or building a case about who else messed up. It is for ownership and truth. Veterans and leaders know that when you point one finger out in blame or anger, there are four pointing back at you. That is where I start. What did I control before the snap, during the snap, after the whistle, and what will I control this week. When I do that work, the one finger usually disappears.

Here is how I use the hours. First, I reset my body. Usually that means I call my family, hydrate, eat real food, sleep, and breathe. I was so riled up after Sunday night that I filmed The KVN Show as soon as I got off the plane at 3am. I needed to get my thoughts out of my head and start analyzing out loud. Naming it turns heat into information. Getting it outside of your head also helps you see some positives, some things to encourage, some things to build on.

Next, I watch the tape twice. First pass, no talking. I see where my eyes went, how my feet and hands worked, what the play demanded. Second pass, I pause and tag: What was the call, what was my job, did I do my job. I do not grade the team. I grade me.

Then I have the conversations. Position coach, coordinator, the teammate, the fellow vet. These are not arguments. They are clarity meetings. What did you see? What did I miss? What do you need from me next time? Keep it in-house. If you have something to say, say it in private and say it constructively. We pull a teammate aside, bring the tape, and bring a fix. The best teams know it is us vs. them. We protect the room, we correct it in the room, and we walk out as one.

Finally, I build a simple plan and commit. If it is not on paper, it is not a plan. If it does not show up on the field, it is not a change.

When you let yourself feel the loss, you earn the right to use it. That feeling is not a place to live; it is a tool. Fuel is not rage. Fuel is intent.

There are two places I never skip: the mirror and the room. The mirror asks whether I did my job, whether I finished, whether I communicated, and whether I prepared for the exact play that beat us. The room asks whether we share the same picture and standards, whether we can correct without ego and receive correction without defense, and whether we are aligned in two-minute, red zone, and short yardage. Skip the mirror and you become a critic. Skip the room and you become a solo act. Both lose.

You might not play football, but you have a version of this. Your tape is market response, client feedback, performance metrics, and whether the work shipped on time. Your tough conversations are with teammates, bosses, customers, partners, or family. Your plan is the three things you will do differently by Friday and the habit that makes them stick. Give yourself the window. Feel it, study it, own it, then move forward.

In order to get better at anything, you need to decide you never want to feel the pain and disappointment again. But if you wallow in it, you’re carrying the L forward. Flip the page and look ahead.

When the next hard moment comes, I want to be a man who already decided. I do not live in the loss. I use it. I start with the four fingers pointing back at me, bring my brothers with me, and finish the job. On the positive, I’m really happy to be going into Week 2 without a broken face like last year. The page is flipped. We’re ready. Are you?