CHARLOTTE — Tater's got eyes. And Tater's seen some things.

Specifically, more of Panthers history than anyone who hadn't worked here before this season.

When it comes to the biggest names — and the smallest connections — in Panthers history, you can cover most of them in a conversation with Carl Smith. Officially, his title is senior offensive consultant, but it might as well just be historian. Because the man they call Tater has practically seen it all in terms of this franchise, and he hasn't even worked here a year.

He coached three of the seven members of the Panthers Hall of Honor. He instructed Sam Mills on the finer points of punt coverage, saw the Wesley Walls breakout coming before anyone else did, and marveled at Jake Delhomme's ability to warm up in about five seconds. He recommended the first special teams coach in franchise history because that guy was his GA in college, and trained up half of the current coaching staff, including Dave Canales. Oh, and his son works here, too.

So onboarding him was an easier task than most.

"I walked in and saw the names on the walls, and said 'I remember him, and him, and him,'" Smith laughed.​

It's a football life, and Carl Smith has lived it. And along the way, he's accumulated the kind of knowledge few have, but he's always sharing. That's why he's so beloved in the industry, and why so many are eager to tell Tater stories, many of which can be printed. But don't bother with his government name. Just call him Tater. Everybody else does.

Of course, don't be fooled by the nickname or the backward hat or the folksy manner that disarms people but also causes people to underestimate him, perhaps. This man has lasted 78 years on this planet and 55 years in football by knowing what he's talking about.

"When you look at him, it's kind of like he's just somebody's grandfather," Delhomme said. "But he's just meticulous. You never saw him get too high or too low, and he's just really, really good at football. You keep getting hired like that; those just aren't ceremonial jobs. Guys want him on their staff because there's no agenda, and it's weird to say that, he's hopped around, but he's never looked for the next job, you know what I mean? They keep coming to him, but it's the value that he can bring.

"I don't know, everybody sees him or talks about him, ... It's Tater, and there's a smile on their face."

Canales just laughed when asked what he learned from Smith — sorry, Tater — over the years.

"Really just Football 101," Canales said, because how do you explain the accumulated knowledge of the years, so willingly poured out into others?

To go back in time with Tater is like a guided tour through the history of the sport. And in every conversation, you realize that the football world is this big around, because of how connected the people and places become. This job with the Panthers wasn't his first in this state, because in 1982, he was Monte Kiffin's offensive coordinator at NC State, working alongside defensive coordinator and future boss Pete Carroll. They all got fired at the end of that season, which sent him to the fledgling USFL, where he got a job as tight ends and special teams coach on Jim Mora's thrown-together staff (Mora got the job late after George Perles bailed for the more stable Michigan State job).

That staff also included offensive coordinator Joe Pendry and running backs coach Jim Skipper, who would have those jobs on Dom Capers' original Panthers staff in 1995. Capers joined the Stars in their second season, along with Vic Fangio. Since Smith had a steady job at the time, he didn't come along to Charlotte with Capers in 1995, but recommended a kid named Brad Seely, who was once his GA at Lamar. "Dom didn't know him, but I did," Tater laughed. "I said this kid's really smart; you should hire him.")

But those USFL years gave Smith a ringside seat to watch Sam Mills' unlikely climb to the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

So when the Stars got to their training camp at Stetson University in DeLand, Fla., in 1983, there were all kinds of strays, including a 5-foot-9 shop teacher from New Jersey.

"So Jim Mora had us rate our players after the first practice, and we did it every night," Smith began. "So Vince Tobin was the defensive coordinator, and he had 12 linebackers, and he rated them after one practice, and Sam Mills was first. And Mora said, 'What?' You know how he does. 'That little guy? You kidding me?'

"We didn't know any of these people. We had just flown in the day before. Jim had gotten the job about a month before, so we didn't know anything about any of the players other than, ' Here they are and then the next day he watched and was like, ' See what you got.

"So then he became Sam Mills to us."

And to a lot of people, as Mills became the dominant defensive player in a league that also included Reggie White — his first steps in a journey that would go through New Orleans and Charlotte to Canton, Ohio.

But to Tater, he was the center on the kickoff return team.

"I wanted to use him on all the coverage units, but anyway, I didn't get to," he laughed. "But he'd see me on the first day of the week, and he'd go like, 'Who I got this week, coach?' You got 94, man. He's a big old dude.

"And Sam just said, 'I got him,' with that big smile, and so he didn't even have to come to my meetings; he knew the returns we had, and I'd tell him who you got, and he got him."

When they all went to New Orleans at the conclusion of the USFL, Mills had to establish himself again, in a place where they had never enjoyed a winning record. The Saints defense was decent at the time, but just like in the USFL, they didn't know what to make of the little fella.

"By the time Sam's in, we had a whole starting defense, and the team had never won, but you couldn't tell it from the defensive players; they thought they were fantastic, OK," Smith recalled. "We were just coming in, so when Sam came in, they didn't think much of him either. This little guy, USFL was nothing, that kind of thing. And Sam said nothing, and he just went to practice like he always did. He never overhit a drill, but he was the first one to the ball. He was always the first one to the ball. And because we had already been practicing, I knew what the defense looked like without Sam in practice, and they're kind of lethargic. They weren't impressed.

"And eventually, when Sam would go in there, they'd have another play and another play and another play. They just got faster without him saying a word because it was embarrassing that he was so much better than they were. He was participating harder. So he got the defense going, and that's what happened; he's the guy that changed the Saints' defense. He didn't even start his first games there, which was ridiculous. But he changed the whole defense by just the way he did it."

Capers was also with them in New Orleans, and that allowed the two coaches to build on their existing relationship as well. They'd go out with their wives ("Miss Diane" Smith and Karen Capers), and the difference in their personalities meant Smith always had somebody he could mess with. Capers was legendary here as the inaugural coach for being meticulous. His notebooks were always in the same place, and he could tell you which desk drawer they were stored in, and what the practice plan was three months from now.

"Buttoned-up is a good way to describe Dom," Smith said. "You've probably been in his office. Everything is precise. It's right where it's supposed to be all the time. You walk in, and it looks like a furniture showroom, like they're selling stuff.

"So I always worked late, and after everybody was gone, my wife would come over sometimes and bring me something, and she'd always go back. So Diane would go back in Dom's office, open up his drawer, just mess up all his pencils and pens, just throw them all to the side because she knew that would get him. By the time I'd go back and check it the next day, they were all back in order. He couldn't have pencils facing the wrong direction. He would just laugh and go straight back to whatever he was doing and rearrange everything along the way."

While Capers and Smith were in New Orleans, they had a young tight end who caught 11 passes in five years with the 49ers, but was about to become a star.

"I had watched tape of him, and he had like eight catches in his first two years in San Francisco (it was nine, but the point stands), because they had good tight ends and he didn't get many chances," Smith recalled. "But in those eight chances, I was like, I want that guy; I pushed for him. Can I have that guy?

"Because we had the slowest team in football at that time. We were good offensively, but we were slow. Our fastest wide receiver, Eric Martin, he ran 4.7. And Hoby Brenner was our tight end, and he ran 5.2 when he came in. He could block. Dalton Hilliard was a great running back. He was not a speedster.

"But Wesley, I could see the burst that he had, and he played well in those few times that he played. He just couldn't get on the field in San Francisco, so I knew he was going to be good. I expected him to be good, and he was."

After catching 38 and 57 passes while learning from Smith in 1994 and 1995, Walls became a priority free agent for the Panthers, where he went to five Pro Bowls in six seasons and became an important part of the team's push to the NFC Championship Game in its second season.

So when Walls spotted Smith chatting with current tight ends coach Pat McPherson at Fan Fest, he immediately cited the veteran coach's impact.

"I hadn't seen him in a long time, and he immediately gave me a hug; he said, 'Pat, this guy right here made me a lot of money,'" Smith recalled. "I was like, yeah, I wanted to get the ball to Wes because he could go. He, he could definitely go."​

You could fast forward about 15 years, and Smith would be coaching Delhomme in Cleveland, but their story goes back deeper than that. The Smith family established a home in Lafayette, La., during his stint at Southwestern Louisiana, and while helping out at the Manning Passing Academy, he got to know a young quarterback from Teurlings Catholic who lived in nearby Breaux Bridge.

"He was one of a kind; he was one in a trillion," Smith said of Delhomme (though Delhomme says the same thing about Smith). "I was happy when he got a chance with the Saints and then ended up here and did really well. I've been a fan of Jake's for a long time, so it was a thrill to be able to coach him, and he was, he was everything I expected him to be and more."

Of course, by then, Delhomme was a different quarterback, near the end of a career shortened by injuries, including a series of high ankle sprains that began shortly after he won the starting job in Cleveland. But they wanted him as more than just a player, since they drafted Colt McCoy and hoped he could become their future.

"I'd say he made Colt McCoy's career," Smith recalled. "He just adopted him. He just said, 'Colt, you're picking me up at 6 o'clock or whatever time; it was early. You're picking me up every day. Get your truck. So Colt was by Jake's side all the time so he'd take him in. He's the first one in the building and the equipment room, medical, the trainers, the whole thing. How to study, told him all that.

"Now, he did on the field; he surprised me. So he's going to warm up; I mean, he's playing catch. He'd thrown, I think it was either three or four balls, and said, OK, I'm ready. I said, what? He said I had a little thing I had to do here, so that's all I need now. And it was OK, and he went in, and he'd start one-on-ones or whatever we were doing, and he was throwing it right there, and he was astoundingly accurate in games, in practice.

"OK, so whatever he had to do to his shoulder or elbow or arm or all that stuff, he was amazing."

Smith would continue to find Delhomme during his early retirement, sneaking up on him in the stands at Teurlings football games and catching up. (This is a theme with Smith. When defensive line coach Todd Wash was sitting at one of his daughter's softball games in Florida, he looked up and saw Smith coming his way. "Just wanted to come see a game," Tater said.)

And now that they're both back here, they get a chance to see each other more often, and Delhomme's still amazed when he talks to the 78-year-old Smith and what a grasp he has on the current team.

"One, the game never passed him by," Delhomme said. "The game never passed him by because he was so smart in the film room, could see it, diagnose it, talk about it, and just do it. There's just a respect factor, and you want to be around him. I like it's that grandfather that you just adore and love, but that's kind of what he gives off. In Cleveland, it wasn't just the quarterbacks; the running backs were always going to talk to him, the offensive line, the tight ends. I mean, he could coach punt returners; he could do all that. And players know when somebody has your best interest, and they know that, OK, this person has a lot of experience, but he doesn't browbeat you, like, oh wow, I didn't realize he knew that. I didn't realize he was that knowledgeable. That's him, man. That's him."

The knowledge, coupled with his sense of humor, has helped keep him afloat.

Delhomme has dozens of one-liners (again, some repeatable, some less so), but remembered how matter-of-fact Smith was about whatever came his way. After their season together in Cleveland in 2010, they were out to dinner at Cabin Club with the wives. Delhomme remembered being in a walking boot, but being completely at ease with Smith, even though the writing was on the wall for coach Eric Mangini and his entire staff.

"It was so funny, it was like Tater wasn't worried about anything in the world," Delhomme said. "And I get a text the next morning, and it was, 'Hey, just want to let you know I've been liberated.' That was the response. I've been liberated. That's him, and he pretty much immediately went back to Seattle."

Reconnecting with Pete Carroll, three decades after they drove the backroads of North Carolina and Virginia on recruiting visits, also put Smith into the orbit of a younger generation of coaches, including a young Californian who immediately impressed the old ball coach with his energy and his intelligence, during the two years he worked as a quality control coach with Smith.

"He was just like he is now, just with less experience," Smith said of his boss. "But same person exactly, thoughtful, kind, a worker, very sharp. I think he got As in calculus. Calculus was a problem for me. I was really good in math. Calculus, I was like, what?"

That's not specifically about math, because Smith has a way of telling stories that prove larger points.

"But really sharp," he continued about Canales. "Anything that happened before he remembered. He was a steady hand. Pete asked me one time about Dave or this other person, other people about the job he was thinking of giving Dave, and I told him, yeah, I would take Dave. He said, Well, why is that? I told him, emotional security, emotionally sound. He's a grown-up mentally. He's not a kid, he's not a youngster, he's got the steady mind, right?

"He was the young one, and he was the fastest. But he was always on top of his tasks. He's a good teacher, so none of this surprises me. I was very happy with how he did with the media here the first year. I mean, I watched his press conferences and stuff and was like, OK, crushed it. He's good to people. It's just natural to him to be good to them; it doesn't matter who they are. He's thoughtful. He was a good coach to his players."

Maybe that's because Canales picked up a thing or two from watching him.

Canales can still recite chapter-and-verse things he watched Smith impart to Russell Wilson in Seattle, leaning into situational football and clock management, as well as the psychology of the people involved. Tater has a way of making complicated things sound easy; when evaluating a receiver, he'll ask, "When you throw him the ball, does he catch it?"

"If you miss a throw, it's big eraser time," Canales said. "Big eraser was we're going right back out there whenever we get back on the field on Wednesday. You may have missed this particular throw; we'll mimic the movement, put the quarterback in the same situation. Don't leave the gym on a miss. Hit a ball. All right, boom, we're back. We got that one in the bag.

"And we would just work that way, kind of adjusting to the game of the quarterback, and I learned that it's super valuable if you don't get stuck in a rut with just the regular drills that you do all the time, but if you create game-like situations and really work on the things they need to work at, which really helped us."

Canales also grinned and remembered Smith teaching him about "the chain of life," which he'll tell his team about in other words now.

"He'd say, OK, let's talk about the chain of life," Canales said, walking his hands through the steps like the first time he heard Smith tell it. "'What are some really good things? Family, babies. New job, new car, exciting things. OK, let's start going down here a little bit. Incompletions. Sack. Sack's not the worst thing in the world, guys. You got to take some of those. Interceptions, OK, that's way down here. But let's go way down on the floor. World hunger, war.'

"Different things like that, he would just say, like, just keep things in perspective. We get to play this game. There's some stuff that's bad about football. It's not the worst thing in the world. There's some stuff that's really good; there's some stuff that's better, and so it was always good. I always took that approach to give the guys the ability to go out there to find joy in what we do. Work hard, he would always say you're working on your game, you're working on your team."

Canales remembered Smith walking through the halls, asking coaches if they knew number 72, who might be a new offensive lineman just signed in the middle of training camp. He was looking for a name.

So it's not a coincidence that Smith's closest connection to this place, his son Tracy, refuses to use numbers to identify football players.

The younger Smith is the special teams coordinator, in the business of changing tires on moving cars. He never knows until later in the week who he's going to have available in a given game, so he does his best to know all the people, because that makes it easier to coach whatever collection of them you might have.

Being tuned into Xs and Os and also the humans involved is one of the reasons Tracy Smith was recognized as one of the smarter guys in the building, even before his dad showed up.

"Takes after his mom," Tater deadpanned.

But you can tell in talking to Tracy over the years that his father informed a lot of his approach to the game as well.

Tracy grew up in the game, so it wasn't until later that he learned, "All my dad's friends are on TV." That kind of perspective isn't something you take for granted in the NFL. Most football kids are used to moving, but Tracy arrived at a time of stability in New Orleans, so he went from kindergarten through high school in the same place. His two brothers, on the other hand, graduated from different high schools. So he knows the gig.

"Football's paid for every meal of my whole life," Tracy said, sounding very much like his father. ​

They've been together before — "He got me a few jobs at the beginning, I've got him a few at the end," Tracy laughed — but having this time together in Charlotte has been fun for both of them.

This has always been their context. Some families go on vacations together, but Tracy and his dad would watch the 100 longest kickoff returns from a previous season just to look for the edges. "He just came in and said, 'Let's figure out stuff that nobody has yet,'" Tracy grinned.

So when they get to work together, that's extra cool.

(One of those early jobs together for Tracy was as an assistant special teams coach in Cleveland when his dad was coaching Delhomme. Former Panthers offensive coordinator Gil Haskell, who called plays during the peak of Steve Beuerlein's career, was there in the Browns front office too, proving that Tater is the Kevin Bacon from which six degrees of anyone can get you back to the Carolina Panthers. Don't believe it? Another future Panthers play-caller, Jeff Davidson, played for the Saints when Tater was coaching there. Tracy used to babysit Jeff's kids when Tater got Jeff a gig coaching.)

But Tater's at home on any football field or stadium. Just hand him an iPad full of film, and he's entertained wherever he sits, even if it's alone in a hotel ballroom. But there may be a little extra bounce in his step when he gets to walk to practice with his son during the weeks when he's here.

"It's the best. He's the best," Tracy said. "Your relationship just extends to the, you know, the day, whatever it is. I'm sure if you don't have a great relationship with your dad, then it's awful. You don't want to extend that, you know. But my dad's the best ever. That's my best friend, so being with him at work is just extra hours that we get to be together. So that's pretty cool.

"It's really neat; it makes me proud, and I'm happy for him that everyone is always like, 'Your dad is the best.' I'm happy. It never gets old hearing those stories."

It's a good thing, because there are plenty of them.