The ‘Peanut Punch’ took over the NFL. Wait until you hear about its inventor

Growing up, Charles Tillman always wanted to join the military. Tillman viewed his father, Donald, who retired as a staff sergeant, as a superhero worthy of emulation. Tillman traveled to wherever the Army sent Donald, attending 12 schools from the West Coast to Germany.

When Tillman came of age, he encountered a welcome obstacle to following his father’s career path: “I just kind of phased out because I was pretty good at football,” he said. People kept giving him scholarships and money to play.

Tillman’s detour into professional football — and his subsequent swerve back into public service — is the start of the explanation for how he quietly became one of the 2025 NFL season’s most influential and interesting men as a 44-year-old father of four living in Chicago, the city where he became a beloved Chicago Bear, an innovator of modern defensive technique — and a now-retired FBI special agent.

Beneath the glamorous spectacle, brilliant scheme and financial fortunes at play on NFL Sundays, the most fundamental act on a football field remains the tackle. Over his 13-year career, Tillman changed it in a way that has grown more conspicuous by the year. When defenders approach ballcarriers, they no longer uniformly aim to wrap up with both arms and drive the player to the ground. They form a fist and punch at the ball, trying to jar it loose with force. It’s called the “Peanut Punch,” named for Charles “Peanut” Tillman.

In training camp this year, the Los Angeles Rams’ defensive coaches showed players a chart describing the method of forced fumbles last season. The vast majority, more than strip-sacks or helmets on the ball, came from punch-outs.

“That’s becoming a huge defensive emphasis,” Rams linebacker Nate Landman said. “It’s something that a lot of teams, a lot of players are starting to exploit.”

The play has grown so ubiquitous that the NFL sent a memo this season notifying players that they could be penalized if their swings at the ball veered into wanton punches of an opponent’s body.

“That’s when you know you made it,” Tillman said last month in a phone conversation. “Y’all writing memos about my technique because people are doing it the right way and the wrong way. So yeah — trendsetter. Game changer. That’s what I’m going to say. And that’s what you want to do. You want to leave your mark on the game. And I think I have.”

Tillman’s contribution to football alone would make him a compelling figure. His post-football career is even more remarkable. He filled out his application to join the FBI before he retired from the NFL, and he became a credentialed special agent in December 2017. He loved the work until he left in May, disturbed by the direction of the bureau’s mission.

Tillman is living a quiet retirement, running his foundation, offering commentary on a Chicago regional sports network and keeping an occasionally updated social media account dedicated mainly to the “Peanut Punch.” On any given Sunday, Tillman can observe how far the technique he popularized has spread.

‘Super badass’

In the final game of his freshman season at Louisiana Lafayette, Tillman played free safety against Wofford’s triple-option offense. He had a free lane to make tackles, and he finished with 20. His high school defensive coordinator, Rodney Southern, had come to watch him play. “Man, if you would have just swatted at the ball, you would have had so many forced fumbles,” Southern told him.

“A light bulb kind of went off,” Tillman said.

For the remainder of his college career, Tillman focused on knocking the ball loose but not with the form that would bear his name. He would purposefully take a bad pursuit angle, let the ballcarrier run past him, sprint to catch up, leap on his back and punch the ball from behind.

The Bears selected Tillman as a cornerback in the second round of the 2003 draft. He quickly realized NFL players were too fast for him to let them run by and catch up. He attempted hits that rattled balls out. “I tried to be like Ronnie Lott and Steve Atwater and Rod Woodson and them — and Ed Reed,” Tillman said. “It didn’t work for me. I didn’t hit that hard. I couldn’t do it.”

Tillman decided he would punch at the ball, even if he could not create his preferred angle. He had arrived at the perfect place. The mid-2000s Bears under Lovie Smith prioritized turnovers. Coaches put a football in the defensive meeting room, and players were obligated to punch or swipe at it each time they entered and exited. On other teams Tillman’s novel technique may have been frowned upon. In Chicago it was celebrated.

Tillman watched film of how running backs and wide receivers carried the ball. He studied how different angles and types of punches best jarred the ball from specific carrying techniques. He took boxing classes to increase his hand speed. In 2012 he led the NFL with 10 forced fumbles, tying the record, and earned all-pro honors.

“Think of it like ‘The Matrix,’” Tillman said. “I got so good at it that (stuff) would just slow down for me, and I could see it as clear as day. Then I would just punch, and it would come out.”

His skill turned a novelty into a fundamental. Near the end of his NFL career, Tillman received a call from his college roommate, Chris Gistorb, who had gone into coaching and was at a clinic. “Bro,” Gistorb said. “You made it.” Tillman asked him what he meant. Gistorb said coaches were teaching Tillman’s technique.

At Purdue this summer, defensive backs coach Charles Clark brought with him from Memphis a drill that emphasizes the punch. He used a bungee cord to strap a football to the inside of a doughnut-shaped tackling dummy. When players tackled the dummy, they also had to punch out the ball. The drill promoted tackling with their heads up because they needed to see the ball.

“The biggest change is that the people that actually study are incorporating it with the tackle rather than it being individual,” Clark said. “Some people probably just do tackling versus a punch-out. I think they’re one and the same.”

Early in his career with the Atlanta Falcons, Landman had never attempted a punch at the ball. He watched safety Jessie Bates III dislodge balls in practice and asked him about it. Soon, they were competing to see who could cause more fumbles.

Now in his fourth season, Landman is one of the leading practitioners of the “Peanut Punch” — Tillman identified Landman, Philadelphia Eagles linebacker Zack Baun and Baltimore Ravens cornerback Marlon Humphrey as his favorite trio. Landman has punched out four fumbles this season, having honed his technique over the years.

Landman throws just one punch — top down with his fist, always aiming at the corner of the ball. He seizes opportunities when he can punch without “sacrificing the integrity of the tackle,” he said. He punches when a teammate has made first contact or when he is running to his right, which allows him to simultaneously punch and wrap the tackler with his stronger arm.

“People are taught to track the hip when you’re making tackles,” Landman said. “I kind of track the football if I can lock on to it on the inside arm. If I see the leather and I’m in good body position, I’m going to attack it.”

Landman studies other players, including his former teammate Bates and San Francisco 49ers star Fred Warner. He has never dived into Tillman’s film.

“But obviously I’ve seen the highlights,” Landman said. “He’s the one who kind of coined the move. He’s got it named after him, which is super badass.”

‘Time to walk away’

Tillman’s post-football life has distinguished him outside the spotlight. Even as he became a star, his impulse to pursue public service remained. He chose federal law enforcement and entered the process to become an FBI agent “like anybody else,” Tillman said.

For eight years Tillman worked on a safe streets task force. He investigated robberies, drug trafficking networks, murders and racketeering cases — anything that could be considered a violent crime. Sometimes, he would spend weeks at a time in the office. Others, he would be knocking down doors, gun holstered or, if need arose, drawn.

“We all take that oath to uphold the Constitution,” Tillman said. “That was our job, to uphold the Constitution. And we did it well when I was in. We had a different administration. It was a better administration. Different leadership. It was a better mission. We did good work.”

Tillman disagreed with the direction of the bureau’s mission under President Donald Trump and FBI Director Kash Patel. Without mentioning either by name, Tillman explained that he foresaw the agency moving in a direction that he couldn’t abide with regard to immigration enforcement under leadership he found lacking.

“I just stepped away,” Tillman said. “I’m not mad at anybody. I’m not blowing the whistle or screaming. It was something I didn’t want to do. I had the right and choice to leave. I left and walked away. I’m good.”

Despite Tillman’s pride in his work, he said leaving the FBI was not a difficult decision. He exited before he worked any cases in a manner he didn’t agree with, preferring to avoid both inner and external conflict.

“I didn’t want to be a guy who would say, ‘No, I’m not doing that,’” Tillman said. “At that point, for me it was time for me to walk away.”

Months later, Tillman has no regrets. He still appreciates the people he worked alongside and the work they did. When he speaks with former colleagues, he hears morale is low and his stance was justified.

“A lot of people still love their job,” Tillman said. “They just don’t like some of the leadership within the job. You get a new head coach, and it’s just like, ‘Wait, what are we doing?’ There’s a lot of that happening right now.

“I loved my job. I loved the people I worked with. I loved everything. But the immigration stuff hit me differently. I can just go be a dad. I can be a full-time dad, and I love it. I’m cool.”

Tillman left with little fanfare, taking a moral stance he believed in. As every Sunday in the NFL proves, he knows how to leave his mark.