“‘THE STATE OF THE UNION,’” Rodriguez said, reading from page four.
“‘The worst is behind us,’” he read. “‘We must demand excellence.’”
That would start with Rodriguez. If 95 percent of the message hadn’t changed from the year before, the 5 percent essentially boiled down to two points: The buck stops with Coach Rodriguez, and no more Mr. Nice Guy.
“Here’s what I’ve learned the last two years,” he said. “Like everyone else, I came here with great respect for Michigan. When people here did things differently than I’m used to, or not the way I would do it, I’ve been very trusting, figuring this is how they do it here. I said, ‘Let them do it that way. It’s the way they’ve done it for years.’
“Well, guess what? That got my ass in trouble, and I’m still paying for it. So is Michigan.
“The head football coach is in charge of everything. If I ask you to do something, I’ll trust you to do it. From now on, if I say we’re going to wear pink wristbands, we’re going to wear pink wristbands. I’m not going to ask. My decisions will not please everyone, but I’m the head coach, so that’s the way it is. If something is iffy, I’ll ask Dave Brandon.
“I don’t want anyone here to feel that I’m micromanaging you. But if anything goes wrong, the first guy they’re going to blame is me. Is that clear to everyone? Good.
“Another point: Never keep from me anything I’m going to be accountable for. Got it? Good.”
The people sitting at those tables knew exactly what Rodriguez was talking about: the Free Press front-page story of August 29, 2009, and the NCAA investigation that followed. Rodriguez had been taking slings and arrows since he left Morgantown, but that story penetrated his armor like no other, particularly the suggestion that he had no regard for his players’ well-being.
“I have to sleep at night knowing that there’s nothing we did or didn’t do that day that is going to come back and bite us in the ass. And I’ll be the first one they bite.”
What he didn’t tell them is that he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since he had left West Virginia, and it was getting worse. “I’m tossing and turning at four o’clock in the morning,” he told me. “And all I’m thinking is, ‘I’m not a bad guy. I’m not a liar, I’m not a cheater. I care about our guys. So why am I going through all this?’”
He had, by his own account, become less trusting of people in general and some local reporters and Michigan insiders in particular. He had also become world-weary, visibly aging. But he was not about to give up. If anything, he had become more determined to prove his critics wrong. His glare, his jaw, and his defiance had all grown stronger.
That brought Rodriguez to sideline passes and media access. “The last two years every man in the state of Michigan and his mother had a sideline pass,” he said. He didn’t mention his name, but most present knew the one pass that bothered him most was Jim Stapleton’s.
“No more. We’re taking charge of this. Brandon’s on top of it.”
Carr had been so protective of the program’s privacy that the building was jokingly referred to as “Fort Schembechler.” Rodriguez was initially the opposite, opening up every practice not only to former players and coaches but also to the media. That had been his policy at West Virginia, but glasnost had worked a lot better in Morgantown than in Ann Arbor.
“I’ve been nice and accommodating from the day I got here,” he said, “and they screwed me.
“Well, we don’t have to be nice anymore. We just have to be accommodating. They will not have the access they’ve had. I’ve trusted others’ judgment about what reporters are fair, which ones we should help, and it got us in trouble. I’m not delegating that anymore.”
When they got to the tab addressing the coaching staff, the top item on the first page was “Loyalty.”
“We’re good here,” is all Rodriguez had to say, and he meant it. If Rodriguez had become more suspicious of some people, he had become more appreciative of most, especially his assistants. “When I hired you, I hired you and your family. I know you. I know your families. And I think your families are outstanding.”
It was not hyperbole. Of the nine assistants, all but two were married, and none of them had ever been divorced. They had almost two dozen children among them, some adults now, and none of them were screwups. In modern America, the staff must have set some sort of record for stability.
Rodriguez, as he did every year, asked all of those present to tell something about themselves, their spouses, and their children.
“I’ll start. You all know Rita, of course. She’s always around. We’ve got two kids, Raquel, fourteen going on nineteen, and Rhett, who’s twelve. Both my parents are still alive. My dad is a retired coal miner, and my mom’s a retired teacher’s aide.
“I have two brothers. One’s a middle school principal, one’s a lawyer, who only has to work twice a week. I think he’s the only lawyer in the country I’ve not hired.”
That got a laugh and sent the subject circling around the tables. “I’m so proud of my brothers,” defensive line coach Bruce Tall said. “My oldest is an orthopedic surgeon who graduated from Dartmouth, the other two are law grads from Case Western, and the youngest is the smartest. He was in med school, but when my parents got ill, he took care of them, and now he’s a schoolteacher.”
Cal Magee took it from there: The youngest of six siblings raised in a shotgun shack in the shadows of the New Orleans Superdome, he was the first in his family to earn a college degree and had been thinking about going to law school when the coaching bug bit him.
Rodriguez enjoyed these stories—one of the only chances they had for such things—and frequently asked questions during their introductions.
Next, Rodriguez asked video coordinator Phil Bromley to start a slide show of some 120 head shots, every player on the roster. When a face popped up, the next guy at the table had to give the player’s name, position, hometown, high school, and anything else about him he could remember. Rodriguez expected every coach and staffer to know every player, from All-American to walk-on. Through the entire show, no one drew a blank except on the occasional freshman, and they usually had a quick comment or story about each player.
When it was Calvin Magee’s turn, he didn’t hesitate. “Maaaad Jack Kennedy!” he bellowed. No one was quite sure why they started calling him “Mad Jack”—except perhaps because it was completely counter to his sunny personality—but it had stuck, and spread.
“Walk-on quarterback from Michigan.”
“Where in Michigan?” Rod Smith asked, testing his friend. “Big state!”
“Ah, geez. Lake something.”
“Lotta lakes, too,” Smith said.
“Ah! Walled Lake!”
“Walled Lake Central,” Smith said, “but we’ll allow it.”
“Thank you, Rod. Let’s see. One run for six yards against Delaware State. Very high average. Hockey player—and a hell of a rapper. Go figure!”
That brought him to “Captains!” which had become another source of friction when Rodriguez ended the 129-year tradition of naming at least one full-time captain for the entire season. Instead, he had brought to Michigan a system of rotating captains for each game to ensure that every senior gets to be captain at least once and leadership comes from the entire class. When the old guard started giving Rodriguez a hard time about this, one big donor told him, “There’s a difference between tradition and best practices. Respect tradition, but follow best practices.” But drawing that line had proved to be one of Rodriguez’s greatest challenges at Michigan.
So, when one of the players suggested to him that they have two permanent captains selected by the team and two game captains, Rodriguez decided that sounded perfect.
If Rodriguez had come up with such a simple solution in the first months of his tenure, he probably would have avoided a few headaches.
“If they don’t pick Steve Schilling and Mark Moundros,” he said, “they got the wrong guys.�
�
That Steve Schilling was a strong candidate for captain was hardly a surprise. He had been a five-star lineman out of Washington State and was about to enter his third season as a starter. Mark Moundros was a little more surprising.
Moundros had turned down a scholarship from Eastern Michigan to walk on at Michigan. He let his teammates know that playing for Michigan was a privilege, not a right, something he underscored during their summer workouts and seven-on-seven drills, which the seniors directed.
“We were disappointed with the past two years,” he said, “and we knew whatever we were doing wasn’t working.”
Inevitably, that meant dealing with players who took the word “voluntary” at face value. The seniors couldn’t do much about it—thanks to strict adherence to all NCAA rules, they couldn’t take attendance or tell the coaches—but they didn’t have to treat them equally, either.
That included the quarterbacks. Forcier had started all twelve games the previous season, making it his job to lose. But after the 2009 season ended, the former wunderkind had slacked off—in the classroom, in the weight room, in the film room, and in spring practice.
While Forcier was out having fun, Denard Robinson was dedicating himself to learning the spread offense.
That spring, when some of the student managers ran into Roy Roundtree at a party, they’d asked him, “Who’s going to be the quarterback?”
He motioned for them to come closer. “Sixteen’s ready,” he whispered, citing Denard’s number. “Trust me.”
“Denard bought into the system right away,” Rodriguez said. “He just had to learn it. I don’t know if I’ve been around a guy who cares more about the people around him and wants them to feel good. Nothing phony about that guy. Denard is not a good kid. Denard is a great kid.”
So when Tate Forcier missed many of these voluntary spring workouts, the seniors felt they needed to do something—and they picked Moundros to do it.
The next time Forcier showed up for a seven-on-seven game, he naturally walked up to the quarterback position to take the snap. That’s when Moundros stepped up and said, “No, it’s not your turn,” and pointed to the sidelines. Forcier looked befuddled at first but said nothing and walked to the sidelines. Moundros waved in Denard Robinson to take his place.
Forcier then walked back out, but once again Moundros waved him out, sending in true freshman Devin Gardner. Forcier went to the sidelines, then returned again—but for a third time Moundros sent him to the sidelines in favor of Mad Jack Kennedy, who had never missed a workout.
“I think Tate understood what was happening,” Moundros said. “He didn’t say anything, and that was that.”
“It’s easier to kick a kid off than try to save them,” Rodriguez told his assistants at the retreat, “and I’d rather save them and get them to go our way. But if they show no interest or desire in being part of a team, and accepting what that means, they’re not Michigan Men, and they don’t belong here.
“No one is indispensable. No one.”
And then a bit of a bombshell. “There may be five or six players that will not be on our team at the end of the first week of practice. I hope not, but that’s what I’m predicting right now. Whoever’s not all in will be gone.”
He listed a few candidates, including five-star defensive back J. T. Turner and Tate Forcier.
Rodriguez asked Mike Barwis if he could help him design the first day of summer camp so the guys who had been working out would have little trouble—and those who came to camp in bad shape would be in … well, bad shape.
“No problem,” Barwis said. He seemed to savor the assignment.
“Jonny, are the wings painted on the helmets?” Rodriguez asked Falk.
“Yes, sir.”
“Can we get helmets without wings? Because I want them to earn their wings. What would that cost?”
“About $25,000,” Falk said. They laughed.
“Hmmm, okay,” Rodriguez said. “What about blue beanies, or tape?”
“Let me work on it.”
Of course, the real business of coaching was coaching, but that would be coming up soon enough.
36 BREAKFAST CLUB
One week later, the first day of the 2010 season consisted of two grueling practices in the summer heat and timed runs at the end. As promised, it was a killer, particularly for those who hadn’t done the voluntary workouts that spring and summer. For those who had, like supersized nose tackle Mike Martin, “it was nothing. Walk in the park. I felt fine.” Even the offensive linemen, the biggest guys on the team, had no trouble finishing the run in time.
But a few players didn’t make it—and looked like death trying.
Off-season workouts were supposed to be voluntary at all NCAA schools, but it was a big enough loophole to drive a bus through. Since the NCAA had started investigating the Wolverines’ practices, however, Michigan was probably the only school in the country that could claim its workouts truly were voluntary. But being in shape for the start of summer camp was not optional.
The cast of the damned included Austin White; J. T. Turner; Jeremy Gallon, the diminutive kick returner; and Tate Forcier. Actually, Forcier had finished the run under the time limit by a few seconds, literally diving across the line to beat the clock. But his landlord had called the football office, letting the department know that Forcier and his roommates were behind on their rent. That minor violation of team rules was enough to add his name to the list.
“They were just looking for a reason to make me run,” Forcier said with a wan smile, and he was probably right.
Turner might have thought he’d get a pass, knowing how desperately his coaches needed help in the defensive secondary. His teammates warned him camp would be brutal if he didn’t prepare for it, but he repeatedly told them the coaches “can’t break me,” that they couldn’t make him conform. Word of his boast had gotten back to the strength staff.
The coaches told the five players on the list to meet at the weight room at 6:30 for “Breakfast Club,” something Rodriguez used whenever the players needed a little “reeducation.” “And don’t even think about being late.”
At 6:15 on Tuesday, the show was about to begin. Rodriguez dressed for the workout, too, which would start on the StairMasters at level 20, the maximum, for twenty minutes. Hopping on his machine, Rodriguez threw down the gauntlet: “You’re not going to let a forty-seven-year-old man beat you, are ya? Start the clock, Mike!”
Although only one strength coach was needed to ensure the safety of the players, who all wore heart monitors, they all attended the Breakfast Club. They were from working-class families and got their chance for a degree—and then a good job—through athletics. With the exception of Dan Mozes, who had been named the nation’s best center at West Virginia and played in the NFL before joining Barwis’s staff, none of them had won scholarships.
During the three years I watched them work, I had never seen them run out of energy or turn down anyone who asked for help—whether players, former players, or people recovering from serious injuries like Brock Mealer. They never charged anyone, not even the NFL players, a dime. They were not afraid to get in your face, but they always did so with humor, with the expectation you would ultimately be glad you fought through your limitations.
But their goodwill had been stretched to the limit by these five players, who had been given full scholarships and every resource to succeed on the field and in the classroom, yet seemed to appreciate none of it. For the first time since I had met them, their expressions held no warmth, no humor. Their jaws were set, their gazes were cold, their expressions belying their thinly veiled disgust.
Jim Plocki, whose father and grandfather had worked in the steel mills outside Pittsburgh, stared at the five guys flailing on the machines and thought awhile. “Makes me sick,” he finally said. “So soft. Such a waste.”
All of the players heard it from the coaches at some point—“Getting kind of hard, I guess, but Coach Rod looks fine”�
��but their main target was J. T. Turner, who had the worst attitude of the bunch, as evidenced by his boast, “They can’t break me.”
“Can’t break ya, huh?”
“Don’t look too good to me!”
“Can’t break what’s already broken!”
After ten minutes, every player was bent over, hanging on to the rails for dear life. A few got shot off the back of the machines. They all had to stop at some point and be coaxed to get back on. Only Rodriguez’s legs continued pumping, steady as a metronome.
After the coaches called out the last ten seconds, the players slid off their StairMasters, held on to the rails, and dropped their dripping heads, thinking that—at last—they had survived.
“Ready for Phase Two?” Rodriguez asked. “Plyometrics! Let’s go!”
With Rodriguez leading the way, they started with a set of 50 sit-ups on the big exercise balls, then 100 sit-ups, then 150. At 250, Rodriguez was working alone. The rest had slowed down or stopped.
“Are you broken yet, Turner?”
“You don’t look too good, J.T. Think I see a crack in there. Maybe two?”
“You know, Concordia College has got a football team this year, right down the road. Think maybe it’s more your speed.”
Turner didn’t look back at the coaches, because his eyes were pressed closed in pain.
They finished their forty-minute workout a little after seven. Rodriguez looked fine. But none of the players had enough energy left to say a word to the coaches or each other.
At 2:00, J. T. Turner entered Rodriguez’s office to ask to transfer to another school. Rodriguez agreed, and wished him well.
When Rodriguez had told his coaches a week earlier that “no one is indispensable,” he meant it. Just as former Glenville receiver Chris George had said, “With Coach Rod, being a star isn’t a hall pass.”
Rodriguez had promised his assistants that if any coach, staffer, or player wasn’t “all in,” he would be out—and he was backing it, no matter what it cost him or his team.
* * *
Three and Out Page 36