Three and Out

by John U. Bacon

  After he dismissed his quarterbacks to join the team meeting, he said, “When you win, food tastes better. But we can’t get complacent playing average football. We should have won 50–10. We’re not as good as we think we are.”

  Rodriguez was in no mood to let up, either. “Just remember,” he told his team, “all these people who are patting you on the back and telling you how great you are are the same people who were telling you that you weren’t worth a damn last week.

  “You freshmen better understand what a rivalry week is like around here. When you cross that line, you better flip a switch—especially this week, because you’re going to see a lot more intensity out of Notre Dame than you saw out of UConn. Don’t wait for us to yell at you.

  “Are you all in?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “You’re starting to get people’s attention and respect. You can get a lot more of it by beating Notre Dame.”

  * * *

  Forcier’s sideline scene during the UConn game had stirred speculation that he meant it when he said, “I’m outta here.”

  Forcier admitted he thought about it. “My dad went ballistic on me after the game,” he said. But Mike Forcier also did his son a considerable favor, refuting the story that Tate was transferring and explaining his comment was intended for the media, as in “I’m outta here because I don’t want to talk to you guys.”

  His father couldn’t stop the inevitable backlash, however. “You don’t know how many messages I got saying, ‘You’re not a Michigan Man,’ all that. From people I never heard of.”

  Forcier got the message. At practice on Thursday, Rodriguez pulled Forcier to the side and said, “You’ve had a hell of a week, and I’m not getting any bad reports, so be ready.”

  “Dude, I just want them to throw me out there for one play,” he said the night before the Notre Dame game, “and I swear I’ll make it look so easy.”

  The 2010 Michigan–Notre Dame game marked the third year out of the last four when neither team was ranked. In an ESPN fan poll, this game fell a distant fourth behind the day’s other games—Miami–Ohio State, Penn State–Alabama, and Florida State–Oklahoma. But Kirk Herbstreit said, “This is the game I most want to see. Are [the Wolverines] for real?”

  Jordan Kovacs thought so.

  “We’re ready to go,” he said lounging in his hotel room, with preternatural calm for a guy who had walked on just a year earlier and was about to start against Notre Dame on national TV. “You wait so long, especially for us after that long off-season [with no bowl]. You get lost in the media, the stories, and the previews, and you forget it’s just a game. It’s nice to get out there just to play and to win and to celebrate.

  “Before games, I try to keep my nerves down, stay relaxed. I’m not one of those guys who bangs his helmet. But once the ref places the ball down, I get amped up.”

  Kovacs had grown from Rudy to regular, entering camp as the leading returning tackler. None of this was lost on Rodriguez, who motioned Kovacs over to his table during training camp to sign the papers for his full scholarship.

  It was more than an honor. Since Kovacs grew up just across the border in Toledo, he and his parents had to pay roughly twice what in-state families paid to attend Michigan—or about $50,000 a year.

  But Kovacs’s mind was on Notre Dame Stadium, one of the loudest, toughest places to play. “I like the enemy atmosphere,” he said. “Everyone’s against you, and you can only do your talking with your pads.”

  If the walk-on from Toledo was calm and relaxed, the national Player of the Week from Florida was anything but.

  It was a little after noon, but Denard Robinson and Devin Gardner, who shared an apartment in Ann Arbor and hotel rooms on Friday nights, had pulled the drapes shut and turned off every light but the table lamp in the corner. They both lay on their backs on their beds, holding up shiny game balls and twirling them in their outstretched hands, back and forth, like basketballs. Seeing this, you appreciate just how many hours those hands have held footballs, like world-class pianists mindlessly playing around before a big concert.

  The kickoff to come was one of the biggest of the year and surely the biggest of Robinson’s life to date. But Robinson was like this before every game.

  “It was the same with me in high school. My coach would put the whole team in a room—lights off—and have us visualize the game.

  “And that’s what I do now. I just come in, chill, close my eyes, and visualize the game.”

  In ten minutes, Denard Robinson would leave the sensory deprivation chamber that was Room 276 at the Clarion Hotel in Michigan City, Indiana, and begin a journey that would take four hours and end on ESPN.

  * * *

  When the Wolverines’ four-bus caravan rolls into Madison, East Lansing, and especially Columbus, they can be confident they’ll be welcomed with a flurry of fingers—middle ones—and worse.

  But this was South Bend, where the locals almost always replace the middle finger with a simple thumbs-down gesture. Instead of hearing all manner of profane epithets, or getting their bags sniff-searched by trained dogs—à la Ohio State in 2004—the only thing the players heard any Notre Dame official say the entire weekend was “Welcome to Notre Dame.”

  After hearing enough of that, they admitted, they longed for a nice loud “Fuck you, Michigan!”

  They got off the buses and walked into the same room they’d had two years ago: “Visitors Locker, 1101.” Two years later, every inch of that locker room was exactly the same. The coaches’ room was exactly the same. And the little room off the coaches’ room was exactly the same, too.

  I looked above the two rusty head coaches’ chairs, and sure enough, the isolation play was still there, drawn on the painted brick wall as if preserved by an ice age.

  But at some point in the intervening two years, someone had written, with a blue marker, just below that play: 11 AS 1.

  At Michigan, the fans see the players only at the very end of the tunnel. But at Notre Dame, the fans can hang over them halfway down their tunnel, about twenty feet overhead. As a result, the visiting players get to enjoy their Notre Dame welcome a little longer.

  “No chance today, Blue!”

  “Long bus ride back to Ann Arbor!”

  “You’re getting your asses handed to you!”

  Kovacs was in heaven. Just as he had promised, as soon as Michigan kicked off, he flipped his switch, making four solo tackles. The more the Notre Dame fans booed and hooted and hollered, the meaner he played.

  But Kovacs couldn’t do it alone. When Notre Dame marched down to the 1-yard line, new head coach Brian Kelly called for the quarterback sneak, and it worked. But on Dayne Crist’s trip across the goal line, he struck his head against a Wolverine’s knee and suffered a concussion.

  Unlike in Denard’s debut, when he scored on the first possession, he couldn’t get anything going against the Irish. Maybe UConn wasn’t that good. Maybe Michigan wasn’t, either. What was striking, however, was Rodriguez’s eerie calm and how it spread to his assistants and players. No one was yelling, pointing fingers, or slamming hands or helmets. The staffers instead gave the players reassuring hand slaps when they returned to the bench. “We’ll get this!”

  When the Irish offense returned to the field, Crist had been replaced by backup Tommy Rees. When he stepped back to throw his first pass, Jonas Mouton stepped up to intercept it at the Notre Dame 40-yard line and returned it to their 31.

  Michigan’s offense hurried out to the field and ran a play Robinson had failed to recognize twice before: fake a run to draw the defense up, then find Roy Roundtree slicing right up the middle of Notre Dame’s defense. After Robinson had missed it the second time, Rodriguez came back to tell him, “Cover One, Man Two, Laser Three, remember?” This time Robinson remembered, lofting a perfect pass, and Roundtree cradled the ball and trotted straight into the end zone. 7–7.

  Suddenly, it was the Irish offense that couldn’t get any traction, even after
they put in Nate Montana—yes, son of Joe—who failed to score on six straight possessions. While the scion struggled, Robinson found his rhythm, driving his team to a 14–7 lead.

  On Michigan’s next possession, Robinson got hit—hard. Forcier, who’d been on his best behavior, started warming up. But so did Gardner, who went in to take the next snap before Robinson returned. A small play, but it confirmed that Forcier still ranked behind the freshman.

  After the Irish stuck a punt on Michigan’s 2-yard line, with 3:47 left in the half, it looked like Michigan would be lucky to take its 14–7 lead into the locker room. What followed instead was one of the most memorable plays of the Rodriguez era.

  On first down from the Irish 13, Robinson took the snap, then saw the gap he wanted on the right side of the line and zipped through it. He ran straight at the next Irish defender before cutting right again, leaving him in the dust. Patrick Omameh threw one defender into a second player to complete a two-for-one bargain. Robinson’s race was on.

  At about midfield, Robinson was flanked by one Irish player on his right and another on his left, both ahead of him. He also had Darryl Stonum, a speedster himself, right behind him, looking to make a block—but none of those players would have any impact whatsoever on the play.

  “It looked like he was slowing down a bit at midfield,” kicker Brendan Gibbons said, “when someone yelled, ‘RUN!’—and I swear, he flipped a switch and found another gear.”

  After he crossed the goal line, Robinson took his customary knee to pray. I once asked him what he asked for when he prayed. “I don’t ask for anything. I give thanks.”

  While Robinson was giving thanks, a member of Notre Dame’s celebrated Irish Guard band, kilt and all, leaned over to say, “Fuck you.”

  Welcome to Notre Dame.

  If the Wolverines could score on the second half’s first possession and go up 28–7, they could break Notre Dame’s spirit like the Irish had broken theirs two years ago. But, characteristically, the Wolverines squandered their chance for the knockout punch and had to punt.

  When Notre Dame’s offense returned to the field, a big cheer went up: Dayne Crist had returned at quarterback. Two plays later, Crist’s touchdown pass cut Michigan’s lead to 21–14. When the third quarter ended, Michigan was holding on 21–17, but Van Bergen was breathing hard while Mike Martin splashed water on his face. The Wolverines were getting a workout.

  The two teams worked the fourth quarter like boxers, throwing punches but neither able to put their opponent on the ropes. After Michigan’s Brendan Gibbons missed his second midlength field goal of the day, Notre Dame took over on its 5-yard line. Crist faked a handoff, then dropped back to find Kyle Rudolph running straight up the middle. Michigan cornerback James Rogers, a converted wide out pressed into action due to the rash of injuries, bit on Crist’s fake and ran forward. Behind him, true freshman Cam Gordon started backpedaling when he should have turned around and hightailed it. That’s how Rudolph found himself completely alone, running to the end zone for a record touchdown.

  Seven quarters into the 2010 season, Michigan’s Achilles’ heel had finally been exposed: the defensive backfield.

  “That’s 95 yards!” the announcer said. “With a rainbow in the sky! Michigan 21, Notre Dame 24!”

  So this was it. 3:41 left to play, with the ball on Michigan’s 28-yard line. On the sidelines, only the backup field goal kicker, Seth Broekhuizen—better known as “Budweiser”—was warming up.

  Robinson ran for 12.

  Robinson hit Stonum on the right side for 16 yards, then again for 7 more.

  Robinson, on third-and-1, tried a sneak but got stuffed.

  The officials measured the mark and determined that Robinson had finished short of a first down by “four inches.”

  On fourth-and–4 inches, from Notre Dame’s 35, Rodriguez did not give the slightest thought to kicking a field goal—he’d seen enough of that—or even a sneak. He’d seen enough of that, too. Instead, he had Robinson take the snap from the shotgun formation, 5 yards and 4 inches short of a first down, and run as fast as he could into a small indentation on the right side of the line. Robinson made it—just barely.

  On first-and-10 from Notre Dame’s 34, with less than two minutes to play, Robinson threw to Shaw on the right sideline; Shaw ran up the sideline for a 12-yard gain to Notre Dame’s 22.

  Robinson threw again to Shaw for 5 more, though it cost Shaw a bloody nose from a hard hit to his chin.

  Then, on third-and-5 from Notre Dame’s 17-yard line, Rodriguez’s gambling instincts kicked in once more. He remembered how poorly Notre Dame had covered Roundtree all day—and how tough his skinny receiver with the bruised ribs could be. They called Roundtree’s number.

  Robinson caught the snap, took his standard drop, and saw Roundtree cutting along the goal line, with his man right behind him and no margin for error. Robinson didn’t flinch. He fired the ball right on target, to the only spot where Roundtree could touch it, and no one else.

  Roundtree dived, caught the ball two feet off the grass, and held on tight.

  First down, on the Notre Dame 2-yard line.

  On the next play, Robinson ran off-tackle left, took two hits, and bounced into the end zone. Michigan 27, Notre Dame 24.

  Broekhuizen kicked the extra point, to give the Wolverines a 4-point lead, with 27 seconds left.

  The crowd went silent, while the Wolverines went crazy.

  The Irish, with the help of some bad Michigan penalties, managed to get the ball to Michigan’s 27-yard line, with just 6 seconds left. Crist dropped back and fired to the end zone—but too high and well out of reach of his receivers. The game was over. Michigan had won again, 28–24.

  The press conference was a pleasure for once. “In honor of Denard,” Rodriguez said, taking the podium in the nicest pressroom around, a veritable museum of Notre Dame lore, “I’m wearing my shoes untied.”

  But this being Michigan and Rodriguez, gray linings had to be discussed: How many times did Robinson run this time? “Well, I promised Dave Brandon we would not run him twenty-nine times again. So we ran him twenty-eight. But I guarantee you, if he hadn’t made that last run, he’d have made twenty-nine!”

  How long could he keep that up? Robinson replied, “Until the season ends.”

  In the coaches’ room, Rodriguez’s joy could not be contained. “I wouldn’t trade number 16 for anyone!” He tore his hat and shirt off next to that old play on the wall. The “11 AS 1” now seemed prophetic.

  When Rodriguez walked to the bus, a man with a Notre Dame hat approached him. “I’m not sure if you’re shaking hands with Notre Dame fans, but great job. I’m impressed.”

  * * *

  As the buses rolled down the road, cell phones started buzzing with text messages coming in from parents, girlfriends, fans, and even the famous.

  The national story would be Denard Robinson, who broke just about every single-game record for a Michigan quarterback on the books. With 455 yards rushing in two games, Robinson led not only all quarterbacks nationwide but all tailbacks, too, and he had yet to suffer a single run for a loss.

  PR man Dave Ablauf’s phone vibrated like a tuning fork the entire way home, with everyone wanting a piece of Denard, the leading Heisman candidate. Even Dhani Jones and Braylon Edwards, frequent critics of the Rodriguez regime, appeared to want back on the bandwagon. But the best response might have been the tweet from LeBron James—a Buckeye fan, no less—who wrote, “I give credit where credit is due. That Denard Robinson is a monster out there right now.”

  The Wolverines were undefeated, and headed home for what looked like two easy games before starting Big Ten play.

  But Rodriguez didn’t give a second thought to any of it. He sat in the front seat with his laptop, breaking down the tape.

  39 FIGHTING BACK THE GHOSTS

  “Offensive player?” Rodriguez said, doing his best to sound mildly grumpy throughout the Sunday staff meeting. “Guess we can figure out who th
at is.” It was the first tipoff in forty-five minutes that he had actually seen Denard play the day before.

  On defense, Kovacs and Mouton took top honors, but when special teams came up, Rodriguez jumped at the chance to try to take the sheen off the Era of Good Feeling. “Special teams?” he asked rhetorically. “I don’t think we have anyone. It was atrocious.”

  But the good news kept coming anyway. Seven players had crunches, three had picks, and the defense achieved its weekly goal of six three-and-outs. Nonetheless, after they broke down the special teams film, the offensive coaches ran through every play—all eighty-seven, back and forth and back and forth—without cracking a smile.

  But when Denard finished his 3-yard run for the winning touchdown—the last offensive play of the game—Tony Dews couldn’t restrain himself, jamming both fists into the air. “Man, that still feels good,” he said, standing up and pointing at the screen. “Suck it, Notre Dame!”

  Rodriguez himself displayed a a grin worthy of the Mona Lisa. No one else said a word—no one dared—until Rodriguez retired to his office. Outside of Dews’s brief outburst, if you watched the two-hour meeting, you would have assumed their team had been humiliated.

  But when they all walked down the hall to the bathroom, their faces broke into big smiles and they started high-fiving each other and patting each other on the back.

  “Oh, man, that was great!”

  “We needed that one!”

  “That felt good!”

  “We’ve only just begun!”

  That five-minute celebration was the last they talked about the Notre Dame game all day, all week, all season. They returned to the den, put their game faces back on, and started breaking down tape of the University of Massachusetts, their third opponent.

  Their focus was interrupted only once, when Denard Robinson timidly cracked the door open to see if it was okay to come in.

  “Come on in, Denard!”

  “Hey, man, you guys see it?” he asked.

  “See what?” they asked, assuming he was talking about his now famous 87-yard run, which had been playing on ESPN every thirty minutes.