At dinner Molk approached Mouton, who was enjoying a huge helping of pretty much everything.
Molk asked Mouton if he knew where his Twin City socks had gone.
“I don’t know, man,” Mouton replied, taking a bite out of his drumstick and chewing very slowly. “Go see Big Jon.” Falk, that is, the equipment manager.
“It’s dinner,” Molk said. “He’s not here.”
“Go see him tomorrow,” Mouton said, picking up a roll.
“I want them now.”
“Guess you’ll just have to wait, then.”
After Molk turned and walked to the back of the buffet, ticked off, Mouton leaned forward and said, “I’m wearin’ ’em.”
* * *
After Phil Bromley showed the weekly highlight film, Rodriguez asked, “What’s our record?”
“Three-and-oh,” the players replied.
“Right. Life’s not so bad, is it? Then why did I have to spend this week answering questions about our team? ‘You’re not that good.’ ‘It’s all offense.’ ‘It’s all Denard.’ ‘You won’t last in the Big Ten.’
“Well, I’m used to it by now. And I’ve thought about it, and now I realize why: They like it when Michigan struggles. They like it when we’re not in the top twenty-five. So when we win, when we’re ranked—well, now they’re asking about how many freshmen we have starting. About quarterbacks running so much. All the doubting, all the criticism—and that’s when we’re winning.
“A lot of people don’t want us to do well. They like it the way it was the last couple years. Well, I’ve got bad news for the haters: Last year was last year. Those days are long gone.”
The players were nodding. There was no dissension in the ranks, and no taking Bowling Green for granted. They looked properly pissed off, which was bad news for the Falcons.
In their hotel room, Denard Robinson and Devin Gardner were in their usual contemplative states: headphones on, heads bobbing, twirling footballs in their hands.
“Most teams wanted me to play tailback,” Robinson recalled of his recruiting process. “Florida wanted me to play quarterback, but Coach Smith put it in writing, in a letter to me. And he kept his word.”
Robinson had kept his end of the deal, too—and then some. But even his success came at a price. “Ideally, I could just play the game and be with my teammates—that’s it. I don’t like the attention. But I can handle it, I guess.”
He still spoke with his parents almost every day. “They always say, every time, ‘Stay humble. We’d like you to act like you’re still third string. Because remember last year—you were!’ My dad cares about the football thing, but he’s mostly about grades.”
Denard’s dad needn’t have worried about distractions. Outside of fans, Robinson didn’t have many. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or swear very often. Even the night before a game against a mediocre MAC team, Robinson could not relax. He had the butterflies, he said, right on time. And he would have them until the first hit.
But only one thing upset him that week. “The coaches never gave me credit for my pancake, man. I’m mad.”
Tate Forcier was focused on an entirely different set of concerns. “I was in the compliance office yesterday, signing my papers to give other schools the permission to contact me. I should have been gone by today. To Washington, probably.
“I went to Coach Rod, and he said, ‘You’ll be playing this year.’
“‘How do I know?’
“‘Have I ever lied to you?’
“‘No.’
“‘Then you need to take my word for it. After this year, if you’re still not playing like you should be playing, I’ll help you leave. But I think you’re going to be a good player and I think we’re going to have a special team. You want to be part of this.’
“I thought, ‘He’s right.’ So I decided to stay.
“Then he gave me a big hug,” Forcier said with a laugh.
The idea that Rodriguez was a snake-oil salesman didn’t have much traction among his young quarterbacks.
* * *
A little-known custom: Every morning before a game, each position group goes for a walk around the hotel block. They walk past an important house on the Underground Railroad, and down Ann Street, which is actually the street Ann Arbor native Bob Seger is singing about in “Down on Main Street,” but the players were oblivious to all of it—and the people they passed, too.
The three quarterbacks started out an hour before the buses left for the stadium. They wore their baggy blue Adidas sweat suits, their Adidas sandals, and, of course, their brand-new Twin City socks.
Denard put his headphones in his ears and his hands in his pants pockets and started gliding down the sidewalk, very slowly, with his weight back on his heels, deep in thought. When people on their porches said hello, and people in their cars honked their horns and waved, Robinson did not respond. He wasn’t being unfriendly. He simply didn’t see or hear them.
Two attractive blond students driving past recognized the trio, then turned back to ask if they could take a picture with them. “Sorry,” Denard said, speaking for all three, barely looking and not breaking stride. “We gotta keep going.” And they kept going.
Gardner literally followed in Robinson’s footsteps. He wore his Adidas skullcap and jammed his hands in his pockets, but he didn’t bring any music and didn’t speak the entire walk. Forcier wore earphones but paid more attention to the people and places they passed.
Even fans wearing number five and number sixteen jerseys, grilling on their porches, didn’t notice they were walking by.
It made for an odd scene. These three men, who would be the focus of intense national interest when they performed in the center of a 110,000-seat coliseum in just a few hours, could walk largely unbothered through the streets of their fans.
* * *
Five minutes and two seconds. That’s how long it took Denard Robinson to lead two straight touchdown drives against Bowling Green to go ahead 14–0.
“Be ready!” Van Bergen told the offense. “We’re getting it back!”
They did, and they started their third possession on their own 9. No matter. Robinson took off, cutting up the left sideline by Michigan’s bench. It looked like he might go all the way again, but at midfield the Falcons cut off his lane, exactly the situation the coaches had been urging Robinson to avoid: geting out-of-bounds.
But he cut back, trying to squeeze out a few more yards. At the 44-yard line they knocked him out-of-bounds, sending him to the ground. It didn’t look like much, but he struggled to get up.
On the sidelines, Dave Brandon said, “He’s so used to outrunning everybody, he’s not good at getting out-of-bounds. Even Bo let the quarterbacks do that!”
The doctors and trainers set him up on the table against the wall and surrounded him with every medical professional they had, about eight in all, plus a couple coaches, the athletic director, and even a regent or two. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
In Robinson’s stead, Rodriguez once again sent out not Forcier but Gardner, who needed only three plays to put Michigan up 21–0, just 10:39 into the contest. But the Falcons, playing a backup quarterback, scored twice themselves to tighten things up, 21–14, with 5 minutes left in the half.
That’s when Rodriguez sent Forcier in, and a big cheer went up. For all his trials and tribulations, Forcier remained a fan favorite. “I might have gotten the biggest woodie I’ve had in ten months,” he cracked. He was sharp, directing the offense from their own 31 in ten plays to go ahead 28–14.
At halftime, Paul Schmidt made a rare appearance in the coaches’ room. “Denard,” he said, and all heads turned to the door. “It looks like an MCL sprain, inside of his left knee. He’ll be okay.” Relieved, the Wolverines came out swinging. The defense scored a safety, Mouton got an interception, and the offense burned Bowling Green for five consecutive touchdown drives, the first four by Forcier, the last by Gardner, for a very convincing 65–21 vict
ory.
Their 721 total yards finished just 6 yards shy of the all-time Michigan record set the previous year against Delaware State. Critics could no longer say the offense was all Denard Robinson. It was the offense—when run right. Forcier had gone 12-for-12, setting a Michigan record.
When the Wolverines ran to the student section to lead “The Victors,” Forcier and Denard sang it side by side, “Kumbaya”-style.
At the press conference, Forcier—who had filled out the paperwork to start the transfer process just two days earlier—said all the right things. “I love everything about Michigan. I love Coach Rod.”
When he left the podium through the back hallway, he ran into Rodriguez heading toward him and returned his big hug from Thursday. Forcier showered and changed, then basked in the attention of the fans outside the tunnel, signing everything they had.
Denard, in contrast, hid in the tunnel with his high school sweetheart, Sarah Chattman, to avoid the very same crowds Forcier was delighting. Chattman wore yellow tennis shoes, blue pants, and a yellow zip-up sweatshirt, topped by a warm smile and bright eyes. If you were Denard Robinson’s mother, this is the young woman you’d want showing up at the door for your son.
They met through a cousin, but she was no pushover. Before they started dating, she said, “I want to know who this ‘Shoelace’ is. What’s your real name?’
“I liked his personality, and his smile. And he seemed to have a plan. He wasn’t just riding on his talent.”
Chattman had goals, too. She was attending Valencia Community College in Orlando, earning a 3.5 in political science, and applying to Michigan. “I’ve planned this out for a while.”
After Rodriguez finished signing autographs, he returned to the tunnel, where he helped smuggle Robinson and Chattman to Junior Heming way’s truck. Some fans gave chase—but as usual, they couldn’t catch him.
* * *
Rodriguez moved Sunday’s offensive film session from its usual spot at 1:00 in the afternoon to 10:00 a.m. The reason had nothing to do with their upcoming game at Indiana. Rhett’s second football game was scheduled for 2:00, and his dad figured this might be his only chance all season to see his son play.
After getting their work done, Rodriguez huddled in the cold with his extended family in the stands. Rhett failed to duplicate the magic of his debut, when he’d scored a touchdown on offense, defense, and special teams. He did, however, connect on all three of his passes—to the other team.
“The bad news is, I threw three interceptions,” he told his dad. “The good news is, I can clearly throw a catchable ball.” Rodriguez liked the line so much he repeated it with a few friends that week.
After the game, Rodriguez walked out to the parking lot with his arm draped around his daughter’s shoulders. He had a relaxed smile few fans would recognize.
41 THEY LEFT US TOO MUCH TIME
On a drizzly Friday morning at Coach & Four, Jerry Erickson said the blue backers were optimistic. Even ESPN’s Colin Cowherd, who had broadcast from campus that week, was giving Rodriguez credit.
“It’s still scary,” the barber said. “The jury’s still out.” But the jury seemed to be tilting in Rodriguez’s favor. “I had dinner with [former Michigan hockey coach] Al Renfrew the other night, and he said it’s only a few football alums who are down on him, and you know their names. But they’re still crushing him, even now. In their eyes, he can’t do anything right. That’s not fair.
“But I can give him one knock,” Erickson added, echoing his more critical cousin’s comments. “I cut Bo’s hair way back in ’69. People don’t remember this, but he wasn’t popular at first, either! But he got out all the time, and people liked him. We know Rich is busy—we respect that—but he needs to get his ass up here! Whoever meets him likes him.”
A few doors down, Red Stolberg had to concede, “People are a little bit more positive in this chair, but everyone reminds me that we went 4–0 last year—and look what happened!
“This is probably a turning point. Win this one, and the ol’ boy’s almost home. But if they lose, you better start looking over the horizon.”
* * *
On Friday night, October 1, 2010, in Bloomington, as they twirled footballs in their hands, watching the game on ESPN, Robinson and Gardner had arguably become the epicenter of the Michigan football universe.
What would they be if they weren’t football players?
“An A student,” Gardner quipped.
That was not an idle boast. Gardner is an excellent student and so motivated that one of his professors felt compelled to tell me his comments in lecture, the best he’d heard in some time.
“I’d probably be running track or playing baseball,” Robinson said. “I love all sports. But football was always my favorite. At first I was a running back. I always wanted the ball in my hands. But quarterback is best. It’s what I always wanted to play. There’s no other feeling like this. The best part? That’s easy: winning!”
“Best part?” Gardner said. “Playing on TV.”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” Robinson said. “But I don’t like being noticed.”
Right on cue, ESPN’s Mark May said, “Denard Robinson is the most outstanding player in the nation.”
“Oh, jeez,” Robinson muttered.
“There you go!” Gardner gushed, bolting upright, knowing how much his roommate hated it. “Heisman hopeful Denard Robinson!”
“A month ago,” Lou Holtz said, “he was just second string!”
Robinson clapped and laughed. He had been first string since the spring game in April.
“So here we are with Heisman hopeful Denard Robinson,” Gardner said, mimicking a sportscaster. “Mr. Robinson, how is that whole not-being-noticed thing working out for you?”
They both laughed, but Robinson shook his head, chagrined.
“When I was coming out of the Academic Center last night,” Robinson said, “the autograph guys were waiting for me. They’re there almost every night now, no matter how late we come out. And they all say the same thing: ‘It’s for my ten-year-old son.’ Their kid is always ten years old! Is ten the automatic age for charity?”
“Ha! No doubt!” Gardner said. “But that’s the price of being the Heisman trophy favorite.”
“Aw, man! Why you always gotta bring that up! Now everyone’s doing it!”
When Gardner quit laughing, he admitted, “People say I’m arrogant or aloof. No I’m not. I just don’t like talking to random people. I just don’t.”
“I love people, that ain’t a problem,” Robinson said. “But it’s just, like, don’t be trying to act like you know me when you really don’t know me. What’s scary is when they know my birth date and all that.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you’re a Heisman hopeful!”
“Will you stop with that?” he said, threatening to throw the football at Gardner’s head. “The other day [at Chili’s] I thought the waitress was bringing my check, but she wanted my autograph.”
“Have you no shame?” Gardner asked.
“Then a lady was following us around the mall,” Robinson said, “and she said to her little daughter, ‘You better get that autograph, or I’m going to take away everything I just bought you!’ This lady just really said that!”
“Have. You. No. Shame?” Gardner repeated.
“So the mall’s almost off-limits. But I can still go to the library.”
“Class is fun,” Gardner said. “We’re good there.”
“We don’t even go out, anyway,” Robinson said. “Except to go bowling.”
Robinson had his reasons for steering clear of trouble. He’d gotten a reminder the day before, during a quarterback meeting, when his cell phone started ringing. He never picked up in meetings, but this one he had to take. It was from his twenty-two-year-old cousin, who had been a star defensive tackle at Deerfield a few years before Denard and was something of a hero to the younger man.
“They were the first Deerfield t
eam to get ranked in the nation,” he recalled. “I was very close to him. He had a scholarship to go to Louisville.”
But after their senior season, he and a teammate decided to pull an armed robbery.
“Bad idea,” Robinson said softly. “I was very disappointed in him. And his mom took it hard. Real hard. It was hard to see that.”
On Thursday, his cousin was released. The very first call he made was to Denard.
“It was good to hear from him,” Denard said. “But it’s sad, you know, to think about everything he lost. My parents call me every day just to tell me school, school, school, school. ‘They can take football away from you, but they can’t take your education!’”
Gardner chuckled at the imitation. “Ohhh, yes. One does hear that! The hardest part about this is time management.”
“The hardest part, for me, is rest!” Robinson said. “We don’t go home until nine or ten o’clock, every night, earliest. And you want to have fun sometimes, and you can’t have fun. Sometimes you just give up having fun. They get mad at us at the Academic Center when we’re laughing with other people, but they don’t realize, it’s because we’re happy to see other people! We’re happy to see other people!”
Gardner laughed at that. “Too true, too true. Other students can all do whatever they want. We actually can’t. We have curfew six days a week. People think we just got it made—‘You guys get all this stuff’—but if you had to do all this, you’d give all the stuff back and pay for school yourself.”
Except they couldn’t, and they wouldn’t. The chance to get an education they probably couldn’t pay for themselves—both were from modest homes—and to play football on the world’s biggest stage was enough to keep them going.
Fourteen hours. Every day. Six days a week.
But winning helped.
* * *
“This week,” Rodriguez had announced to his coaches six days earlier, “we’re going to use all twenty hours,” something they hadn’t done since the season started, probably the only team in the country that hadn’t. “This is Big Ten time. They’ve got to feel it’s different, a different level of intensity. They’ve got to know we’ll do whatever we’ve got to do to beat Indiana’s ass.”
Three and Out Page 40