Whether the rumor was true, they were too afraid to ask, but it seemed plausible enough for them to worry, and they did.
* * *
The most intimidating walk in the Big Ten is not at Iowa’s Kinnick Stadium or Spartan Stadium or even the great Horseshoe in Columbus but in Happy Valley, Pennsylvania.
When you approach Beaver Stadium, it looks nothing like the classic coliseums you see in Ann Arbor, Columbus, or Champaign, with their majestic arches in brick and stone. No. Beaver Stadium looks more like the scaffolding set up to build a stadium than a stadium itself, with sections of exposed girders and crossbeams everywhere. It takes a moment to realize that is the finished product. Thanks to seven expansions in the last forty years, every one of which seem to have been designed by a different architect, it is the Erector set of Big Ten stadiums.
If the outside of Beaver Stadium isn’t especially welcoming, the inside is even less so for opposing teams, who get dressed in a concrete box under the stands, then walk through a maze of chain-link fencing, between hundreds of loud, drunk Penn State patrons, shaking the fence and yelling the most popular profanities.
“It used to be fun, but it started changing about ten years ago,” Ferguson County police officer Ryan Hendrick told me. “The language, the spirit of it. It used to be if Michigan made a good play, no one booed, and some people even clapped. Now they just boo. You’re considered a sap if you cheer.”
Thanks to the spectators’ new habits of spitting and spilling drinks on the players, the security detail added a wind fence a few years ago, which cut down on the worst of it. But it still picks up when Michigan’s in town.
“Other teams, you might hear a few shouts. But when Michigan comes through—wow! Caged animals!” Perhaps hearing himself, the officer added, “But that’s a show of respect. The students get up for Michigan.”
The coaches and players made it a point to stare straight ahead walking through the labyrinth. Once they ran through the tunnel, the Wolverines faced the loudest crowd that season—maybe ever. The Lions prided themselves on hosting the “Greatest Show in College Sports,” and they made a fine case. The rock music, the scoreboard, the ribbon bands, the marching bands and—most of all—the raucous student section fully pumped up for a night game on Halloween combined to create the happiest—or most hostile—environment in the country.
It wasn’t for nothing Kirk Herbstreit declared Penn State had the best student section in the country two years in a row.
There was only one way to counter it: score early, and score often.
The Wolverines started on their 30-yard line, with a chance to quiet the crowd down. Instead they went three-and-out and gave the ball back to Penn State on its 29. On his first play, Matt McGloin stepped back and launched a bomb down the left sideline. It fell incomplete, but it still scared the hell out of Michigan’s underconfident secondary, prompting them to fall too far back the rest of the game. It might have been the most important pass of the day.
After that, it was easy. Whenever the Lions faced third down on that drive—three times—or just about any time thereafter, all the walk-on quarterback had to do was drop back, hit a receiver 5 yards away in the right flat, and watch him turn upfield for 5 more before a Michigan defender caught him.
That’s how Penn State cut through Michigan’s defense to the end zone on four of their first five possessions, giving them a daunting 28–10 halftime lead.
“Hey, Michigan, you guys suck! You really suck!” Brainless and vulgar, yes—but the man had a point.
The news wasn’t all bad. Michigan had notched 201 yards to Penn State’s 246. But the defense was utterly unable to stop the Lions, and that would get worse after Mike Martin left the game with a sprained ankle, suffered when his roommate Ryan Van Bergen rolled on it in the second quarter.
“We’ve got a lot of football left,” Rodriguez told his team. “I want to see what you’re made of. You know damn well we can play better than that. We’re just beating ourselves. Let’s go get after their asses!”
But he sounded less confident than anxious, almost pleading with them to perform.
The Wolverines fought back bravely to close the gap to 38–31, but they couldn’t get any closer. The walk to the locker room after the game was louder and drunker than the walk out, and seemed to take forever.
“Listen close,” Rodriguez told his team. “Y’all didn’t quit and I’m proud of you. We’re not that far away. Believe me.
“Now listen: Don’t you quit on each other. I will not quit on you! And next Saturday, it’s in the Big House, our home. Our fans, cheering for us. So let’s go. ‘Michigan’ on three.”
* * *
On the plane ride back, Rodriguez sat in his customary seat right behind the bulkhead, with Greg Robinson across the aisle, both staring intently at their glowing computer screens. There was no danger of Rodriguez tossing his laptop in anger that night. The ride was quiet, as expected, but without the tension that followed tough road losses against Illinois, Michigan State, and others.
They had just blown their last best chance to save their season, and their jobs. The air was leaking out of their tires faster than they could get around the track.
Rodriguez was not visibly angry. He was not upset. He was something far worse: unhappy—and defeated. Simply beaten. Whether he was beat for the day, or just plain beaten, remained to be seen.
For the first time in the two-and-a-half-year odyssey of setback after setback after setback, Rodriguez looked like he was finally out of answers. He didn’t have anything else left to offer.
47 A PYRRHIC VICTORY
With Illinois coming to town, the stakes had shifted.
Where the Wolverines had three straight chances to win match point, any one of which would have been enough to secure their future, beating Illinois would not be good enough. The Illini were heading to a respectable 4–4 record in the Big Ten, but they didn’t represent the prize that beating MSU, Iowa, or Penn State on the road would have. No, winning would only keep Rodriguez alive. It wasn’t his match point anymore. It was his detractors, this time, who would likely be able to wave him good-bye if the Wolverines lost their fourth in a row.
On Tuesday, November 2, after Rodriguez gave his team the weekly rundown on their opponent, he turned the floor over to Mark Moundros, who had asked the coaches to leave so he could address the team. He started out talking normally, but it didn’t take long for him to get into a full shout, as he had before many games.
“I just want to take you back to camp,” he said. “We’re at the Big House, standing in a circle, holding hands, everyone’s got that bond, no one’s letting go, holding on to each other forever. We’ve got four more weeks to strengthen that bond.
“These coaches’ jobs are on the line—because of us,” he said, marking one of the few times players ever mentioned this.
“What are you willing to sacrifice for them? For each other? Maybe a little more time in the film room, or on the field?
“They sacrifice for us. They gave up family, their friends, their homes, to coach us. They’re hated back in their state—and they did all that for us. What are you willing to sacrifice for them?”
His teammates weren’t sure where he was going with this, but they were listening. Moundros started shouting, his neck straining, his voice almost immediately hoarse, and before long he was marching and stomping around the front of the room. Moundros had only one speed: overdrive. Everything else felt unnatural to him.
“For all the haters: Go ahead and talk shit about this program. You don’t know us! You don’t know Michigan!”
This hit home. They were all sick of answering questions and defending themselves and their team and their coaches from people who had little idea what was actually going on.
“We’ve got a chance to make a statement to the world: You don’t mess with us. Our coaches aren’t going anywhere. They’re staying right here!”
“Yeah!” A dozen or so players were g
etting vocal, others were nodding.
“What are you willing to sacrifice for a program that gives you an education every day, that gives you a future? For them. For that winged helmet.
“Three and a half weeks. What are you willing to sacrifice for three and a half weeks—to beat this team right here?” He slapped the schedule on the wall, which showed only Illinois.
“They don’t own us. Only we decide how hard we play. Every play, every day, a hundred miles an hour!”
Moundros was in phenomenal shape, but all the shouting and stomping was testing his lungs.
“Remember the winter, the spring, the summer? All that blood, sweat, and vomit? What was that for? Everyone can be first in line when things are going great. But when shit’s not going great, where do you stand? The FRONT of the line, that’s where! Bring that shit on! All day! Every damn day! Bring that shit on!
“From the very first play, you knock that bastard over—let him know that’s how it’s going to be: every play, all day long.
“Where are we going to stand?
“At the front.
“It starts today.
“Michigan football.
“Let’s go.”
Whatever problems this team had, no one could accuse the players of giving up or bailing on their coaches. Rodriguez may have come trailing enemies from Morgantown, he may have failed to win over certain factions of the fractured Michigan family, and he may have lost Brandon after Penn State, but as of Illinois week, he still had his team.
The practice that followed was, not surprisingly, fast and crisp. Moundros’s teammates were responding.
But the very next day, a player left his feet to make a tackle—a definite no-no in practice—diving for cornerback J. T. Floyd, who had become the most valued of a decimated bunch. He fell to the ground, spinning like a lathe, with a freshly broken ankle. Floyd went off on a golf cart, then to the hospital. He was done.
A few minutes later, Rodriguez finally got some good news—sort of. Dave Brandon appeared and summoned Rodriguez to the sideline for a minute or two.
When practice ended, Rodriguez gathered his team around him like he always did, but this time to tell them the NCAA report would finally be released the next day. They had agreed to all of Michigan’s self-imposed sanctions except probation, which they increased from two to three years.
Rodriguez left a lot out, however. When Rita walked into his office between practice and dinner, he revealed the rest: The NCAA had been persuaded he had not, in fact, been guilty of failing to promote “an atmosphere of compliance,” changing the charge to the far milder “failure to monitor” those who were in charge of the monitoring. Given the possibilities, the ruling represented just about the best possible outcome.
Rita gave Rich a big hug. When they walked into the Commons, Rita was smiling more than she had been after the victory over Notre Dame.
* * *
On Thursday, November 4, 2010, the regional press gathered in the Junge Champions Center—the same room where Lloyd Carr had announced his retirement, where Rich Rodriguez had been introduced as his successor, where the coaches’ cell phones had rung in unison with the news that a major report from the Free Press would be coming out that weekend, and where Rodriguez had broken down addressing the paper’s charges the day after they hit the newsstands.
This time, the media—a couple dozen strong—was coming to hear the verdict.
Everyone received a copy of the NCAA’s twenty-nine-page report, which actually referenced the Free Press’s initial story, noting that “the violations of daily and weekly countable hour rules, though serious, were far less extensive than originally reported and that no student-athletes were substantially harmed.” The committee characterized the violations as “relatively technical.”
The NCAA officials gave a synopsis of their findings via speakers on a conference call, then opened the floor to questions. Michael Rosenberg, who was in Minnesota, asked the first question over the speakerphone. “If the committee noted that the rules were stated clearly, but the staff willfully ignored the rules, how is that not failure to comply?”
A committee member calmly explained the difference in terms that were dry as dust but unequivocal. They knew this terrain.
Next up, Jim Schaefer, the Free Press editor from the news side who had worked on the paper’s initial bombshell. “The report seems to be fairly critical of Rodriguez in several important areas,” which he listed, then asked the committee to explain, in layman’s terms, their findings.
“There were many different facets to it,” one committee member said, “but in layman’s terms, it’s the ‘captain of the ship’ theory. The captain is ultimately responsible, but that doesn’t mean the coach is involved in any of the things involved. Some of the things we found didn’t get to the coach, but ultimately he bears responsibility.”
On and on it went, with Free Press editors and columnists dominating the session, focusing almost entirely on getting a central concession: You say he’s not guilty, but he really is, isn’t he? The committee was polite and patient but never gave them the answer they wanted, which only inspired them to ask the same question in new and different ways.
The conference call complete, Dave Brandon took the podium. “Effective today,” he said, “I’m pleased to report that the NCAA investigation is over and done. There will be no appeals, because there’s nothing to appeal.” He went on to mention that “a local newspaper did a very high-profile story” that suggested players were being harmed due to a wanton disregard for the rules and their well-being. “There was nothing found that even remotely suggested that our players’ well-being was at all at risk.”
When he finished his statement, he welcomed questions, and the cycle started anew, with the same people asking the same questions, hoping for different results. They had little chance getting Brandon to stumble. He was in his element, the best practitioner of the craft in the room.
Free Press columnist Drew Sharp asked an original question: “Are these grounds for firing the football coach?”
At this moment, Rodriguez shot Sharp a look that would later be described on websites as a “death glare.”
Brandon replied that he had made it clear at the first press conference he had seen nothing in the evidence to give any reason to terminate the coach’s contract, and “what I see now is even more positive than it was then.”
A few minutes later, Brandon closed the event by saying, “Let’s just go play the games.” That was more than an exit line. It underscored the obvious: Regardless of the report’s findings, it would not protect Rodriguez if he fell short at his principal job, winning football games.
As Jim Brandstatter put his bag in the backseat of his car, in the same parking lot where Rosenberg had made his feelings for Rodriguez plain after the coach’s first press conference, the former Michigan football player and longtime broadcaster said, “So, it took the NCAA fifteen months to determine that Michigan stretched fifteen minutes too many? Am I missing anything?”
Not much. The NCAA investigated Michigan from January 2008 through the fall of 2009. During that span, the players were allowed to engage in 976 countable hours of athletic activity. The NCAA penalized Michigan for working 65 hours more than it was allowed, 58 of that stretching, or roughly 6 percent. But the NCAA had actually discovered that Michigan had exceed the daily limit of 4 hours in-season by 20 minutes of stretching on Mondays only, even though Michigan’s weekly total was often still below the NCAA limit of 20 hours. Thus, the actual total excess was much lower—perhaps a half or a third of the 65 hours. It also found that graduate assistant Alex Herron had helped run the voluntary seven-on-seven workouts in the spring of 2009. In his classic, Season on the Brink, John Feinstein reported in 1986 that even the squeaky-clean Bob Knight, whose integrity Feinstein extolled, and his assistants sat high in the stands to watch “captains’ practices,” “though even doing that is a violation of a universally ignored NCAA rule.” Universally
ignored or not, it is still an NCAA rule, and Michigan had violated it. Further, the NCAA accused Herron of lying to the panel about it. “When you’ve got four attorneys firing questions at you,” he told me, “they can get your head spinning pretty fast.” Michigan had to fire him.
But, on the grand scale, after dozens of people from the NCAA, Michigan, and the football office spent over a year on the investigation—and probably more than a million dollars in legal fees among them—the outcome was undeniably small. Far more common in these cases, once they open Pandora’s box, they find money, cars, and other illegalities. It is hard to remember the last time this much time and money were spent on an NCAA investigation that found so little—tantamount to hiring a few full-time plumbers to live in your home, and finding only a leaky faucet on the second floor.
But the consequences would be real enough. In addition to resources devoted to the case, seven people received official reprimands in their personnel files: Rodriguez and Barwis; Van Horn, Ann Vollano, and Joe Parker working in Compliance; and Draper and Labadie. Within eight months, six of them would no longer be working at Michigan.
In the less tangible column, you could list the hundreds of hours everyone had to spend away from their families and the players. The effect on the squad was incalculable. If the reporters were trying to make the players’ lives better, as they occasionally claimed, few players would say they had succeeded. The players would have to answer for it the rest of their lives.
Back at Schembechler Hall, Dusty Rutledge had watched the whole press conference on the TV in his office. “Well, we won’t get fired today, at least,” he said at his office computer. “And now we can go somewhere else if we have to.”
He returned to his computer but more bile bubbled up inside him, forcing him to turn back. “But that whole thing pissed me off. They asked eight times, eight different ways: ‘Wouldn’t you say he’s guilty?’ ‘Why didn’t you declare him guilty?’
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