The Rivalry: Mystery at the Army-Navy Game

by John Feinstein

  “Really?” she said.

  “Yeah, and guess who Bobby wants to try to find out what’s going on from the Secret Service?”

  “Why us?” she said, not even bothering to answer the rhetorical question. “He’s the one who’s friends with those guys.”

  “He thinks we’re less threatening.”

  “I guess we are,” Susan Carol said.

  “Well, I am, anyway. I know some officials who feel pretty darn threatened by you.”

  “Not funny!” Susan Carol said-though it kind of was.

  “How are you doing, now that the letter is in print?” Stevie asked.

  “Okay, I guess. I didn’t mean to say they’d blown the game on purpose, really. But man, those were bad calls! I don’t know how they got it so wrong.”

  “Well, shake it off; you’ve got a big meet tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Good luck. I hope that piano doesn’t land on your back.”

  “Thanks for bringing it up.” She snapped the phone shut.

  Susan Carol had smiled when Stevie mentioned the piano, because she knew he was showing off his newfound knowledge of swimming. He had actually tried to learn more about her sport and had mostly patiently listened to what he not-so-patiently called her “geek talk” about it.

  The scariest event going for any swimmer was the 200 butterfly. The 400 individual medley was exhausting, and you could really, really hurt swimming the 200 in any stroke because it wasn’t a pure distance event or a pure sprint event. But there was nothing quite like the 200 ’fly.

  Butterfly was the only stroke in which it was possible for an in-shape, seasoned swimmer to not finish. You had to get both arms out of the water at the same time and get your body up out of the water far enough to complete each stroke. If you ran out of gas, it was entirely possible that you would not be able to get your arms out of the water at the finish. It was not an uncommon sight to see a butterflyer-even a good one-almost come to a stop five yards from the wall.

  Every butterflyer who ever lived had a story about it. The lingo was, “Ten yards out, the piano landed on my back.”

  Stepping onto the blocks the next morning for the 200 ’fly, Susan Carol wasn’t thinking about the piano. She was thinking about keeping her stroke as smooth as possible, making sure not to over-kick the first 150 yards. She’d broken a minute in her 100 ’fly, which was a good sign this early in the year, and now she wanted to make sure her 200 ’fly was just as solid. She wasn’t looking for spectacular-not in November anyway.

  Susan Carol looked to her right, saw Becky Asmus, and reminded herself to ignore her once they were in the water. Susan Carol was tall and lean. Becky Asmus was built like a linebacker and so strong that no one in their age group could come close to her. An ideal time for Susan Carol in this race would be about 2:10, maybe 2:12. Asmus would be closer to 2:00. Susan Carol wanted nothing to do with her.

  For one hundred yards, Susan Carol swam perfectly. Her stroke was smooth, and she was about a body length behind Asmus. She was a little surprised during the third fifty when Asmus appeared to be coming back to her. And even more when they were just about even at the 150-yard turn.

  Either Asmus was swimming the slowest 200 ’fly of her life, or Susan Carol had picked up her pace a little too much during the third fifty. Sure enough, she began to feel her arms tightening as she hit the wall at the 175. Asmus, predictably, was pulling away. That didn’t bother her. The way her arms felt as she came up out of the last turn did.

  KICK, she screamed to herself, knowing that was the only chance she had to keep from going vertical. She could see the flags ahead of her. If she could just get there, she could put her head down the last five yards and dive into the wall. But her arms were gone. The piano had landed.

  STAY LEGAL was her new mantra the last ten yards. She did-her arms barely getting above the water. By her unofficial count she needed nine strokes for the last ten yards. Normally she needed nine strokes for an entire length of the pool.

  She finally hit the wall and pulled her goggles up to look at the time. Her heart sank: 2:16.79. She had still finished second in the 13-14 age group, but the time made her want to punch something. Which she did, pounding the wall with her hand.

  Coach Brennan put an arm around her when she got out of the pool. “The third fifty…”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Okay,” he said. “We won’t talk about it now. Just make sure you get in the water and work hard on your own the next few days while you’re away.”

  She nodded. She went into the showers and burst into tears. No one, except another butterflyer, could know how much that piano hurt.

  14. SOURCES AND RESOURCES

  By Saturday, Susan Carol had mostly shaken off her bad swim and the letter to the editor. Or at least put them in the back of her mind. She was too busy to brood. Stevie was running down the schedule for their afternoon at West Point.

  “The team practices at three o’clock. We’re seeing Coach Ellerson in his office at one thirty, and Tamara’s talking to the superintendent at two. We’ve got to write some kind of story, maybe two, for the Sunday papers after practice. They’ll really start gearing up the coverage in the Sunday papers.”

  Susan Carol nodded. “And what about the security story?”

  “Bobby wanted us to talk to either Dowling or Campbell-if they’re here-and see if we can confirm his source’s tip that the president might not come. Oh, and find out why not, of course.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  When they arrived at Ellerson’s office, the receptionist said, “You guys are right on time. The only problem is, Coach isn’t. He’s in a meeting right now, but I’m sure he’ll be with you just as soon as possible.”

  So they waited. Twenty minutes later, they saw two men walking down the hallway in their direction. One was Rich Ellerson. The other was Pete Dowling.

  “Hey, Steve, you got out of the dining room at the Linc,” Dowling said, smiling as everyone shook hands.

  Stevie introduced Susan Carol to Ellerson and Dowling.

  “So am I guessing that you being here means the president is still coming to the game?” Susan Carol said, flashing The Smile to try to make the question sound like “What time is sunset?” rather than something more serious.

  If the question bothered Dowling, he didn’t show it. “Don’t believe everything Bobby Kelleher tells you,” he said. “I saw that story in the Herald this morning. His guy got a bad tip. The president’s coming. I think everyone’s jumping at shadows a little bit because of what happened Tuesday.”

  “Fraternity prank,” Stevie said.

  “Odd but true,” Dowling said. “And now everyone’s putting two and two together and getting five.”

  “So you aren’t worried about anything?” Susan Carol asked.

  Dowling laughed. “I worry about everything,” he said. “That’s my job.”

  “Will you be around today?” Susan Carol asked.

  “All day,” Dowling said. “Maybe I’ll see you at practice.”

  They shook hands and Ellerson waved them into his office, which had a great view overlooking the stadium, the field, the reservoir, and the wooded hills beyond.

  “We may not be able to recruit too many NFL prospects here,” Ellerson said as they sat down. “But I wouldn’t trade my office with any coach in the country.”

  Stevie could see why. It was spacious, and the view was spectacular.

  “Does all this Secret Service stuff bother you?” Susan Carol asked once they were seated. “I mean, is it a distraction?”

  “For the players, I’d say no. The older guys on the team have been through this before. For me, it’s a first, so it adds some time and detail I could probably live without. But it’s part of the deal here at Army. And it’s an honor to have the president attend. I’m just disappointed the vice president isn’t coming. I’m told he’s a big Army fan. The president will be more neutral.”

&n
bsp; Stevie looked at Susan Carol. They had been told from the start that Vice President Biden was going to attend with President Obama. This was the first they’d heard about the VP not coming.

  “So Biden’s not coming?” Susan Carol said to confirm.

  “Apparently not,” Ellerson said. He paused. “Oh, I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Do me a favor and don’t use that unless you hear it from Agent Dowling. He was pretty firm that I wasn’t supposed to say anything about our meeting, and I didn’t realize word wasn’t out about Biden.”

  “It might be,” Stevie said. “It’s probably common knowledge and we just hadn’t heard it yet.”

  Ellerson nodded. “Yeah, probably. I guess they’re always a little hesitant about the two of them being in the same place…”

  “And after Tuesday…,” Susan Carol said.

  Ellerson held up a hand. “Let’s talk football, okay? This isn’t my area of expertise.”

  The next forty minutes were entertaining. Ellerson knew a lot of Army-Navy lore, especially since his father and uncle were both graduates. His uncle had been captain of the 1962 team, and Ellerson clearly had a longstanding love of the place.

  “You know, Jim Platt, one of our assistant basketball coaches, may have described it best,” he told them. “He said, ‘Coaching the kids who come here is never easy, but it sure is fun to try.’ Most aren’t naturally gifted, but to say they’d run through a wall for you isn’t hyperbole.”

  He filled them in on some of the team’s most story-worthy players: three players had brothers deployed in either Iraq or Afghanistan. One had a cousin who had been killed in Iraq. Many came from military families and considered the five years in the military after graduation a calling more than an obligation.

  Stevie was truly sorry when it was time to go. “Anything comes up, call me,” Ellerson said, giving them both his cell number. “Only thing I ask in return is you protect me on the Biden thing.”

  Stevie and Susan Carol walked around the post a bit before practice started, but it was cold and gray, and a light mist was falling, so it wasn’t the scenic stroll Stevie had been imagining. And standing on the sidelines wasn’t much nicer.

  “Why can’t they practice inside?” Susan Carol said. “It’s like thirty-five degrees out here-maybe.”

  “Last I knew, the game’s being played outdoors,” Stevie said.

  But he felt bad when he saw Susan Carol shivering.

  He found Bob Beretta, the Army sports information director, and asked if he could go inside and ask Dick Hall for a hat for Susan Carol.

  Beretta smiled. “Of course. Dicky will give you all the warm clothing that you want. If someone else stops you, just tell them I sent you to Dicky.”

  Hall was working on a player’s helmet when Stevie walked in.

  “See if that feels better, Ronnie,” he said.

  The player moved his head from side to side. “Much better,” he said. “Thanks, Mr. Hall.”

  Hall gave him a pat on the shoulder as he headed for the field. Seeing Stevie, Hall broke into a wide grin. “Well, if it isn’t our own Bob Woodward,” he said.

  Stevie laughed. “Yes-and Bernstein’s outside, and she’s freezing. I was hoping you could spare a couple of those warm stocking caps.”

  “Follow me,” Hall said.

  He veered into his office for a moment and began tossing candy packages at Stevie from a large bowl. Once Stevie’s hands were full, he led him into a room off the locker room that was filled with every imaginable piece of football equipment-helmets, shoulder pads, jerseys, pants, sweats, and caps. He stopped in front of a shelf near the back and pulled a box down.

  He picked two black and gold ski caps that said ARMY out of the box and tossed them to Stevie. “Two enough?” he said. “Need anything else?”

  Stevie wouldn’t have minded grabbing one of everything-except maybe the shoulder pads and helmets-but he shook his head. “No thanks,” he said. Then thought again. “Well, maybe some information? I think the Secret Service is nervous about next Saturday. And I have a feeling you may know for sure.”

  Hall’s smile faded. “Why would I know?” he asked.

  “Because you’re the guy around here who knows everything,” Stevie said. “Am I right?”

  “You’re half right,” Hall said. “Come with me.”

  He led him through the locker room and into the training room and knocked on the door to an office in the back.

  Hall pushed the door open and Stevie saw Tim Kelly at his desk doing some paperwork. He smiled when he looked up and saw Stevie.

  “Couldn’t stay away, could you?” he said.

  “Our friend is looking for some help,” Hall said.

  “You hurt?” Kelly asked. “Everything okay? Should I get one of our docs?”

  “No, no, I’m fine, thanks,” Stevie said. “But I was asking Mr. Hall what was going on with the Secret Service and he brought me to you. I figure you’re the people who know what’s really going on around here.”

  “You’re right,” said Kelly. “That’s what the Secret Service thought too.”

  15. DIDN’T SEE THAT COMING

  Tim Kelly explained why the Secret Service had sought him and Dick Hall out. “On any football team, the people who know the players the best are the trainer and the equipment manager.”

  “Not their position coach?” Stevie asked.

  Hall jumped in. “There are things kids keep from their coaches because they’re afraid it might affect their playing time: a fight with their girlfriend, a minor injury, feeling sick a couple days before a game, something going on with their parents at home. There’s lots of stuff.”

  “To be honest, it’s especially true here because Dicky and I have been around a long time,” Kelly said. “When Bob Sutton was the coach here, he would say that visiting grads sometimes went to the football office to say hello, but they always went to the equipment room or the training room.”

  “They like my candy,” Hall joked.

  “So the Secret Service came to you guys wanting to know what? If there was anyone on the team who might want to hurt the president?” Stevie said.

  “No, no. But they were interested in anyone who might be connected with a hate group, or a white supremacy group, or know someone who was.”

  “Whoa. Do you know if they had some specific reason for asking?”

  “No, no idea. They made it seem routine…”

  “And-is that something a player would actually tell you?”

  “Possibly,” Kelly said. “We have had white players in the past who weren’t that comfortable playing with blacks. Some came from all-white teams in high school. They got over it pretty fast. To be honest, if there’s a bias issue in this locker room-or in almost any football locker room-it’s against gays.”

  “Huh. Do you have gay players?” Stevie asked, even though he was going off topic.

  Kelly shrugged. “I’m sure we have. Statistics say we have. But if you think the military is ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ try a football locker room.”

  Stevie thought that was interesting but tried to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand. “So the Secret Service came to you and…?”

  “They had pulled everyone’s file before they came to see us,” Kelly said. “Mostly they asked routine stuff to confirm what was there or amplify on it a little. The guys they asked the most about seemed to be from the South, and some did come from all-white programs. That’s who they were interested in.”

  “And is there anyone you were worried about?” Stevie asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Kelly said. “There’s nothing that we know of to be concerned about. And we probably would know.”

  “I guess they’re doing the same thing at Navy,” Stevie said.

  “I imagine they’re doing the same thing with anyone and everyone who might come in contact with the president,” Hall said. He sighed. “Look, nothing’s wrong here, really. It just makes me uncomfortable to be thin
king about people in this way-to look at everyone like a potential suspect. Especially these kids. Asking about the Southerners is a form of profiling, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Stevie nodded. “I know what you mean. Thanks for helping me out.”

  “One more thing,” Kelly said.

  “What’s that?” Stevie asked.

  “Do us a favor and forget you ever talked to us.”

  Susan Carol was standing with Bob Beretta on the 40-yard line when Stevie came trotting out of the locker room.

  “What’d you do, take a hot shower while you were in there?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Almost,” Stevie said, handing her the ski cap, which she gratefully pulled over her head. “Mr. Hall is a great storyteller.”

  Beretta laughed. “You’ve certainly got that right. If there’s anything you want to know about any Army football player of the last forty years, Dicky is definitely the man to see.”

  Susan Carol was giving him a look that said, “Something’s up and you aren’t telling me.” He gave her a look back that he hoped conveyed, “You’re right, I’ll tell you later.”

  Beretta was pointing out players he thought they might want to talk to when practice was over: Trent Steelman, the sophomore quarterback who had taken over the job from day one as a freshman; Jared Hassin, the bruising fullback who had transferred from the Air Force Academy-a rarity-and Michael Arnott, whose older brother played at Navy.

  “There really are so many good stories here, it’s hard to choose just one or two,” Susan Carol said.

  Tim Kelly came out and joined them as the practice wore on. Kathy Orton from the Post, who had come up to spend a couple of days with Army in search of some offbeat stories, was also there. Tamara must have still been with the superintendent.

  “The only real question when you’re writing about these two teams is who not to write about,” Orton said, shivering. “Every one of these kids has a story to tell.”

  “How tall are you?” Susan Carol said, a complete non sequitur except for the fact that Orton was just about as tall as Susan Carol.