The Rivalry: Mystery at the Army-Navy Game

by John Feinstein

  Even though he’d laughed briefly, Susan Carol could sense the tension in his voice. The president was about to arrive on field. This had to be the scariest time for the agents.

  Then the Army band started to play “Hail to the Chief,” and everyone turned to face the Army tunnel. And suddenly, there he was-the president-looking just as relaxed and happy as he had when she’d met him in his office last Monday.

  21. THE WHITE HOUSE

  Stevie was dressed up in a blue blazer and gray pants and a carefully knotted tie, but he gawked when Susan Carol came downstairs in a tailored blue dress and high heels.

  “Heels?” Stevie said.

  “I’m goin’ to the White House to meet the president of the United States,” she said. “Should I be wearin’ sneakers?”

  “No,” he said. “But it isn’t a state dinner, it’s an interview.”

  “Lay off, Stevie,” said Kelleher, who was standing at the stove making eggs. “She looks great and so do you. Just make sure you both remember a tape recorder and a notebook. They’ll probably have someone there taping the interview too, but it’s always good to have backup.”

  Stevie had been pretty calm about the interview-right to the moment they pulled up at the White House gate.

  Bob Campbell was waiting outside for them.

  “Right on time,” he said, looking at his watch.

  “I don’t imagine too many people are late for appointments with the president,” Susan Carol said.

  “True,” Campbell said. “Most of the time it’s the other way around. President Obama is actually pretty good as presidents go about staying on time.”

  “Anyone who was really bad?” Stevie asked.

  “President Clinton.” Campbell laughed. “On a good day he was two hours behind schedule. Come on, let’s get you through security and I’ll give you a ten-minute tour.”

  The security check was thorough but not too bad. They had already been given clearance since their social security numbers had been submitted a couple of weeks earlier. The guards were friendly, no doubt in part because of Campbell’s presence. Once they were inside the gate, they walked through a small parking lot that sat between the White House and a massive older-looking building that was connected to the White House with a canopy.

  “What’s that building?” Stevie asked, hearing Susan Carol sigh loudly as soon as the question was out of his mouth.

  “That’s the OEOB,” Dowling said.

  “The OEO what?” Stevie said.

  Susan Carol was now rolling her eyes. “Steven Thomas, have you never even watched West Wing?” she said. “The OEOB is the Old Executive Office Building. It’s where most of the White House staff works.”

  “I have watched West Wing,” Stevie said. “I just didn’t memorize it. So the White House staff all works over there?”

  “Most of it, actually,” Campbell said. “Only those who need to be closest to the president actually work in the White House itself.”

  They walked into a small lobby filled with photos of President Obama with various people, most of whom Stevie didn’t recognize. One he did recognize was Ken Niumatalolo, standing next to the president, who was holding up a Navy football jersey with his name and a number 1 on it. Seeing him staring at the photo, Campbell pointed at it.

  “That’s the only one up there now that wasn’t taken in the last month,” he said. “Most of the photos put up here are recent. But for Army-Navy week they dug that one out. It’s from last April when the Navy team came here to officially receive the Commander-in-Chief’s Trophy.”

  “So the winner of the game gets to come to the White House,” Stevie said.

  “The winner of the trophy does,” Campbell said. “Since Army and Navy both beat Air Force this year, yes, the winner Saturday will be coming here at some point.”

  They continued down a hall and Campbell stopped at a door with a guard on it. “Hey, Mike, I just want to give the kids a quick look if nothing’s going on,” he said.

  “All quiet,” Mike said, hitting some kind of button on the wall that swung the door open. They walked into a small room with a long table in the middle, clocks on one of the walls, and what looked like a computer screen of some kind on the far wall.

  “Know what this is?”

  “The situation room, right?” Susan Carol said.

  “No way,” Stevie said. “It can’t be this small.”

  “That’s what most people say. But you’re right, Susan Carol. Come on, we’ll go upstairs and I’ll show you the press room. You’ll be surprised at how small it is too.”

  They went up a flight of stairs, down a couple of very busy hallways, and through a door into an interview room that was about half the size of the interview room Stevie had been in at West Point a week earlier and maybe one-tenth the size of an interview room at the Final Four or the Super Bowl.

  “The White House press room,” Campbell said.

  The only reason Stevie believed him was that he could see a podium with the presidential seal and a White House logo behind it. It appeared to seat fewer than a hundred.

  “Come on, it’s almost ten,” Campbell said, walking them back down the hall and into a large office that had three desks and about a dozen people, all seeming busy.

  “This is Reggie Love. You guys may have heard or read about him…”

  “You played at Duke!” Susan Carol practically shrieked as Love stood up to greet them. “I’ve read all about you!”

  “And I’ve read about both of you,” Love said, smiling. He was huge, at least six foot six, and built like a football player.

  “Reggie started playing football at Duke,” Susan Carol was explaining. “But in 2001, Coach K. asked him to join the basketball team because they needed depth inside, and he played on the national championship team that year.”

  Reggie Love held up his left hand. “Yup, I still wear my championship ring,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you both. The president’s nine o’clock is wrapping up right now.”

  Almost on cue, a door behind Love opened and a half dozen people poured out. Stevie recognized one of them instantly. “Hillary Clinton,” Susan Carol hissed as the secretary of state gave them a smile walking by.

  “That I know,” Stevie said.

  “Come on in,” Love said, walking to the door. Campbell, Stevie noticed, had not followed them.

  “Mr. President,” Love said. “Susan Carol Anderson and Steve Thomas.”

  At first, Stevie only heard the familiar voice.

  “Thanks, Reggie,” he heard him say. Then, as Love stepped back to let him and Susan Carol walk inside the Oval Office, the president of the United States walked around his desk to come and greet them.

  “Steve, Susan Carol, this is a real pleasure,” he said, shaking hands. “I’m Barack Obama.”

  A photographer took several pictures of Stevie and Susan Carol sitting on the couch, notebooks poised, while the president sat in an armchair.

  “We’ll send you copies,” he said.

  “Do you need our addresses?” Stevie asked.

  The president laughed at that one. “We have your addresses, Steve,” he said.

  Oh yeah, Stevie thought. They have everyone’s address.

  Stevie and Susan Carol started the interview with softball questions about Army-Navy and what connections the president had to the rivalry.

  “I’m a fan,” he said. “I can remember watching the game one year when a Navy kid missed a short field goal at the end in a driving rain to lose the game and then took all the blame on himself, didn’t make any excuses. I was impressed by that.”

  “Ryan Bucchianeri was his name,” Susan Carol said. It figured, Stevie thought, she would know that.

  “That’s it, I remember him,” the president said. “Then there was a game where Army drove, I think, ninety-nine yards to win.

  “Of course now the game means even more to me. As commander in chief, I have a connection to these young men that goes beyond bein
g a football fan.”

  They continued in a jock vein for a while. President Obama either was a real fan or had been briefed well. He certainly knew all about Stevie and Susan Carol. At one point he asked Susan Carol what her current national ranking was in the 100 butterfly.

  “I’m actually a little higher in the 200,” she said. “I’m fourth right now.”

  “The 200 ’fly?” the president said. “I get tired just watching that event.”

  Susan Carol smiled, clearly delighted that the president could talk swimming. “The last time I swam it, I died completely at the finish.”

  “You’ll get ’em next time,” the president said.

  It was Susan Carol who finally brought up security at the game. Pete Dowling had told Kelleher that the president was always briefed on security issues, but they weren’t sure if he knew they knew.

  “Are you concerned about it at all?” Susan Carol asked.

  “No-I have the Secret Service to be concerned about it for me,” he said. “When you’re president, there are always going to be people who have some kind of grudge against you. It comes with the territory.”

  “More so when you are an African American president?” Stevie asked, proud that his voice wasn’t trembling.

  “I’ve been an African American president since the day I was sworn in,” the president said, smiling. “Again, that’s just part of who I am. I know that adds some new stresses for the Secret Service, but I also know just how good they are at their jobs. I don’t look over my shoulder. Lots of professionals are there to protect me.”

  Stevie knew they were out of time. Reggie Love poked his head in the door. “Mr. President?” he said. “It’s ten twenty-five. Your ten fifteen is waiting outside.” They had been scheduled to have fifteen minutes. They’d been given twenty-five.

  The president stood up. “I know you two understand that the security questions have to be off the record at least until after the game. Pete told me you’d had that conversation.”

  They both nodded. Stevie wasn’t about to explain to the president of the United States that technically he should have gone off the record before answering the questions.

  Then the president laughed. “And also off the record? I think the officials have more to worry about from you, Ms. Anderson. People will be paying more attention to them than to me, I suspect.”

  Susan Carol blushed fiercely, so Stevie thanked him again and they were escorted out.

  As they were leaving, Stevie couldn’t help but notice the president’s 10:15 standing up to be escorted into the Oval Office.

  It was Bill Gates.

  22. BEST PRACTICES

  Once Campbell had escorted them back to the northwest gate, they walked to the Post. They were told to “just write” and not worry about length, and that’s what they did-producing two thousand words in under two hours.

  “He really is good,” Kelleher said, reading behind them. “He knows exactly what people need and he gives it to them-nothing more, nothing less.”

  Once their story had been edited and approved, Kelleher took Stevie to the train station. He was dreading the next few days: he’d be back in school, which was a pretty big comedown from interviewing the president. But soon he’d be at the game itself. Just not soon enough.

  Susan Carol was happy with the story she and Stevie had produced from their interview with President Obama. And she liked having people stop her in the newsroom to tell her how much they had enjoyed her story on the Arnott brothers in that morning’s paper. Tamara called it “taking bows.”

  “No better feeling,” she said. “It’s great to write something your colleagues notice.”

  “Well, it sure beats hate mail.” Susan Carol laughed.

  She also felt better after a weekend working together with Stevie. Even tough things seemed better when they could tackle them together.

  So she really missed Stevie when Kelleher called her on Tuesday.

  “I just got a call from Kenny Niumatalolo,” he said. “He told me the ACC stuck to its guns on the refs, so your favorite officials from the Notre Dame game will be on the Army-Navy game. He’s really angry about it.”

  “Are you going to write about it?” she asked.

  “No. You are. You were the one who started this story.”

  Susan Carol was quiet, so Kelleher plowed ahead. “Don’t be nervous. You just make some phone calls. I’ll give you Kenny’s cell. I think he’ll talk pretty frankly even on the record because he is not happy. Then call the ACC for comment, and Rich Ellerson too. You’ve got his number, right?”

  “What about the referee; do I call him too?” she asked.

  “Ask Harold Neve-he’s the ACC’s football supervisor-if he’s got numbers for any of the four guys. They all have jobs, so they’re probably reachable at their offices.”

  “They have jobs?”

  “Sure. They only ref one day a week, travel one day maybe, and football season is only so long. So the rest of the time they have jobs. That’s part of the problem, really. They’re not full-time professionals and no one ever wants to fire them when they screw up.”

  Susan Carol wasn’t terribly excited about doing the story, but she knew it needed to be done.

  Niumatalolo was calm but clearly upset when she talked to him.

  “I have yet to see any evidence that those two calls were warranted,” he said. “I really don’t think it’s fair to our kids to run onto the field for our biggest game of the year and have to see four of those same officials out there. I’m not saying they’re incompetent, I’m just saying the wound they inflicted is still raw.”

  Ellerson was sympathetic with Niumatalolo. “If I was in Ken’s shoes, I’d probably feel the same way,” he said. “My only concern now is that the officials might not want to makes calls against Navy. Honestly, I’d rather not see them on the game either.”

  Not surprisingly, the ACC football supervisor, Harold Neve, wasn’t at all pleased when Susan Carol read him the coaches’ comments. “Mike Daniels has been officiating for twenty-two years. He’s been a referee for fourteen. All the men involved are very experienced and have excellent records. They’re looking forward to this game-being a part of it is special for the officials too.

  “It’s not unusual for a coach to be upset about a couple of calls. But we don’t change assignments because of it.”

  “Did you look at the game tape?” Susan Carol asked.

  “Of course I did,” Neve said.

  “And?”

  “And I don’t comment on specific plays except to explain a rule. These were judgment calls. I don’t talk about judgment calls. But if I thought any official in any game had badly blown a call, you can be sure he would hear about it from me.”

  “Did the officials in the Navy-Notre Dame game hear from you?”

  Neve didn’t answer the question. “You know, young lady, a lot of this happened because of the inflammatory story you wrote. So I really don’t appreciate your attitude.”

  Now Susan Carol was angry. “I think I gave people a pretty clear picture of what happened.”

  “You focused on two calls. How many other calls made up that game? How many plays went off with no call necessary?”

  “But those two calls both came at key moments-” Susan Carol cut herself off. She realized she was arguing, not interviewing, a cardinal sin for a reporter. Before Neve could respond, she said, “Look, Mr. Neve, thanks for your help. Do you have phone numbers where I might reach the four officials?”

  There was silence on the other end for a moment.

  “Our policy is to only allow referees to speak to the media, and only if they choose to do so,” he said. “The referee is the spokesman. I’ll give you Mike Daniels’s number if you want it, but I doubt he’ll want to talk to you.”

  “I know that,” she said. “But I think I should give him a chance to comment.”

  “Fine, then.”

  He gave her the number. Hanging up the phone, Susan Ca
rol felt a wave of resolve come over her. So without hesitating, she called the number he had given her.

  “G. A. Storage Company, may I help you?” a voice said.

  “I was trying to reach Mike Daniels.”

  There was clearly no call-screening at G. A. Storage Company because she was put right through. On the second ring someone picked up and said, “Mike Daniels.”

  For a split second, Susan Carol froze. Then she found her voice.

  “Mr. Daniels, this is Susan Carol Anderson from the Washington Post.”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Daniels?”

  “What can you possibly want?”

  “I’m writing a story about the fact that Coach Ken Niumatalolo asked that you and your crew mates be removed from the Army-Navy game.” She was talking fast, hoping he wouldn’t hang up on her. “I talked to Mr. Neve, and he gave me your number.”

  “He did?”

  “He said you were the spokesman for the crew. And that it would be up to you to comment.”

  “Okay, here’s my comment: the fact that we’re still assigned to the game is proof of the job we’ve done this year. If Coach Niumatalolo has a problem with that, it’s his problem. Not ours.”

  “But don’t you think-”

  She stopped. The phone had gone dead. Which, in truth, was fine with her. If Daniels hadn’t been hostile, she would have been surprised-and maybe even a little disappointed. She turned to the computer and started to write.

  On Wednesday, Susan Carol and Tamara were back at Navy for practice.

  “Tomorrow is our last real practice before Saturday,” Coach Niumatalolo said as the players gathered around at the end of their workout. It was six o’clock, pitch dark, and cold. No one seemed to notice. “We’re going to have to go straight from practice to the pep rally on T-Court and we’ll be pressed for time, so I’d like the captains to talk to you right now.”

  “What’s T-Court?” Susan Carol whispered to Tamara as Ricky Dobbs stood up in front of his teammates.

  “Tecumseh Court,” she answered. “There’s a statue of the Indian Tecumseh on a green. Everyone calls it T-Court.”