The System: The Glory and Scandal of Big-Time College Football

by Jeff Benedict

  Richard Evrard is a partner at Bond Schoeneck & King, a law firm out of Overland Park, Kansas. Before joining the firm in 1992, Evrard was an attorney for the NCAA, where he worked on enforcement and was the director of legislative services. After leaving the NCAA, he represented institutions accused of NCAA infractions. His expertise caused the law firm to ultimately put him in charge of its Collegiate Sports Practice Group, which had represented Minnesota, Kansas, Ohio State and other universities through major scandals involving academic fraud, payments to players and recruiting violations.

  When Larry Scott directed the Pac-12’s general counsel, Woodie Dixon, to choose someone to conduct a review of WSU’s football program on behalf of the conference, Dixon retained Evrard to develop an investigation outline, conduct interviews and draft a final report to be presented to the Pac-12 and the university. Specifically, Evrard and his team developed four areas of review:

  1. Claims of physical, verbal and emotional abuse reported by Marquess Wilson.

  2. Sandpit workouts and whether the coaching staff endangered the welfare of student-athletes by having them participate in conditioning/disciplinary workout sessions conducted in the pit.

  3. Student-athlete injuries and whether football coaches were requiring injured players to participate in practices when institutional policy gave authority for that decision to the training and medical staffs.

  4. Practice hours and whether the football program violated NCAA legislation limiting the amount of practice hours in which student-athletes can be required to participate.

  All of these lines of inquiries were potential minefields that could expose the university to lawsuits and NCAA sanctions. No one understood that more than Evrard.

  By way of background, Evrard’s team started by looking into the events that touched off Marquess Wilson’s departure from the team. The trouble began at halftime during the Utah game in Salt Lake City. WSU had played a miserable first half. Things came to a boiling point in the locker room when a defensive coach attempted to motivate players by using his hands to urge his players to be more physical. He emphasized his point by pushing some players on the breastplate sections of their shoulder pads while shouting four-letter words at them. At least one player got emotional and used equally strong language to shout back at the coach, a reaction that the coach said was exactly what he was looking for. That’s what he wanted to see them do in the second half—respond with emotion.

  Wilson wasn’t one of the players being pushed in the locker room during halftime. But that incident, coupled with the coaching staff’s decision to make players do sandpit drills on the day following the loss to Utah, is what brought him to a breaking point. But when asked by investigators whether he had been physically abused, Wilson insisted he had not. “I wasn’t trying to accuse anybody of abuse,” Wilson told investigators. “I mean, they never touched us. I wasn’t trying to say that in my letter … I mean, that, there was no point where I was trying to say that they’re abusing us.”

  The halftime incident at Utah wasn’t deemed abusive. “Concerning the incident in the locker room at the Utah game, the evidence indicates that a coach was trying to motivate his players through the use of some emotionally charged language and physical acts,” Evrard wrote. “Football is a physical game and it is not unusual for a coach in football to try and exhort his players to be more physical by getting physical with them.”

  Regarding verbal abuse, Wilson told investigators it was common for coaches to call him and his teammates “coward, pussy, bitch, all that.” He added, “Where I was raised you don’t let people call you that.”

  Evrard and his team interviewed twenty coaches, players, parents and athletic department leaders. Many of the interviews were conducted in person. Most of the players who were chosen were team leaders or played the same position as Wilson. All of the interviewed players confirmed that the language reported by Wilson was similar to what they heard from coaches. But none of them considered the language abusive.

  “Most of the student-athletes indicated that they have heard that kind of language from coaches most of their lives and are not offended by it,” Evrard noted, concluding that Leach’s staff was merely using the universal language of football. Wilson simply got a bigger dose of it because he was a highly talented player who, according to his teammates, often failed to display maximum effort.

  Investigators also asked about the use of a sandpit for conditioning and disciplining players. Leach said he believed the sandpit to be a great tool of cardiovascular conditioning that also helped reduce injuries to ankles and knee joints. He’d been a proponent of using a sandpit for conditioning football players long before arriving at WSU. And plenty of other programs used sandpits.

  But Evrard wanted to know if the pit was used to discipline or punish players. One assistant athletic director who had witnessed sandpit sessions told investigators that the “discipline in the sand does get at time, uh, questionable.” On one occasion, the assistant AD reported, he witnessed the strength and conditioning coach spraying student-athletes with a hose and instructed him to discontinue the practice. Bill Moos had also instructed the football staff to stop the use of water in the pit. Leach told investigators he was unaware of any incidents where the strength coach had sprayed athletes during workouts.

  One by one, Evrard’s team went through every allegation raised by the parent’s letter and Wilson’s letter. Investigators were on WSU’s campus and in the football operations building, getting a close view of the inner workings of Leach’s system. The coaching staff started to feel as if it were under siege. At one point, Moos met with Leach. “Hey, you just keep coaching this football team,” Moos told him. “And coach it the way you always have. Don’t be worrying about this. You just coach.”

  On the day after Thanksgiving, WSU played its final game of the season, a nationally televised contest against its archrival, Washington. WSU entered the game with an eight-game losing streak and a 2-9 record. The Huskies were 7-4. After three quarters, UW led 28–10. Fans started leaving. Then WSU stormed back, scoring eighteen unanswered points to force overtime. On the first possession of the extra frame, WSU kicked a field goal to win the game 31–28. Fans stormed the field. Leach and his players were mobbed. Moos practically knocked people down giving them high fives. And Floyd raised the Apple Cup trophy in a ceremony at midfield. “We kicked the Huskies out of the place,” Floyd shouted over the public-address system, drawing cheers.

  Leach did a bunch of interviews and told his team in the locker room how proud he was of their effort. Two hours had passed by the time he had finished talking to everyone who wanted his ear. It was late in the afternoon. He had just thirty minutes until he had to attend a recruiting dinner at a Pullman restaurant with all the high school players and parents who were in town. The season had just ended, and he was already turning his sights to the next season. It was close to midnight before he finally got home.

  The next day Yahoo! Sports ran a story reporting that Leach had received a $25,000 bonus for winning the Apple Cup. To celebrate, Yahoo! Sports reported, Leach had gone to Valhalla Bar and Grill, the most famous student bar in Pullman, and spent $3,000 on drinks for fans. “That’s what makes Leach one of college football’s great and sometimes controversial characters,” the story reported. “But letting the fans drink up on his Apple Cup bonus—Leach might be the only coach in America who would celebrate that way.”

  Leach had never gone anywhere near the Valhalla. But he didn’t bother to refute the story. He didn’t have the time.

  On January 7, 2013, Pac-12 commissioner Larry Scott overnighted Rick Evrard’s final report on the Washington State football program to Elson Floyd. The twenty-nine-page summary detailed foul language, intense workouts and emotional outbursts. But in the end, Evrard and his team determined that WSU’s program was basically like any other major college football program. “All parties agreed that the coaching staff is tough, they demand discipline and they will not tole
rate anything less than maximum effort when involved with their program,” the report concluded. “Based on the totality of the information obtained and reviewed by the investigative team there does not appear to be any form of abuse in the football program.”

  Floyd read every word. Then he sent copies to his board of trustees and directed his staff to release copies to the media. By this time, Moos had completed his internal review, giving the program a clean bill of health. But Evrard’s report gave the program an outside stamp of approval. It also satisfied Floyd’s ultimate concern. “The reports put to bed the Tech issue and the Marquess issue at the same time,” Floyd said. “It was Texas Tech that served as a shadow over everything else. Now that’s over and I’m glad to have that chapter closed.”

  Nobody was more pleased than Bill Moos. He immediately got word to Leach. “I’m happy,” Leach said. “But I’m not surprised.”

  Moos wasn’t surprised either. Nor was he bitter. “I like to find lemonade in lemons,” Moos said. “The Adam James thing was always going to be out there. I think it is good we went through this and nothing turned up. Next time we say, ‘Hey, we’ve been down that road.’ Mike didn’t do anything except demand maximum effort and win football games.”

  One month later, Leach landed his prize recruit. Despite an aggressive last-minute push by Arizona State, quarterback Tyler Bruggman signed his letter of intent to attend WSU. “The majority of the selling point was Mike Leach,” he said. “WSU is a great university and all. But from a student-athlete perspective, having a guy like Leach is huge. He is the reason I chose WSU. My parents are looking forward to handing me off to him for the next four years.”

  To go pro or not to go pro

  An official NFL sign on the San Diego Chargers’ locker room wall read CONCUSSION: A MUST READ FOR NFL PLAYERS—LET’S TAKE BRAIN INJURIES OUT OF PLAY. It listed the facts and symptoms resulting from helmet-to-helmet contact, trauma that can alter the way the brain functions. Kyle Van Noy and Ziggy Ansah walked past the warning as they stepped into the dank, narrow tunnel that leads to the field at Qualcomm Stadium. It was December 20, 2012, and BYU was playing in the Poinsettia Bowl against San Diego State. Stretching side by side on the lush green sod, Van Noy and Ansah got their first look and feel of an NFL facility—gigantic, concrete and cold. It was exactly the kind of place where they would soon be making a living.

  That realization sank in as they went through pregame warm-ups. Ansah’s late-season surge had every NFL draft analyst calling him a surefire first-rounder. Van Noy, meanwhile, was among the nation’s leaders in sacks, forced fumbles and unassisted tackles. The two of them had anchored BYU’s defense, which was the third best overall in the nation. Despite a rock-solid defense, BYU’s often-anemic offense resulted in the team finishing 7-5. Most of the criticism was directed at Mendenhall for his priorities. “There is his always-controversial contention that winning football games is only fifth on his priority list, behind spiritual development, academic achievement, character advancement and service,” one Deseret News columnist lamented after the 2012 season. “Rest easy, Alabama.”

  Even former star players from the LaVell Edwards era went public with their criticism of Mendenhall’s approach. “I’ll say this much,” wrote Vai Sikahema, “Tom Holmoe better get BYU into a conference quickly. There is no way ESPN can justify renewing its contract with BYU if this is what it’s going to get.”

  But Mendenhall made no apologies for his brand of football. “This system is so contrary to what is normal,” he said. “But I’m trying to build the most complete program.”

  Ansah and Van Noy were aware of all the criticism directed at their coach. But they dismissed it. “The reason I respect Bronco so much is because he cares about our well-being,” Van Noy said. “Football is just a short thing. The things he teaches last a lifetime. That’s why I play so hard for him.”

  Fifteen minutes before kickoff, Van Noy and Ansah sat on stools in front of their lockers. Their teammates did the same. Assistant coaches stood, their backs against the wall. The locker room was dead silent—no music, no talking. The only movement was the team trainer, going player to player, offering smelling salts. Everyone was waiting for Mendenhall, who was alone in his office. Finally, he emerged.

  “Bring it up,” he said.

  Players circled him and took a knee.

  “I just want to say how proud I am of you and how proud I am to be your coach,” he said quietly. “It’s such a privilege to represent what we represent. Leave nothing on the field today.”

  His pregame speech lasted all of thirty-nine seconds. He never mentioned the other team. He never raised his voice. He showed no emotion.

  “Riley is going to lead us in prayer,” Mendenhall said.

  Quarterback Riley Nelson stood up. “Heavenly Father,” he began, “we thank thee for the opportunity to be part of this brotherhood.”

  When Nelson said “amen,” Mendenhall headed for the door. The team lined up single file behind him and walked out in silence.

  BYU won the coin toss and elected to kick off. On the first possession, San Diego State’s quarterback, Adam Dingwell, dropped to pass. Ansah applied pressure up the middle, forcing him to throw early. As soon as Dingwell released the ball, Ansah turned and sprinted downfield toward the intended receiver. The pass ricocheted off the receiver’s shoulder pads and into Ansah’s hands—his first interception.

  “Ziggy! Ziggy! Ziggy!” fans chanted. The ESPN broadcasters immediately started talking about Ansah’s rapid rise on NFL draft boards.

  Later, Van Noy blocked a punt. Those two plays were the extent of the excitement for the first three quarters of the game. Both offenses were dismal. At the start of the fourth quarter, San Diego State led 6–3, and the Poinsettia Bowl was on track to go down as one of the most boring bowl games in the history of college football. Then BYU’s Nelson threw a goal-line interception. San Diego State took over on its own three-yard line. As BYU’s defense prepared to take the field, the linebackers coach screamed: “We need a turnover! We need a turnover!”

  On San Diego State’s first play, Van Noy blitzed from the outside as Dingwell dropped back to throw out of his own end zone. Blowing past his man, Van Noy left his feet and went lateral. Fully extended, he hit Dingwell just as he began to bring his arm forward, jarring the ball loose. From his knees, Van Noy scooped up the ball just as Ansah landed on top of him. Touchdown BYU.

  Up 10–6, BYU kicked off. After another turnover, BYU went up 17–6. Then, with 6:29 remaining, Dingwell threw from the San Diego State nineteen-yard line. This time Van Noy had dropped into zone coverage. As Dingwell’s pass went toward a receiver near the sideline on the thirty-five-yard line, Van Noy leaped and intercepted it. Cutting back across the field, he eluded would-be tacklers and scampered into the end zone. Touchdown BYU. The defense mobbed him in the end zone, and the chants rained down from the stands: “B-Y-U! B-Y-U! B-Y-U!”

  In a span of nine minutes, Van Noy had scored more touchdowns than both offenses combined. Along with his fumble recovery and interception, he had registered one blocked punt, two sacks and nine unassisted tackles. As Van Noy came toward the sideline clutching the football, Mendenhall was waiting for him. They made eye contact. Mendenhall nodded, smiled and clenched his fist. Those three things were the ultimate form of compliment. Van Noy nodded and smiled back.

  At the conclusion of the game, Van Noy ran to the first row of stadium seats to get a kiss from his mother and a hug from his father. Then he joined the team at midfield for the Poinsettia Bowl trophy ceremony. Van Noy was named the game’s MVP. After his teammates retreated to the locker room, Van Noy went to a corner of the stadium occupied by BYU fans for a lengthy postgame television interview. As the interview ended, Van Noy waved to the fans. They began chanting, “One more year! One more year! One more year!”

  Alone, he turned and walked across the end zone where he had scored both touchdowns, waving over his shoulder to the fans. “What a way to go out
,” he thought to himself, pausing beneath the goalpost to look out over the field and empty stadium. “I have done everything I need to do. I have played my last game at BYU.”

  Ziggy Ansah sat in silence at his locker, realizing how much he was going to miss BYU football. It was 9:00 p.m. His teammates had showered, dressed, said good-bye and headed for the team bus. Ansah was still in his grass-stained uniform. Even his high-top black cleats were still laced. He didn’t want to say good-bye. He didn’t want it to end.

  Finally, Van Noy entered the locker room, trailed by Mendenhall. They had come from the postgame press conference. Ansah stood to greet them. Mendenhall embraced him.

  “I love you,” Mendenhall whispered.

  “I love you, too,” Ansah said.

  Moments later, Ansah pulled off his gear and made his way to the showers, leaving Mendenhall and Van Noy alone in the locker room. They looked at each other and smiled. Then they wrapped their arms around each other. “I’m so proud of you, Kyle,” Mendenhall said. “So proud.”

  “Thank you,” Van Noy said.

  On January 19, 2013, seventy-three underclassmen were approved for the NFL draft. That marked an all-time high. But Kyle Van Noy’s name was not on the list. After the Poinsettia Bowl he went home with his parents to Reno to celebrate Christmas. But their conversations kept coming back to the question: Stay in college or go pro?

  Three different agents had assured him that he would be drafted at the start of the second round. Overnight he’d go from a poor student-athlete to a wealthy professional. He’d fulfill his boyhood dream, too.

  As good as it all sounded—and as certain as Van Noy felt—something kept nagging him. The turning point was a conversation with one of his closest confidants, Chicago Bears running back Harvey Unga. He and his wife maintained a home in Provo. In 2009, Unga became BYU’s all-time leading rusher as a junior, amassing 3,455 yards in his first three seasons. But Unga withdrew from BYU prior to his senior year after violating the school’s honor code. It was a decision he discussed at length with Van Noy.