“Those Who Stay: The 50th Anniversary” is a historical fiction series based on a true story and draws on first-hand interviews with the players and coaches of the 1969 Michigan Football program.
“Those Who Stay: The 50th Anniversary”
Episode 1
November 23, 1968. Columbus, Ohio
Ohio State Head Coach, Woody Hayes, is surrounded by reporters, reveling in the you know what-kicking his Buckeyes have just given a good Michigan team. 21-14 at halftime, it looked like the Wolverines might give the #2 team in the land a run for their money. Instead OSU and their ‘Super Sophomores’ shook down Michigan for every last nickel, scoring 29 unanswered points in the second half.
But it was the last touchdown and Woody Hayes that really had the Wolverines pissed off.
Late in the 4th quarter, Ohio State’s Jim Otis scored to put them up 50-14. But instead of kicking the extra point, Woody went for two. A scoundrel move by anyone’s standards. Except for Woody when playing “that school up North”. To beat them wasn’t enough. He wanted to dominate Michigan. To rob them of their will and dignity. To stampede through their nightmares for the next 364 days.
OSU didn’t get the two points but that hardly mattered. Attempting it was more than enough.
A beat reporter asks, “Why go for two when you’re up by 36 points?”
Woody fires back, “Because they wouldn’t let me go for three.”
School on a Saturday…no class.
An hour later, Michigan’s team bus rattles in the cold evening air. Players – bodies beat, egos bruised – climb up. Ice packs, crutches and silence.
Head Coach Bump Elliott, 43, is last aboard. He surveys his exhausted squad. A gentlemen’s coach, he speaks with a quiet dignity, “That is one of the finest team’s college football has ever seen. You played with the effort, class and integrity befitting a Michigan team. If anyone needs a trainer, let us know.”
Bump sits and the bus slowly pulls out and heads up Interstate 23 to Ann Arbor.
Canham Makes A Move
Bump Elliott repeats it, testing out the title, “Associate Athletic Director.”
The full-on Athletic Director, Don Canham, 50 years old, a decent suit, leans back in his office chair, “It’s yours if you want it. Or you can coach another year if you’d like. But I gotta say, Bump, you don’t seem very happy.”
Canham was just six months on the job. He’d been an All-American high jumper at Michigan and the head track and field coach for 18 years before taking over as AD. A Michigan Man to be sure. This wasn’t easy, this conversation. He liked Bump Elliott. Everyone liked Bump. Bump was honest and fair and treated the players as young men not cannon fodder. They had been friends for over a decade.
But now Canham was in charge of the whole show. And with that promotion came a surprise in the form of a $250,000 annual departmental deficit. Michigan Stadium was yet to be dubbed The Big House – which was understandable considering that it was barely more than half-full. The 1967 Ohio State game had just 64,144 butts in seats. Canham had to right a sinking ship and do it fast.
Bump looks out the window of Canham’s office, the faint chants of an anti-Vietnam protest in the distance. He’d put together a couple good teams in his ten years, including the 1968 squad. But times were changing fast. Players had been missing practices to attend those same protests. Civil Rights. Anti-War. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy had both been gunned down between Spring Ball and now. These issues weren’t hypotheticals to the players – to be discussed in some Angell Hall classroom, no, this was their lives.
‘Associate Athletic Director’ it was for Bump. He’d leave a year later to become the Athletic Director at Iowa but until then he was all Maize n’ Blue, committed to helping Canham find the next head man. How hard could that be?
Rushed from the Blindside
Morning sun pours through the huge windows, across a large, wood table dotted with coffee mugs. The monthly faculty meeting, presided over by President Robben Fleming. But now he just presides over shocked silence while Don Canham, stock still in the leather, swivel-back chair of the stately university conference room, tries to catch up with what he just heard.
“You’re saying you want to disband the football program?”, Canham asks Dr. Marc Rosenstein, 47, Dean of the History Department.
“I’m saying I’d like to discuss whether, given the times we are in, does football fit into our current worldview, “ Rosenstein replies.
Canham: “What the hell does that even mean?”
Rosenstein: “We are hailed as one of the foremost progressive universities in the country, we are strongly anti-war, and so I wonder – “
Canham: “What does that have to do with – “
Rosenstein: “I wonder if we shouldn’t examine the football program and decide if it fits into our current culture and, frankly, if it’s even financially viable. You’re losing money, right?”
Canham: “The football program is fine. It’s doing fine.”
Rosenstein: “But we need it to be more than fine, right? It has to support our athletic department as a whole and, right now – with the stadium half-full – it’s not doing that.”
Canham: “What the hell is – Marc, what the hell is going on here? You love football.”
Rosenstein: “I do. All the more reason this is a difficult topic to broach.”
Canham: “Then don’t broach it.”
President Fleming steps in: “That’s enough, gentlemen. Marc, do you have a motion to make or are you just talking out loud?”
Rosenstein: “No motion at this time.”
Fleming: “Then please refrain from just spitting stuff on the table with no warning. It’s not like you’re suggesting we close the chess club.”
Canham bites his tongue. But the looks of several around the room tell him Rosenstein is not alone.
Job Opening: Head Football Coach at The University of Michigan
Canham hangs up his office phone and looks to Bump. It’s not good.
They called everyone they knew – George Allen, Ara Parseghian, Doyt Perry, Ben Martin and more – and cobbled together a list of excellent candidates.
And not one of them wants the job.
“The facilities weren’t up to par.” Which they weren’t. They were terrible.
“You don’t pay your assistant coaches enough.” Which they didn’t. They couldn’t afford to.
And, the real kicker: “Football just doesn’t seem important to the university anymore.” Which, given Rosenstein’s words and the lot of nodding heads, Canham had to consider that maybe that was true too.
But recruiting waits for no one. They had to find their man and find him fast if they wanted a chance in hell of competing. Bump looked down his list of mostly crossed off names. But down there, at the bottom, was one last coach.
Bump: “There is this one guy. Ara mentioned him and so did Doyt – he was an assistant for both. Knock on him is he’s got a bit of a temper but – “
RING, RING. Canham rips the receiver up to his ear –
“Hello? Hey, Joe! Uh huh. Gotcha. We can fly you in as soon as possible and – (listens) oh – okay, got it. I’ll be there, first thing.” He hangs up and grabs his overcoat.
Canham: “Paterno at Penn State.”
Bump: “Isn’t he prepping for the Orange Bowl?”
Canham: “That’s why I’m meeting him at the Pittsburgh airport bright and early.”
Bump: “He’s interested?”
Canham: “Enough to meet. That’s all I need.”
And Canham’s gone, a man on a mission.
The Greater Pittsburgh Airport Hotel
A young Joe Paterno, 43, Penn State sweater and the black horned-rimmed glasses, sits in a hotel room chair, Canham across from him. It’s just the two of them.
“I’m not trying to be disrespectful, Don, but, see, your program is losing money because it just doesn’t seem like the university or community or even your players care about football anymore.”
“They care. They just need you to remind them,” Canham replies.
“My guys at Penn State – these are hard-working, steel-town kids. No one is missing practice to attend a protest.”
“We have some talented, hard-working players, I assure you.”
“Woody beat you by 40,” Paterno counters.
Canham takes a deep breath and stares at Paterno. Not in a million years did he think it would be this hard to find a new head man. Not at Michigan. But he could see where Paterno was coming from. He was going to a major bowl game for the third year in a row, ranked in the Top 10, building a program at a place that lived and breathed football.
“I hear you, Joe, I do,” Canham said, “Yes, we lost to Ohio State. Yes, we have some things to improve on and, yes, Ann Arbor is a different place than Happy Valley. But it’s still Michigan. Our guys are talented and smart and there’s not a high school player alive that doesn’t want to wear that winged helmet. Every year, the last game of the season, you’ll get your shot against Woody and the Buckeyes. There is nothing like that game, Joe, and you know it. National television every single year and there’s not a parent, recruit or President that isn’t watching.”
Paterno is listening. Canham sets the hook.
“I’m guessing that’s appealing to a man who likes to compete. I know you’re having success right now. But Penn State will never be Michigan and you know it.”
Paterno, indiscernible, just stares at Canham. Canham stares back.
The Butcher of Barberton
Bump Elliott couldn’t get Detroit News sports editor, Joe Falls, off the phone and he was too polite to hang up on him. Falls wanted to know who was front-running for the job. Bump didn’t want to tell the truth: no one. Not a single interview lined up and it was nearing Christmas, 1968.
The athletic department secretary, Linda, pops her head in, “Don’s on Line 2.” Perfect.
Bump: “Hey Joe – Joe, uh huh, listen – Joe, I have to go. We’ll let you know as soon as we know, yes – goodbye Joe, I’m switching lines now.” And he does, “Hello, Don.”
“He said no, “Canham says, “He’s happy where he is.”
“Okay. Well…we’ll keep digging.”
“Rosenstein isn’t going to have to disband the program, we’re doing it all by ourselves,” Canham says.
“What do you mean? Dean Rosenstein?,” Bump asks.
“It’s nothing. It’s…Rosenstein’s a blowhard,” Canham says, “Who else do we have?”
“Well, there is this young fellow who coached for Ara at Northwestern and Doyt at Bowling Green. He’s won a lot of games as head man at Miami of Ohio the last six years including a couple of championships. More than half his staff was coaching high school ball just a couple years ago. And he’s got a reputation for having quite a temper,” Bump finishes.
“Bump, you wanna be in administration, you gotta work on your sales skills,” Canham says.
“And he’s got a penchant for cursing.”
Canham, leaning against a pay phone in the Pittsburgh Airport, sighs, “So you want me to interview a foul-mouthed guy with a staff full of wide-eyed, young bucks and the temper of General Patton?”
“And he played and coached for Woody Hayes.”
“Oh, for crissakes.”
“Which means if anybody knows how to beat them, it’s this guy,” Bump says.
Canham stands up straight…that’s interesting.
“What’s his name? (listens) Say it again. (listens) Skembochler? What the hell kind of name is that?? Sounds like the butcher from some German village. Schembeckner? I’ll learn it if I have to, okay – just get him up here for an interview as soon as you can. And mum’s the word.”