Episode 10
The Build-Up
Pre-Game Speech
“I want to thank you, men.”
Bo stands before his team and staff in the visiting locker room of Spartan Stadium, the opening kickoff minutes away.
Eyes flooding with emotion, he scans the game-ready faces of his players – Mandich, Curtis, Hill, Dierdorf, Pryor, all of them, packed around him, helmets strapped on – and forces the words past the lump in his throat.
“You have finally accepted me as your head coach. Finally accepted me into the Michigan Football family. And I thank you for that. I am proud of you, men. I am proud to be your coach.”
The tears were surprising to all – including Bo. But they were understandable. It had been a roller coaster ten months. Getting the job, Winter Conditioning, Spring Ball – half the team quitting in the process – Fall Camp, the birth of his son just three weeks ago, followed by the loss to Mizzou and then coming right back and beating a strong, tenth-ranked Purdue squad the week before. Now, here was Michigan State, unranked, coming off back-to-back losses, including a shellacking by the mighty Ohio State.
Things were coming together, Bo thought. The team was coming together and they could be pretty damn good. They had four more games after MSU to sharpen their claws before No. 1 Ohio State came to Ann Arbor. Michigan was ranked thirteenth at the moment so, Bo figured, if they win out, they’d have a shot at being a Top 5 team by the Ohio State game. Woody bringing his boys into Bo’s stadium. Maybe Canham would even fill the place by then.
They could be that good, Bo thought. Everything was coming up roses.
Of course, in hindsight – weeks and even decades later – Bo would recognize that they were over-confident and under-prepared. Everyone – the players, the coaches and – most inexcusably in his mind – himself.
But, right now, as he stands addressing his team with tears in his eyes, hindsight was, by definition, unavailable.
BRAGGING RIGHTS
“Sonofab—! Jim! What the hell is going on?” Bo screams over the roar of the home crowd that shook Spartan Stadium midway through the 2nd quarter.
Jim Young, the Defensive Coordinator, didn’t exactly know what was going on other than Michigan State was running the ball down his defense’s throat. 228 yards on the ground and it wasn’t even Halftime.
“They’re running through us like a goddamn sieve!!” Bo screams, slamming his headset into the ground. He chases Young down the sidelines, yelling after him, “You gotta fix this, Jim, you gotta fix it!!”
Bo trusted Jim Young. And with good reason. Young was an excellent coach and coordinator. He particularly excelled at analyzing data, finding tendencies in an opposing offense and exploiting them.
But the only tendency on this day was that the Spartans were kicking their tail. And Young and his Michigan Defense had no answers. When they finally did get MSU to punt, he called a rush and Michigan got flagged for roughing the kicker. F—
First down, Michigan State.
That’s when Young fainted.
One second he’s staring at his call sheet, trying to focus, blood rushing through his ears and, the next second, he’s down, out cold. Bo screaming at him, his defense getting destroyed and now a crucial penalty.
“Goddammit, Young!! If you’re gonna pass out on me at least wait until we’re AHEAD!!”
But that wouldn’t happen. They wouldn’t be ahead the whole game. They’d lose 23-13. Three fumbles, five penalties for eighty yards and gave up 355 yards on the ground. Very ugly football.
Back in that Visitor’s locker room, the game over, the coaching staff waits outside the small visiting coaches locker room. Nobody talks. They all stare straight ahead, waiting for it to be over –
SMASH! Inside the coaches locker room, Bo throws a metal chair into a wall. CRASH! Another one.
“SONOFAB—-!!!”
Hindsight was quickly getting clear for Bo: Michigan was now 1-1 in the Big Ten. If he was going to keep his promise to this team – the one painted on that wooden board and hung in the players locker room – ‘those who stay will be champions’ – then they could not lose another game the rest of the season.
(Four hours later)
The three Michigan team buses rattled into the parking lot of Yost Fieldhouse around eight o’clock. Bo watched the subdued players limp off into the dark October night. The coaching staff dug under the bus for their overnight bags. Gary Moeller hustled to catch Bo who was striding toward the offices.
“Bo. Bo, hold on,” Moeller said.
Bo turned on a dime, his eyes still burning from the loss, “We’ll watch Minnesota film until the game movies get here. Have Red get some cheeseburgers.”
Moeller took a deep breath, glancing back at the exhausted staff. “Maybe we give the guys the night off.”
Bo’s face twisted, “Why the hell would we do that?”
“Because they haven’t had one in three months.”
Bo knows Gary well. He coached him at Ohio State. Gary is as tough as they come.
Bo sighs, turns and yells to the other coaches, “7AM tomorrow morning!”
Hanlon drops his bag and stares at Bo. He can’t believe what he just heard.
“What?” Hanlon asks.
“Gary thinks you all need some rest. 7AM sharp, we watch the game film.”
Bo marches off toward his car, leaving a bewildered and concerned staff. Who were also happy as hell to get a night off. The loss had taken a lot out of all of them.
(15 Minutes Later)
Bo swings his car into his driveway off Arlington Road. He flicks off the headlamps, jumps out and heads to the front door. It’s locked. Strange. He digs around, finds his keys and lets himself inside.
“Hi, Coach Schembechler.”
“Sonofab—!” Bo jumps as he turns from the door and sees a gum-chomping teenage girl in his living room. “Who the hell are you?”
“Cynthia Rodgers.” She blows a bubble and pops it, “I babysit the boys.”
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Where are the boys? Where’s Millie?”
“She called about an hour ago and said they were going to stay at the Pilcher’s for a while longer. She the boys were having a lot of fun. She said you’d be really grumpy and that I shouldn’t say anything about the game.”
Bo just stares at her. She pops another bubble and stares back, either unaware or just full of 1969 teenage ‘I don’t care.’
“Shemy’s asleep in his crib.”
“Thank you,” Bo says.
Cynthia doesn’t move. Bubble, pop.
“I’ve been here since five o’clock, that’s three and half hours. Mrs. Schembechler usually rounds it up so that’s four hours at three dollars an hour. Twelve dollars. Please.”
Bo nods, pulls out some cash, “There’s fifteen.”
“I don’t have change.”
“That’s fine. Thank you for watching the boy.”
“Sorry you lost,” Cynthia says over her shoulder as she bounces out the door.
Bo stands in the dark living room. The roar of that Spartan crowd just now fading. It’s completely quiet.
He sees some chili on the stove. Bowls and cups out, ready to serve the coaches as they return from East Lansing, triumphant. He doesn’t blame Millie for not being here. He’s beyond grumpy. He’s beyond angry.
He’s having doubts.
Doubts about whether he can handle the job. Doubts that he’s done the right things for his team over the last ten months. Doubts that he can beat his mentor, Woody Hayes, and his Buckeyes, who just crushed Minnesota by 27 points.
Bo wasn’t used to doubt. He didn’t like it. But he had nowhere else to go right now. This was a huge loss in a lot of ways and he knew it. And it was his fault, he knew that too. It’s always the head coaches’ fault and Bo didn’t shy away from that. He couldn’t. He’d inherited his father’s integrity. A level of integrity that can be painful.
Bo peels off his button-down and kicks off his shoes. He’d grab a bowl of chili, go the basement and watch game film. Just needs to peek in on Shemy first, make sure he’s asleep as the bubble-popping Cynthia said.
The door to Shemy’s room slowly opens and Bo tip-toes inside. A full moon casts a silver glow over the crib where Shemy is curled up in a onesie, pacifier, a fluffy maize and blue teddy bear in the corner.
Bo, slacks and an undershirt, eyes tired, hair ruffled, stands over the crib, watching his son. This innocent three-week old who knows nothing of fumbles or blocked punts or wins and losses. Or of doubt. He’s just sleeping. Did he even dream yet? Bo had no idea. Didn’t matter. He would dream someday. Someday he would have ambition and goals and promises hung over doorways. Right now, he’s just sleeping, Bo thought.
“Waaaa…” Shemy lets a small cry and turns over, restless. “Waaaaaa….” Another.
Before he can wake up completely, Bo gently scoops him up and holds him to his chest. It’s the first time he’s held his son in at least a week.
“Shhhh, I got you, kid, “ Bo says, patting Shemy’s back. “Your dad’s got you. Shhhh…”
(An Hour Later)
Millie quietly ushers the tired boys into the shadowy living room and whispers, “Brush your teeth and get in bed. Love you.”
The boys disappear toward their rooms as she closes the front door and looks to the basement stairs. Huh. No light on down there. Odd. And what’s that sound…?
She clicks on a floor lamp and sees them: Bo reclined in the lounger, holding Shemy on his chest. Both of them gently snoring.
Millie would later say it was the best night’s sleep Bo ever had after a loss.
Bo would agree.
BANGED UP
“What the hell are you guys doing?!” Bo barks.
He’s talking to a group of players on the sidelines in street clothes. Which is crazy because it’s five minutes into Tuesday practice of the Minnesota week. Just three days after the loss to MSU. Any serenity Bo had from his night’s sleep with his son is long gone. He’s as hellbent focused on one thing: beating Minnesota. They HAVE to beat Minnesota.
“We got a lot of guys that’re banged up, “ Lindsay McLean, the head trainer, says.
“Banged up or injured?” Bo barks.
“Tough to tell right now,” McLean says, gesturing to the group on the sideline. “Doughty and Gabler both have sprained ankles, no way they can practice today. But let them rest today and they may be ready for Saturday.”
Bo fumes.
The rule was that if you don’t practice during the week, you don’t play on Saturday. That kept guys from taking practices off just because they were a little tired or bruised. Tired and bruised is part of playing football! Bo wasn’t sure about Doughty and Gabler. How banged up they really were. But they were both wingbacks and without them the only wingback Bo had was sophomore Billy Taylor. Taylor was talented as hell but he also had injured his shoulder in Fall Camp and developed a fumbling problem. Bo could not abide by fumbling.
But there were Doughty and Gabler in street clothes and the trainer telling him they needed the day off.
“Goddamn soft, “ Bo grumbles, kicking at the grass. He stares at his team and then blows his whistle, sharp, “Alright, men!! Every able-bodied player, get to your position coach and let’s get to work!!”
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday were as tough a practices as they’d had all season. Bo and the staff went all in. Back to the basics of blocking and tackling. Smash-mouth football. There would be no more tear-filled speeches, not a goddamned chance.
“Men! I know some of you have been complaining about aches and pains. Some of you may even be truly injured. A few of you haven’t practiced all week. A couple of you are first team. But, men…I don’t care how important you think you are, if you haven’t practiced, you will NOT be on the bus to Minnesota tomorrow!!”
This is Thursday evening, after practice, as they prepare to travel to Minnesota the next day.
Back in the staff room, minutes later, Bo stares at the official travel team list. He has to fill it out right away so Bobby Kohn, the equipment manager, knows whose stuff to load on the travel truck.
Hanlon and Stobart come in, clearly concerned and each clearly hoping the other one will speak up first. Finally, Stobart does.
“We gotta take Doughty and Gabler,” Stobart says.
“Why?” Bo asks.
“We can’t go to an away game with one wingback, Bo,” Hanlon says, “If Taylor gets hurt, we have nobody. And if he fumbles, you can’t bench him.”
“Then he better not fumble, ‘cause I will bench him. They don’t practice during the week, they don’t play on Saturday. It’s that simple.”
“If we lose this game, Bo, that’s it,” Stobart says, “We can kiss any chance at the Big Ten Championship goodbye.”
Bo nods. He knows. And he’d be lying if he said that didn’t scare the shit out of him. He looks down at the travel list again, for a long time…finally…
“We win or lose with the guys who practiced, period. And if Taylor fumbles, I will take him out of the game if I have to suit up myself.”
That’s the answer. The end. They know there is no changing his mind. And they know he’s right.
HALFTIME, MINNESOTA
Don Moorhead winces in pain as Dr. O’Connor examined his hip.
“Can he play?” Bo asks.
“I’m playing,” Moorhead says. “I was asking Doc O’Connor, “ Bo says.
Dr. O’Connor shrugs, “Up to him. It’s a hip pointer, a bad one. Hurts like hell but he’s not going to make it worse by playing.”
“I’m playing, “ Moorhead says, “I’m playing and that’s it. Shoot me up.”
Bo nods and walks away, into a little tunnel that ran along the back of the locker room. Equipment shoved everywhere, a rusted blocking sled tucked against the wall.
They were down 9-7. The guys were sluggish. Tired? Or just pissed off that Bo left so many starters back in Ann Arbor? Didn’t matter. This was it. They lose this game and it’s over.
“Well..what the hell, “ Bo said to himself and walked back into the locker room,
“Alright, men, listen up.” Conversations stopped. “I need your eyes, men, every single one of you.” Eyes reluctantly came up to meet him. Yeah, Bo thought as he took them in, they’re tired and pissed.
“Look around. Take a look at the guys surrounding you. This is our team right now. The guys in this room. That’s it. And what we have here, right now, is enough to beat Minnesota and keep our championship hopes alive, I believe that. But, the thing is…it doesn’t matter what I believe anymore, men. This is your team now. The coaches and I are going out to the field right now and get ready for the second-half. Take a couple minutes and decide what you, this team, decide what you believe.”
No blame, no judgment, no exhorting. He never even raised his voice.
And in those couple of minutes the team spent alone in that locker room, something happened. A decision was made, a collective decision, that they were going to fight for their season. They were going to fight for their championship and they were going to fight for each other, no matter what.
They kicked Minnesota’s ass in the second half. Dierdorf and Caldo and Murdock and Baumgartner and Hapring and Craw blew truck sized holes in their defense and the swift, tough Billy Taylor ran for 155 yards and 3 TD’s. The defense didn’t give up another point as Curtis and Hill and Pryor and Huff and Pierson and Keller swarmed all over the Minnesota offense.
And when Billy Taylor got smacked for a loss five yards behind the line of scrimmage, Bo was right there on the field, standing over him, screaming, “Great play, Taylor – GREAT play!! Do you know why that was a great play, Taylor?!”
Billy, shaking out the cobwebs, says, “I got crushed, Bo.”
Bo, a big grin on his face, grabbed Billy’s facemask. “It was a great play because you held onto the football!!!!”
Even a loss was a gain in that second-half versus Minnesota.
Because everyone knew it now – this had become what Bo had pushed for from day one:
The team finally belonged to the players. Specifically, to the seniors.
Minnesota didn’t have a chance.
And neither did Wisconsin or Illinois whom Michigan beat 35-7 and 57-0, respectively. Taylor was holding onto the football and running like a madman. Moorhead and Mandich were in sync and the defense was dominating.
Next up, the always tough Iowa Hawkeyes.
The weather had turned chilly now that it was mid-November. The game was in Iowa City in front of just 45,000 fans. But none of that mattered to the Wolverines. They would’ve played on a sandlot in front of the referees only if that’s what they needed to do to keep marching through the Big Ten.
They destroyed Iowa, 51-6 behind Billy Taylor’s 225 yards and 2 TD’s. Craw and Moorhead added touchdowns as did Jim Betts with two in the fourth quarter. The defense held Iowa to just 70 total yards at the half. It was total domination, from the very first play.
The Michigan team floods the visiting locker room and singsThe Victors at the top of their lungs, high fives and hugs all around. Then, from somewhere in the back, no one is quite sure who started it, someone begins chanting, “Beat the Bucks…beat the Bucks…”
Within seconds, the entire team is on its feet, jumping up and down, screaming in unison, “Beat the Bucks! Beat the Bucks! BEAT THE BUCKS!!”
Hanlon looks over and sees Bo…chanting right along with them!
“Bo!” Hanlon yells over the noise, “They’re too excited. They’re gonna get too high!”
Bo just grins, “To hell with it! Let ‘em go!”
Bo jumps right back into the fray, hat sideways, smiling from ear to ear, knowing that they were one game away – one win away – from keeping the promise.
In one week, on November 22, the undefeated, No. 1 ranked Buckeyes would be in Ann Arbor for what was known simply as…
…The Game.