Those Who Stay (Episode Two)
BUMP ELLIOTT, LINE 1:
WHAM! A stocky, fit, sweaty Bo Schembechler slams into the wall of the handball court while ripping a winner past assistant coach, Jerry Hanlon.
“Cheese n’ crackers!” Hanlon shouts. 37 years old and a scrappy 5’7”, that’s Hanlon’s version of a curse.
“That’s what a sonuvabitch gets for suggesting that we run the goddamn football directly into a goddamn weak-side fire game!” Schembechler, 39, uses many versions of many curses.
Hanlon: “Well, we sure as heck didn’t have much success running away from it last season. We need to be prepared – “
“Poor preparation would be changing our entire blocking scheme because of one goddamned guy!”
Hanlon: “Now, Bo, I’m not saying we change our entire blocking scheme, I’m saying we – “
Bo: “Another word and you’re fired, Hanlon!”
He’s not serious. Or is he?
Schembechler doesn’t blink. It’s impossible to tell. Hanlon, who’s coached for Bo the last three seasons at Miami of Ohio – even he can’t tell. The same way Bo couldn’t tell when Woody used to fire him at Ohio State on a weekly basis.
But before Hanlon can defend his position – click-clack, click-clack, click-clack – the high heels of no-nonsense Athletic Department secretary, Marci, 36, sound on the wood floor.
“Marci, Coach Hanlon is fired.”
She ignores him. “You have a phone call.”
Bo: “You came all the way down here to tell me that?”
“It’s Bump Elliott.”
Bo stops, exchanges a glance with Hanlon. They both know the Michigan head job has been open for almost a month. Bo goes back to packing up his things. “Helluva man. Tell him I’ll call him back.”
“I did. He said he’d wait.”
Hanlon gives him more than a glance. Bo nods to Marci. “I’ll be right there, thank you.”
Marci is gone. Hanlon stares at Bo, expectant, but Bo won’t bite. He snatches up his bag and marches off. “You’re wrong about running into a weak-side fire game and you damn well know it!”
“I’ll prove it to you in Spring Ball!” Hanlon calls after him. Although now more concerned about this phone call with Bump Elliott than any blocking scheme.
After six seasons as the head man at Miami of Ohio, Bo Schembechler was making a name for himself. Not with the public at-large – no one outside of Ohio knew who he was – but certainly inside the tight-knit world of college football coaches. He’d coached for Woody, for Ara, for Doyt Perry. He’d won a couple of MAC championships at Miami. And word was he made recruits get up and workout at 6am on official visit weekends to see how tough they were. A far cry from the forty-eight hours of college fun every other school provided.
By all accounts, the exchange with Hanlon – an honest, fiery debate – was something Bo delighted in when he was seven years old, seventeen years old– all the way up to seventy-seven years old when, on the morning November 17th, 2006, he collapsed and died of heart disease. The day before No. 2 Michigan was to play No. 1 Ohio State in Columbus for the Big Ten Title. A day after he’d given what would be his final Thursday evening address to Lloyd Carr’s Michigan football team.
Gene Moody sits at his desk. A cigarette burns in an ashtray as he signs papers. He barely looks up as Bo, wiping his still-sweating face with a towel, marches into his office and plants himself in front of Moody’s desk.
“Gene, I want to let you know that Bump Elliott is on the phone and I believe he intends to speak with me about the head coaching vacancy at Michigan. I know after the debacle of interviewing for the Wisconsin job, I told you I would not be interested in another school for a couple years at least, but, I believe I am interested and I want you to know before I speak to Bump.”
Gene nods. “I just spoke to him.”
“Bump? You spoke to Bump?”
Gene drags his cigarette. “Bo, I would love to have you as my head coach for the next twenty years. But I also know that’s like asking Seabiscuit to give rides at the State Fair.“ He goes back to signing papers. “Just understand that despite their membership in the Big Ten and formerly lofty position in collegiate football, Michigan pays their coaches poorly, we have much better facilities and, oh yes – 50-14, Ohio State.”
A rare moment of awkward silence from Bo quickly passes. “Thank you, Gene.”
He wheels and exits, back down the hallway, past Marci, into his own office, snatches the phone off the cradle. “Bump! Schembechler here. How the hell are ya?”
DON AND BO GO BOWLING
CRASH!! Bowling pins scatter.
Bo sits across from Don Canham. He gestures toward the nearly empty bowling alley. “I’ve heard your athletic department is in the red but tell me this isn’t your office?”
“My office is an igloo,” Canham chuckles. “The students demanded the heat be turned off over Winter Break.”
“The students demanded?”
“Due to the fuel shortage.”
Bo nods, his face scrunches up and he leans in. “Look, Don, with all due respect, if there’s a table full of regents and professors and, god forbid, a goddamned student representative waiting to ask me a bunch of asinine questions about how I intend to run my football team then I may as well head back to the airport right now.”
Canham eyes Bo, poker-faced. This young coach has his attention. “It’s just myself and Bump and Marcus Plant, the faculty liaison to athletics. President Fleming has to approve but he lets me run the program.”
Of course, Canham doesn’t mention Dean Rosenstein. He hasn’t heard much in the three weeks since Rosenstein ambushed him at the faculty meeting, suggesting they consider shuttering Michigan Football. Canham’s hoping he was just having a rough day, which wasn’t hard to do in the turmoil of 1968. Either way, it wasn’t Canham’s concern. He had the focus of the former athlete he was. If he could wrap up the search and hire someone, it’d be too late for Rosenstein to gum up the works.
“Bump tells me you recently got married?
Bo grins. “The newlywed Millie Schembechler. Wonderful gal. I adopted her three boys and they moved from St. Louis to Ohio in August.”
“Instant family, huh?” Canham replies.
“Sure saves a lotta time.”
“Bump also says you’re big on saving time.”
“I’m big on efficiency, yes,” Bo replies. “I believe in a schedule and doing things according to that schedule. That way everyone knows exactly what to expect and I find that’s important.”
“And how about Woody? What was your experience with him?” Canham asks.
“Woody is one of the finest men you will ever meet and the best football coach I’ve ever been around.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of his coaching prowess. Did you see the game this – “
Bo cuts him off: “Yes, I did.“
“And what did you think?”
Bo hesitates for the briefest of moments and then looks Canham square in the eye. “As I said, I respect Bump a great deal. He recruited some very talented athletes and has certainly led your football program with class. However, it is my opinion that Michigan Football is soft.”
Canham leans back and sips his Manhattan. He’s listening.
Bo continues: “You played a strong first half but clearly lacked mental and physical discipline. The endurance and toughness required to play four quarters against a Woody Hayes team, particularly the one from last season – of which twenty of his twenty-two starters are returning. If you want to have a chance to beat Ohio State there is absolutely no room for ‘soft.'”
Canham nods. Bo has got fire, no question. The man oozes energy. The big question is does he know how to use it.
Canham tests him, “Ann Arbor is not Columbus or Oxford, Ohio. This is a liberal, progressive campus. Our students, including our student-athletes, have strong opinions and aren’t afraid to voice them.”
“Show me a man afraid of someone else’s opinion and I’ll show you a man unsure of himself.”
Canham: “I’ve heard you can be tough on an Athletic Director.”
“If you mean I know what I need to win and am not afraid to ask for it, then, yes. I also have strong opinions.”
Canham lets out a small smile. “Good. We don’t have time to be afraid. Just know that if there is ever a real problem between us…it will be all your fault.”
Bo’s turn to chuckle. “Fine by me.”
Canham studies him…a long beat…then –
Canham: “If I offer you the job will you take it?”
Bo leans back in his chair and clasps his hands together, all business, his eyes never leaving Canham’s.
“I need practice film developed by 7PM each night and game film by 7AM Sunday morning.”
“That’s a rush job. It doubles the cost,” Canham says.
“It’s what we need to beat Ohio State.”
“Done,” says Canham.
“What about the facilities?” Bo asks.
“There is a plan for facilities but it’s going to take some time. The locker room to start and then coaches offices.”
Bo nods. Thenp: “Last thing: You have to pay my coaches a livable wage – and then some.”
“It’s Michigan,” Canham counters, “How many assistants can say they coach at Michigan?”
“They don’t need to be at the top of the conference but they shouldn’t be at the bottom either. You started a company, didn’t you? What’s it called?”
Canham holds in his surprise. And his approval. Bo’s done his homework. Canham, “Yes, I did, School-Tech. It’s in a blind trust while I’m the AD.”
Bo: “And I’m guessing you started it because being the track coach at Michigan paid you squat and you have a wife and kids?
(then)
“As hard as I’m going to work my coaches, they will barely have time to kiss their wife and kids let alone start a company. They will earn every penny and so will their families.”
A bit of a staredown…finally, Canham speaks. “I will take care of your assistants. You have my word.”
“And you have mine. Michigan Football will be Michigan Football again. “
“What about you?” Canham asks. “Your salary?”
Bo stops. It didn’t even cross his mind.
“I’m making nineteen thousand at Miami. But they promised me twenty next season.”
“I’ll pay you twenty-one,” Canham offers.
“Sounds good to me,” Bo says.
Canham nods, surprised to find themselves here. There were two dozen names on his list before Bo. George Allen and Ara Parseghian were right – there is something about this guy. Canham had even called the guy who’d been an Ohio State basketball coach when Bo was there. Bobby Knight, now the head man at Army. Knight said the Schembechler fella was very honest, very smart and very impressive. After just fifteen minutes, Canham agreed.
“I’d like you to be the head football coach at Michigan.”
“Good,” Bo answers instantly.
Canham extends his hand, “I’ll put butts in seats, you win games, and we both just may keep our jobs.”
The two men shake. And that’s all they needed for the next twenty years. A handshake.
MILLIE KNOWS HAM
Thru the kitchen window, a football spins through the dusky, snow-filled air. Three boys play QB/WR/DB in the backyard. Tackle to the ground.
Inside, a steaming hot ham is plopped down on the counter by Millie Schembechler, 40, sharply dressed in a stylish red and green Christmas dress.
“You said you like your mashed potatoes lumpy, is that right?” Millie asks.
Bo picks a piece of hot ham with his fingers and pops it in his mouth. “Lumpy is great.”
He reaches for more ham, she playfully slaps his hand, grabs the gravy off the stove.
“Would you please pour that in this.” She hands him a gravy boat. Bo licks up a drip.
“Hot damn, I love dark gravy – do you always make dark gravy?”
“It’s my mother’s recipe, yes I do.”
Millie was from Mississippi. A charming mix of dry wit and Southern hospitality. And resilient as hell. Widowed with those three sons – Chip, 12, Geoff, 10, and Matt, 8 – she knew how to work. Logging shifts as a nurse (“nurturing” was often a word used to describe Millie) in St. Louis up until several months ago when she and Bo got engaged after a brief courtship. They’d only gotten married in August, a week before the ‘68 season began. A honeymoon had to wait.
“So what do you think?” Bo asks.
“I don’t think it’s as good as hers,” she says, tasting the gravy.
“Come on – about the job.”
Millie keeps stirring. “Well, it sounds interesting, it does, but what happened to Ohio State? All anyone’s told me since I moved to this state is how you’re going to take over when Woody retires.”
“Woody will never retire. I don’t care what he says, I know the man and he’ll die throwing it on first down before he retires.” He reaches for another piece of ham –
“You touch any more of that ham and you won’t be able to hold a fork let alone a football.”
That had a little Mississippi bite to it. Bo looks to her. She doesn’t look up, just says, “You took the job.”
“I took the job.”
She finally stops stirring and looks up. Bo can’t help it, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
And before he can say another word, she jumps into his arms, laughing.
Bo: “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Millie’s smile fades, “Tomorrow? Tomorrow is Christmas.”
“I know. I’ll stay for presents and – “
“Our first Christmas.”
“I’ll make breakfast,” Bo says, “Let’s make that a tradition – “
“What can’t wait until December 26th?”
“I make breakfast on Christmas morning, every year – here, Ann Arbor, every year. Unless we’re at a bowl game. Then the hotel will make ‘em for us.”
Again, the grin. She stares at him, the reality of it all hitting her. They’ve only been in Oxford for five months. Just long enough for the boys to finally make friends. Just long enough for her to begin to understand the life of a head coach’s wife. This house had barely begun to feel like a home. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it would be harder if they’d been here longer. Maybe this was what life was going to be like – hopping from coaching rock to coaching rock. Who knew. Who knows anything about where they’ll end up. But there was one thing Millie knew for sure: the boys had a father again. Even if he was rarely home for a meal, there was a man in the house again. And she loved him.
“You promised the boys you’d take them sledding.”
“Sonofabitch, I did, didn’t I.”
He grabs a piece of ham, shoves it in his mouth…
A half hour later, Bo – lit by the headlights of their car – charges up a snowy hill, pulling a toboggan behind him. Chip, Geoff and Matt in full pursuit –
“Let’s go, let’s go – get those knees up, men!!”
Millie watches from the hood of the car, a reluctant smile between bites of a ham sandwich with dark gravy. The man has an incredible energy.
Little did either of them know…he was going to need every last ounce of it.