Episode 4
Bo Meets His Boys
Meet the Press
“This isn’t Miami of Ohio. How will you handle the pressure of a being a Big Ten head coach who has to beat Big Ten teams?”
Bo sits on a small couch, Bump Elliott and Don Canham on either side. Canham has just announced him as the head coach of Michigan Football to a group of reporters, maybe ten. A few photographers. A dozen other people, Michigan people, sit in the small room at Yost Fieldhouse.
Bo presses out a small smile, his eyes twinkle, already a glint of the “what kind of dumb question is that” look that would accompany his press conferences for years after.
“Well, I don’t smoke, so I have a weight problem. I eat a lot, especially when I’m nervous. Gamedays. But I’ve already found a place down the street with great burgers and milkshakes so I think I’ll be okay.”
A few chuckles. Another reporter follows up, “Most of your assistants were coaching at Ohio high schools just a few years ago. Do you think they’re ready for Big Ten football?”
“I wouldn’t have brought ‘em if I didn’t think they were more than ready.”
“Well, that’s sounds just fine,” the reporter continued, “But how can they be? Cincinnati Moeller is hardly Ohio State.”
“I’ve recruited a bunch kids outta Moeller – they’d give Ohio State a run for their money.”
More chuckles.
Then Bo seems to stare at every single reporter at the same time, “I will promise you this: Nobody will work harder than my staff and nobody will work harder than me. We will prepare this team as if our lives depend on it.”
No real follow-up to that.
A hand goes up, “Joe Falls, Detroit Free Press.” Bump shifts in his seat. Falls, a native New Yorker, had been covering Detroit sports for the past 12 years. He’s not afraid to ask a tough question and usually has a different angle than the rest.
“How do you respond to those who say your crew-cut, conservative approach won’t work in Ann Arbor?”
“Who’s saying that? Joe Falls?”
“I have my doubts, yes.”
“I say let’s talk after the season and you can let me know what worked and what didn’t, deal?”
“I’ll talk anytime you want – deal.”
In the back of the room, Rosenstein appears next to Canham. Canham, ever the poker player, “Marc. Pleasure to see you here.”
Rosenstein watches Bo while he talks, “I have filed a motion with the Board to begin an independent evaluation into the financial and moral/ethical viability of the football program.”
Canham nods, his jaw tightens ever so slightly.
“I take no particular joy in this, Don, you know I enjoy a good football game.” Rosenstein says, “But as Coach Schembechler just stated, sacrifices must be made for the good of the team.”
“Well, see there,” Canham replies, “He’s already having a positive effect on the culture of this university.”
Rosenstein takes a deep breath.
“I thought perhaps Coach Schembechler and his staff should know. In case they want to hold off moving their families up here.”
Canham leans close, his eyes still on Bo at the podium, “You’re so concerned, feel free to tell him yourself.”
Rosenstein looks to the podium, Bo gripping either side of it as Falls asks another question.
“You drove up on Christmas Day. What did your new wife and family have to say to that?”
“They ate the breakfast I made and Millie said, ‘Please go, let me cook so we may all live to see another day.’”
More laughter.
Reporter: “The Buckeyes play in the Rose Bowl in a few days, most likely for another national championship. You played and coached for Woody – you’re an Ohio State Buckeye – do you think that – “
“I am a Michigan Wolverine,” Bo says, “I have always had great respect and admiration for this program – always – and it is my firm intention to carry on the tradition of Michigan Football. Woody is a helluva coach and they have some fine players. But it’s not like Bump left the cupboards bare here. We will compete and that includes against Ohio State.” And he’s done. “A pleasure to know that so many smart, thoughtful, kind men cover our team.”
Bo starts to leave…
“One last question – how do you pronounce your last name?” It’s Falls again.
“It’s, ah…lemme see, ‘SHEM-beck-ler’ – no, uh, I think it’s ‘Shem-BECK-ler,’ hmmmm – oh heck what’s the difference, call me anything you want.”
More laughter. Bo, 1. Press, 0.
He leaves the podium, strides down the middle of the room toward the door, stripping off his suit coat as fast as he can, Bo nods to Canham and —
“Dean! How the hell are ya!” he says to Rosenstein, who is so surprised he can’t choke out an answer.
Small World
Out in the hallway, Bo’s greeted by the Sports Information Director, Dick Powell, who falls in step.
“Excellent. That was an excellent start, Coach, nice work,” Powell says, “How about I schedule another one next week and -”
Bo doesn’t break stride. “Powell, you should know that reporters give me hives. I will tolerate them but I will never, ever spend any more time with them than I absolutely have to – and I don’t have to see them again until – “
As Bo rounds a corner, Powell catching up, Dan Dierdorf, the star sophomore left tackle, crutches toward him, a big smile on his face. Dierdorf was a highly touted recruit out of Canton Glenwood H.S. in Canton, Ohio – home of the NFL Hall of Fame – a very small, honored club that Dierdorf would be invited to join 27 years later in 1996 after a dominant career with the St. Louis Cardinals.
But now, in early January of 1969, Dierdorf was desperate to mend a broken fence with his new coach.
Bo and Jerry Hanlon had recruited Dierdorf when they were at Miami of Ohio. Or at least they had tried to recruit him. Dierdorf wasn’t exactly receptive. You couldn’t blame him. With Ohio State and Michigan and a few dozen other big conference schools making offers, Miami and Bo didn’t really have a chance. Too small of a school in too small of a conference.
It didn’t help that Dierdorf had taken an unofficial visit to Miami early in high school and sat across from Bo’s desk, watching the powder keg of kinesis in action and thought, “This man is crazy.” The burning intensity, the single-minded fanatical focus on only football – it was more than Dierdorf, a bright young man, wanted in the late 1960’s. Frankly, it was more than most players wanted. “Crazy” and “nuts” and “insane” were adjectives used by many players at Miami and later Michigan in describing their coach.
So, when Dierdorf’s high school athletic director came looking for him his Senior year, telling him that Jerry Hanlon from Miami of Ohio was waiting in the athletic offices to talk to him, well, Dierdorf did what any 17-year-old tired of saying “No, thank you” might do…he snuck out a back door and went home. And left Hanlon there for two hours, unaware, waiting to talk to the incredibly talented kid from Canton Glenwood.
And, now, a solid two years later, Dierdorf was finding out what a small world it could be. The “insane” Bo Schembechler was now his head coach and the very-patient-then-thoroughly-ticked-off Jerry Hanlon was now his position coach. Broken fences.
And that’s why Dierdorf, a big smile, hair combed, was crutching toward Bo. He stops, leans on his crutches and extends a massive mitt. “Coach Schembechler, I just want to say how excited I am that you’re here and that I get a chance to play for – “
Bo steps past his outstretched hand, reaches out and grabs a fistful of Dierdorf’s gut – hard – and looks him dead in the eyes. “You’re fat, you’re mine and I never forget.”
He releases his hold and heads off down the hall. The beginning of a complicated, fantastic relationship.
Bo’s staff – Young, Moeller, Stobart, Hanlon, Hunter, Smith, etc. – stand at the end of the hall, watching their new team shuffle into a small, cramped meeting room. Long hair and Afros, moustaches and mutton-chops. And the general laissez-faire vibe that 18 to 21-year old’s can have, particularly in 1969.
“Cheese n’ crackers,” Hanlon gripes.
“They look like a buncha hippies,” Moeller adds.
“Softer than vanilla ice cream,” says Stobart.
“No wonder Woody kicked their (expletive),” says Moeller.
George Mans, the Linebackers Coach, and Frank Maloney, Defensive Line – the only two from Bump’s staff that Bo retained – share a look.
“Sorry fellas, we didn’t mean that in a – (expletive). Ohio State’s a helluva team, “Stobart says.
That’s when Dierdorf, a grim nod and smile, crutches into the room.
“Hey Dan! Can’t wait to finally sit down with you,” Hanlon cracks.
And then Bo is there. He looks to a wall clock. 2:59pm. Bo starts walking and the staff follows. At 3:00pm on the dot – SLAM – they disappear inside the meeting room.
YOOOOOUUUURRR MICHIGAN WOLVERINES!!
Bo rolls up his sleeves as the staff passes out huge blue binders to every player. The young men look at it, heft it, roll their eyes, tuck it under their chairs, drop it on the floor and otherwise don’t give it two shits.
Bo clocks it all. Taking in every single player in the room. Learning. Who the potential leaders were, who really cared and who was just collecting a scholarship check. Learning, learning, learning. Bo knew X and O’s. He was an excellent teacher. His attention to detail was second to perhaps only his mentor, Woody Hayes, and that was a toss-up. But maybe even more valuable? He knew people. He knew players. He could size someone up in a short amount of time, determine what was motivating them and then use it to, well, motivate them. And it all seemed to be intuitive, uncalculated. He was a savant.
And he’s studied the game program from last year, he knows the faces. There’s Garvie Craw, to-be Senior fullback from New Jersey. Don Moorhead, to-be Junior quarterback. Dick Caldarazzo, to-be Senior offensive lineman from Chicago. Tom Curtis, to-be Senior safety, Henry Hill, rising Junior nose tackle from Detroit and Billy Taylor, a talented freshman running back from Bo’s hometown of Barberton. And other members of the very talented freshmen class that Bump recruited: Reggie McKenzie, Thom Darden, Glenn Doughty, Jim Brandstatter, Fritz Seyferth, Mike Taylor, Paul Seymour and more.
And there, in the front row, dark eyes and hair, looking like he hadn’t slept a whole lot yet laser focused…to-be Senior tight end, Jim Mandich. The son of Emil, a Serbian immigrant, Mandich had a fire for the game of football that few could match. A fire that came from beyond wanting to win a game or a ring. It came from wanting to prove himself. From a deep need to claim a place to stand in this world – outside of his dad’s bar in Solon, Ohio. An Ohio guy who had found Woody arrogant and wanted nothing more than to kick Ohio State’s ass. “Because they wouldn’t let me go for three” echoed in Mandich’s ears since that day in Columbus just over a month ago.
The coaches are done and it quiets down. Bo walks to the front, a blue binder in hand, and addresses his new squad, biting off each syllable like a drill sergeant:
“To me, no coach in America asks a man to make a sacrifice. He requests that he do the opposite – live clean, come clean, think clean. That he stop doing all the things that destroy him physically, mentally and morally and begin doing all the things that make him keener, finer and more competent.”
“Anyone know who said that?” Bo asks.
Silence.
“Fielding H. Yost. One of the finest coaches in the history of college football and he coached here, at Michigan. Wachowski, halfback from Hamtramck.”
Wachowski, second row, nods.
“Spit out the gum, Wachowski.”
“Are you kidding me?” Wachowski asks.
“No gum in meetings.”
Wachowski stares at Bo, spits the gum into his hand, a snarl comes with it.
Bo points at a guy in the front row, “What the hell are you doing in the front row? The front row is for seniors – are you a senior?”
“No, but –”
“Then move somewhere else. Seniors! Up front. Now!”
As the bewildered players follow orders, Bo takes off, “In order for this team to win the Big Ten Championship – and beat Ohio State! – and we all know, right now, the championship goes through Columbus, Ohio. You seniors must play the best football of your goddamned lives. This is not my team. It is your team. Seniors will sit up front followed by juniors then sophomores and freshmen, you can sit on the goddamned floor. Sit up tall, put your feet flat on the floor and get your eyes on me. You will not slump over, wear hats, chew gum or otherwise act like you could take it or leave it. If you can leave it then I strongly suggest you do so right now.”
This is not Bump Elliott. Not even close. No one moves a muscle.
“Open your binders, Section One, Academics. You will attend every single class and you will be on time for every single class. You will sit tall, feet on the floor, eyes on your professor – “
The door opens and in saunters a half dozen players, mostly younger guys. They casually find seats. Couple of them nod at Bo. Who just stares back at them. A vein in his neck begins to bulge. The players? They stare back.
Moeller, sotto to Jim Young, “(Expletive).”
Bo, staring daggers at the players, “You’re late.”
“It’s 3:02, man,” some poor soul replies.
The vein in Bo’s neck takes that personally.
“Get changed – everybody, workout clothes – NOW!!”
WINTER CONDITIONING STARTS EARLY
The team – all 150 of them – now in sweats in the snowy parking lot of Yost Arena, jogs in place, all eyes on Bo, who opens his big, blue binder.
“This manual will tell you everything you need to know about Michigan Football. It is one hundred and seventeen pages long. You will run from station to station on the whistle of Coach Young – and do whatever the coach at the station tells you to do! – while I read you every single word. Number one: You will be on time!”
Bo’s honesty and candor are often cited. He did not disappoint here. For the next two plus hours…he read every single word as the players ran from station to station, drill to drill, coach to coach –
“All freshmen and sophomores will live on campus, in the dormitory, no exceptions –”
“Do not dissipate your body! Drugs and alcohol will prevent you from being the best football player you can be –”
“Parking tickets! They add up quickly.”
“Dress code! Every player will wear a blue blazer on game day! “
“- what happens if a normal student doesn’t pay their rent? They are evicted. The same will happen to you. No one cares that you play football.”
“Equipment! You will be responsible for your –”
“Girlfriends and wives!”
“Keep the locker room clean!”
“Remember who you are. Do not embarrass yourself, your family, this university or the team!”
Bo was a man of his word. He read every single word – one hundred and seventeen pages – out loud. Two hours and fifteen minutes. And the players did not stop moving. Which was a blessing and curse. It kept the sweat from freezing on their bodies while also pushing them to the brink of –
“BLAAAAGHH!” Guys puke out open doors. Fresh snow colored with lunch. And those who aren’t throwing up collapse against the brick wall of the fieldhouse, every muscle in their bodies begging for mercy.
Bo walks down the line, eyeing each guy. Especially the ones who were late.
“One Big Ten championship in the last eighteen years. Why? Because you’re soft! This is not recreational football, men – this is Michigan! And a Michigan team – my Michigan team – can be called a lot of things – dumb, poorly coached, slow – but no one – NO ONE – will EVER be able to call you SOFT!! “
A player stumbles toward the door to the locker room.
“Where the hell are you going?” Bo yells.
The young man doesn’t stop, yells back, “This isn’t the Army and I don’t take orders. I quit.”
WHAM! The door shuts, he’s gone.
Bo turns back to the team. “Was he on scholarship?”
A few guys shake their heads, “No”.
“Too bad. I was hoping that freed one up for a guy who wants to be here.”
He heads for the door, “Coaches: from now on make sure each station has a bucket.”
He strides off. A hundred and forty-nine glares follow him.
And, there, by the door, stand Don Canham, President Fleming and Dean Rosenstein.
Bo chins them as he barrels by. “Gentlemen.”
And he’s gone.