Episode 5
BILLY TAYLOR, Freshmen, Halfback, Barberton, Ohio.
Billy Taylor couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing up and down. He was trying to look calm and Lynn Koch knew it. She wanted to hug him. Just two weeks into her new job as Bo Schembechler’s executive assistant, Lynn was already very familiar with strong, capable players sitting in the chair outside the door to Bo’s office, knee bouncing, trying to look calm.
A bead of sweat dripped off Billy’s brow. In January. In Michigan.
“Can I get you a cup of water?” Lynn asks.
“No, thank you,” BT replies. “I’m fine. I’m not thirsty. But thank you. I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine. He was a very talented freshman tailback who was now hanging onto the sides of that chair like it was a life preserver and he was heading into the Bermuda Triangle.
Theoretically, he couldn’t be in any real trouble yet. These ‘player interviews’ were scheduled so Bo could get to know each and every player on the team. 150 of them over a few weeks. Bo worked on a strict schedule, Billy knew that, which is why he was starting to sweat.
Bo had left the door to his office cracked open, just enough for Billy to be able to see him sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, casually reading some paperwork. Five minutes…ten…now close to twenty minutes after Billy’s appointed time. Billy was worried, in fact, that he was in it up to his neck and he was certain he knew why.
Billy had taken an official visit to Miami of Ohio when Bo was the head man there. For recruits, official visits are like Risky Business meets Fantasy Island with a little North Dallas Forty thrown in for good measure. The first experience with those late college nights.
So, when Bo woke up all the recruits, Billy included, at 6 AM on Saturday morning and put them through a workout? Billy did it, yeah, he ran through the cones and sprinted forty-yard dashes and pushed through the up-downs. And then went home directly after. There was no way in hell he was playing for that maniac at Miami. And he told other recruits they’d be crazy if they did. And, worse, when Bo got hired at Michigan, Billy told teammates the story, “This man is insane.”
Billy was now convinced that Bo somehow knew all of this. Which seemed impossible – how could he know?? But since Bo had arrived in Ann Arbor three weeks ago, he hadn’t said a word to Billy. Not a single word. He hadn’t even glared in his direction. This is the scariest thing for any athlete. You’d much rather have your coach chewing your ass out than not saying a word. Then acting as if you didn’t exist. Because then, maybe, you don’t. And when your college education depends on a football scholarship your knee will bounce and you will sweat if you think your coach doesn’t think you exist.
“Lynn!” Bo’s voice booms through the cracked door.
“Yeah?”
“If I sign the paperwork to cancel a scholarship does that make it binding? Or do we have to mail it to the NCAA?”
“We have to mail it.”
“Gotcha!”
Billy watches as Bo signs the bottom of a piece of paper, slammed his pen down and –
“Taylor! Get in here!”
BT peels his fingers off the chair, stands up tall, nods to Lynn and walks into the office.
“Close the door, “ Bo says.
Billy does so and, reluctantly, sits in the chair in front of Bo’s desk. Bo leans back in his chair.
“Do you want to transfer, Taylor?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how come, after I was hired, you were telling other players I was crazy and you didn’t want to play for me and that you were thinking of transferring?”
Billy is speechless. It’s true. How in the hell does Bo know? And hearing Bo repeat it back to him makes Billy feel terrible, like a traitor. But…how in the hell did Bo know that??
“I’m sorry, Coach. I’m very sorry and – “
Bo slides some papers across the desk, “If you want to transfer, there’s your paperwork, all signed. Just mail it in. Lynn can give you the address.”
“I don’t want to transfer. I’m sorry, Coach.”
“You’re sure you want to play for Michigan?”
“I’m positive, Coach.”
Bo studies Billy, again for a long time.
“You’re from Barberton.”
“Yessir, and I know you’re from Barberton too and I’m excited to play for you, Coach, I really am.”
“When you visited Miami and I talked to your mother, Mariah, and she told me you joined your high school team against her wishes.”
“Yessir. She didn’t want me to get hurt.”
“That’s what mothers are for, Taylor. She asked me to look out for her son and I promised her I would and I meant it. I meant every goddamned word of it. Except I’m not worried about you getting hurt. That’s not my job. I will be on your ass about everything – schoolwork, being on time, not saying negative crap in the locker room and being exactly six yards deep – exactly! – every time.”
“Yessir.”
“And you’ll have to prove yourself more than anyone else on this team and do you know why??”
“Because of my mother.”
“Because you’re from Barberton and I don’t want any sonofabitch accusing me of playing favorites!!”
STOMP N’ SLAP
Wrestling mats are laid out to cover a boxing ring-sized space. The whole team (down 10 from the 150 when Bo arrived – the weeding out process was working) stands around the edges of the mats, watching Bo who stands in the middle watching them, unblinking.
Gary Moeller leans over to Jim Young, the D-Coordinator who usually ran the conditioning sessions, and whispers, “What’s he doing?” Young shrugs.
“Men. Welcome to the Stomp N’ Slap!,” Bo barks.
Moeller leans over to Young again, “The Stomp N’ Slap? What the hell is the Stomp N’ Slap?” Young shrugs again.
“You see these wrestling mats. Like a ring. A combat ring! Two men enter the ring. Opponents in battle. And in this ring, you can do two things: you can stomp on your opponent’s feet and you can slap him on the back, shoulders, head, legs, wherever. The object is to use your stomp’s and slaps to move your opponent off the mats! The man who does this wins the match!”
Moeller leans over one last time, “That’s one way to find out who’s tough and who’s not.”
Young nods.
DICK CALDARAZZO: Junior, Offensive Guard. Chicago, Illinois
Caldo and Bo stand nose to nose in front of Bo’s desk. Well, almost nose to nose. Bo’s nose is about an inch higher than Caldo’s which, unfortunately for Caldo, proves Bo’s point.
Bo plops into his desk chair, “That’s it? You can’t be 5’10” in heels. No wonder you didn’t play last year.”
“I am 5’11” and I started at right guard last year.”
“(Expletive).”
“Eight games. And I’m going to start this year too.”
“Not a chance in hell. My guards at Miami were 6’2”, 225lbs – they’d knock your little ass from here to Oxford and back again.”
“Tell ‘em to come on up and let’s find out.”
Bo loves that response but maintains his grimace.
“And word is you’re slow as hell too. We pull our guards – “
“I can pull – “
“ – I don’t see your short, stubby legs taking you twenty yards before they give out – “
“I can pull!”
“Besides, when I was coaching for Woody, he always said, “Never start an Italian!” So that rules you out, Caldarazzo!”
Caldo manages to stay in the chair, “You don’t believe that (expletive), do you?”
Bo leans back in his chair.
“No.” And he didn’t. “Not at all. But, I’m going to be honest with you, Caldarazzo: At 5’10”, two hundred some odd pounds…I do not believe you’ll play much football for us.”
Caldo nods that in. He didn’t work his ass off for three years to watch his teammates from the sidelines his Senior year.
“Wait until Spring Ball, Coach. The cream always rises to the top.”
He doesn’t wait to be dismissed and barely stops at slamming the office door. Bo sits in the contrails of Caldo’s exit, impressed at the moxie. And certain the kid won’t play a down.
Lynn pops her head in, “There someone here to see you.”
Bo, “I don’t have time for anyone unless it’s a player – are we on schedule?”
“We’re five minutes behind – “
“Goddamit.”
“But this will only take a minute.”
“Is there a player waiting?”
“Henry Hill, but he says he can wait – “
“We’re behind and a player is waiting, tell whoever it is – “
A sharp KNOCK, KNOCK and a short, distinguished, well-dressed MAN strides in, right over to Bo, and extends his hand.
“Coach Schembechler, I’m Dr. William D. Revelli. I am the director of the Michigan Marching Band. I apologize for barging in but what I have to say won’t take longer than the conversation you were having about whether to see me or not. I coach my band the same way I understand you coach your football team. Repetition, repetition, repetition. Attention to detail and unmatched passion are paramount. We do it the way it’s supposed to be done, every single time. We have the finest fight song in the history of college athletics and it will be played as finely as any fight song ever has been played. I wanted to tell you, in person, if I or the band can help you and the team in any way, please do not hesitate to ask.”
And he’s done. A huge grin spreads across Bo’s face –
“I think we’re going to get along very well, Dr. Revelli, thank you for coming over.”
“Let’s thank each other at the Rose Bowl. Again, I apologize for the interruption.”
Revelli spins and strides out.
“Well, hot damn. That man, right there – that is Michigan! Hill! Get in here.”
HENRY HILL: Sophomore, Noseguard. Detroit, Michigan.
Henry Hill was different. A rising Junior, he was married with a baby girl. He was also Sargent-at-Arms for one the primary groups that headed up the Black Action Movement on campus. He had responsibilities, plenty of them. He was also a walk-on. And now, as he sat across from Bo, his resting heart rate was – responsibilities or not – resting.
“You’re married, huh?” Bo asks.
“That’s right,” Henry responds.
“Baby girl, I understand.”
“Yessir.”
“You had quite a rise last season. You walked on in the Spring?”
“That’s correct.”
“And ended up starting?”
“That’s correct.”
Bo nods. “Five foot ten, two hundred and ten pounds, huh?”
“And I run a 4.6.”
“Don’t (expletive) me, Hill.”
“I run a 4.6.”
“(Expletive).”
“Anytime.”
(15 minutes later)
Bo stands in a shoveled section of the snowy Yost parking lot, stop watch in his palm. He yells to Henry Hill, forty yards away, now in workout clothes and tennis shoes, kicking out his legs, some last second stretching.
“When you see my arm go down -”
“I know how it works.” Hill yells back.
“You’re a goddamn smart ass, Hill, you know that!?”
“Yes.”
Bo shakes his head, puts his arm in the air…Henry toes the line…
Bo’s arm drops and Henry takes off! (cue music) Low, strong, across the wet, frozen parking lot – arms churning, legs driving and heart rate? Barely rising.
Whooosh! – Hank goes past Bo, the finish line.
Bo looks at the stopwatch: 4.6
He looks up, Henry is still jogging, away from him, toward the locker room.
Bo: “Hey! Hill! Hold up!”
Henry stops and turns back. Bo yells across the parking lot to him –
“How would you like a scholarship to play football?”
“I already have one.”
“You’re a walk-on.”
“I have an academic scholarship.”
“That does not surprise me, Hill. Drop it. We’ll give you an athletic scholarship.”
“No, thank you.”
“You get meals with it.”
“I’ll keep the academic one, thank you. That way you all can’t tell me what to do.” Hank finally smiles. “Anything else, Bo?”
Bo shakes his head. This goddamn team. It’s exactly what people – what Canham – told him it was going to be: a buncha talented, strong-minded, smart, pains-in-the-ass.
“Just go to class, Hill, ‘cause I’m not offering you a football scholarship again. And keep running 4.6.”
TURF WARS
Don Canham needed to save money. A lot of money. He could use some of the thousands that Dean Rosenstein was spending on an independent study in order to “evaluate whether the football program was financially and culturally viable at The University of Michigan in the current climate.”.
Canham had to make it viable. Financially. He knew winning games would take care of the culture part, it always did.
But the money. The athletic department was $750K in debt and running an annual deficit of $250k. He had to trim costs and boost revenue now. If he hit seven figures in debt, Rosenstein would have a serious talking point for dropping football.
Which is why Canham was asking Bo to touch some fake grass.
“Tartan Turf!”
“Tartan sounds an awful lot like Spartan,” Bo growls.
“Tennessee just put it in. I talked to the AD down there, he said their boys love it.”
“What’d Dickey say? I wanna know what the coach said.”
“Washington has it and the Astrodome, they were the first.”
Bo touches it.
“It’s feels like plastic spikes. Who wants to play on plastic spikes?”
“They have special shoes for it. Turf shoes. And the guys’ll wear elbow pads.”
Bo throws the sample square on the floor and stands on it. Jumps on it. Pivots on it. He picks it back up and puts it on the table.
“Why in the hell do you want us to play football on that?”
“Speed. Our players will play faster than ever.”
“So will the other team.”
“But they won’t be used to it. It’ll be a real home field advantage.”
Bo nods. Canham was good but he also knew what was behind every decision he made, especially now.
“It’ll save money.”
“Yes, it will. A lot of money.”
“Even if you have to buy special shoes?”
“We’d have to buy cleats anyway.”
“You’ll still have to buy cleats, for away games. Unless all our away games are at the Astrodome.”
Canham smiles. “It’ll save a lot of money over time. I got the money to renovate the locker room so – “
“ – the players’ first – “
“ – yes, the players’ first, and it’ll be done by Fall Camp. So will the turf.”
“So it’s a done deal?”
“No, I haven’t – “
“Why the hell ask my opinion – “
“I haven’t ordered it yet – “
“But you’re going to – “
“Probably – “
“Then don’t act like I get a goddamn vote!”
“I never said you do!”
Whoa. That got hot in a quick second.
Canham regroups, “I wanted you to see it before it went in, Bo. That’s only fair. But you don’t have a vote, at least not one that overrides mine.”
“I know that. That was clear when you hired me.” Bo says, regrouping himself.
“Look, try it. If you don’t like it this season, we’ll talk again. Sound reasonable?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Good,” Canham says.
“Now the reason I came over here: I want a football dorm.”
“Bo, there is no way in hell that this university will go for a football dorm.”
“Tennessee has one.”
Canham can’t help but smile, “You told me when I hired you…”
JIM MANDICH: Senior, Tight End. Solon, OH
Mandich sits across from Bo, who clocks Jim’s bloodshot eyes, telling the story of his night before.
“Solon, Ohio,” Bo says.
“Yes, sir.”
“How come you’re not playing for Woody?”
“Michigan is a better education. And I hate Woody.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those soft (expletive) that can’t handle being yelled at?”
“My dad owns a bar. Been yelled at my whole life. I just don’t like assholes.”
“You think Woody’s an (expletive)?”
“I think he’s arrogant which makes him an asshole, yes.”
Bo nods, watching Mandich. The eyes. Something behind the hangover. A need. And a massive chip on his shoulder. Bo knows a chip on the shoulder is not a bad thing. It can be the best fuel an athlete can have. But they need to know how and when to burn it and right now he wasn’t sure Mandich did.
“Your father owns a bar,” Bo asks.
“Yessir.”
“Bet he loves to watch you play.”
“Gamedays are big at the bar. He needs to be there.”
Bo really likes this kid. Everyone likes Mandich, even if they can’t keep up with him which few can. He smart, charismatic and tough. A natural leader. And he loves football. He loves Michigan football.
“If we are going to win a championship, we need the seniors to lead this team.”
“Yessir.”
“Are you prepared to do that?”
“Yessir.”
“Right now, looking at you, you do not look prepared to do that.”
“I’m ready. I know I’m ready. But me saying that right now doesn’t really mean a thing, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Bo replies.
“So I guess we’ll find out.”
“Yes, we will.”
“We’re done then. Here. Now?”
“We’re done. Go get some sleep.”
“See you at the workout.”
Mandich leaves.
And, once again, as would happen thousands of times in the twenty years that Lynn and Bo would work together, Lynn pops her head in, “That’s it, the last one. Congratulations.”
“He a good kid?” Bo asks.
“Mandich? One of the best.”
“Order cheeseburgers for the staff – two for me. It’s film time.”
“You have a phone call.”
“I’ll call ‘em back.”
“It’s Millie.”
“I’ll call her in a couple hours –”
“Pick up the phone and say hi to your wife.”
As Lynn ducks out to order dinner, Bo sighs and picks up the receiver, “Millie, hi, the staff’s waiting, we have the Ohio State film on, what do you –”
“I’m pregnant.”
And time stops. Bo tries to comprehend what his wife just said and it’s the rarest of moments when words don’t come quickly.
“Bo? Are you there?”
And he laughs. Laugh his head off, huge belly-shaking guffaws. Millie joins him, laughing. It’s been a long month, Bo leaving on Christmas Day. They both need this laugh. It closes the distance between them.
“By god, Millie, we did it! We’re gonna have a baby!!”