Three and Out (19 page)

He believed what he had told the players: They would be okay.

But a loss is still a loss, and for the kid from Grant Town, it always hurt.

 

9   WOKEN UP BY THE ECHOES

When the digital clock in the staff room hit eleven o'clock the next morning, the start time for their postgame meeting, Rodriguez still hadn't walked through the door from his adjoining office. It was unheard-of for a man who was early for everything and expected everyone else to be, too. The assistants knew something was up.

“Who's he talking to?”

“Tate,” Rod Smith said. He didn't have to say any more.

Rodriguez's disappointing debut had kept him up most of the night watching tape and writing down observations. Nothing new there. He had enough perspective to realize his team wouldn't be setting college football on fire his first season, anyway.

His staff had worked hard to secure commitments from four-star defensive linemen Pearlie Graves out of Tulsa and DeQuinta Jones from Louisiana, and quarterback Shavodrick Beaver out of Dallas, to commit to Michigan in April. But the coaches were convinced that Tate Forcier, who had just turned eighteen three weeks earlier, could be the guy to lead them to the promised land.

“If you have the right guy running the spread, it's damn hard to stop,” Rodriguez said. “But if you don't, you're going to struggle.”

Forcier would have enough credits to graduate from high school in December, so he could enroll in January. And that meant he could be working out with Barwis, learning the offense, and be ready to compete for the job the next fall.

When Rodriguez finally entered the coaches' room at 11:12, he was in a much better mood than his coaches expected.

“So?” offensive coordinator Cal Magee asked.

Rodriguez tried to keep his poker face, but he couldn't. “He committed.” When you're 0–1, coaching a team weakened by graduation, NFL jumpers, and transfers, you could probably not be blamed for fantasizing about the future. Everyone in that room believed the most important piece of that puzzle had just fallen into place.

*   *   *

Rodriguez won his first game at Michigan the next week over Miami of Ohio, 16–6. It wasn't pretty, but it got the monkey off Michigan's back and put a painted game ball on Rodriguez's shelf, right below the famous helmets.

Next up: Notre Dame. Heading into this classic contest between the two teams with the most wins in the history of college football, Michigan still held a commanding 869–824 advantage, but the race for the highest all-time winning percentage was closer. Notre Dame had led Michigan for eighty-four years until the Wolverines took a razor-thin lead in 2004. At times the difference was a ten-thousandth of a point, but as of that week Michigan's all-time winning percentage stood at .738, with Notre Dame at .736, close enough to take back the lead by the end of the season.

Adding to the intrigue, Notre Dame head coach Charlie Weis's job seemed to be in jeopardy—adding to the instability going back a decade. When the Fighting Irish fired Bob Davies in 2001, the Irish offered the post to George O'Leary, but rescinded it when they discovered he had fudged his résumé. They hired Tyrone Willingham instead, and fired him after just three seasons in late 2004. Utah's Urban Meyer, named after a pope, turned down what was once his dream job to take over at Florida. Finally, they hired Weis from the New England Patriots, though he had never been a head college coach. He arrived with great fanfare, declaring that Notre Dame would have a “decided schematic advantage” thanks to his work as the Patriots' offensive coordinator.

With Willingham's players, Weis's first team jumped out to a 9–3 record, earning him 2005 Coach of the Year honors—and, in midseason, a ten-year extension worth a reported $30–40 million.

In 2006, the Irish finished 10–3. But once quarterback Brady Quinn graduated, the Irish suffered through a faith-shaking 3–9 season—marking the first time Notre Dame had ever lost nine games. Even more embarrassing, the Irish offense finished third from last in school history in points per game—not exactly the decided schematic advantage he had been promising. Besides a healthy helping of Schadenfreude, what many Michigan fans took from Notre Dame's demise was a cautionary tale. “We're in danger,” they often wrote on the blogs, “of becoming Notre Dame.”

For the Wolverines, few things feel better than beating Notre Dame. For Rodriguez, beating the Irish in South Bend, which Michigan had done only four times since the rivalry resumed in 1978, would go a long way to establishing him as the worthy successor to all the greats who'd come before.

The night before the game, Rodriguez addressed his team in a banquet room at the South Bend Marriott. He started by warning them yet again of the heavy rains expected the next day, then showed them a clip of Weis and his players taking shots at Michigan.

When the tape finished, Rodriguez said, “They don't like us. Weis has popped his mouth off and a few of their players have, too. That's fine. They talk about the Golden Dome and Touchdown Jesus and all those national championship banners. That's fine, too. But let me tell you right now: It wouldn't matter if the pope himself came down and blessed every one of them. From what I know, the pope doesn't coach football!” That got a good laugh. “It's us against them, no one else.”

They reviewed a PowerPoint presentation highlighting Rodriguez's “Keys to Victory,” then he turned his attention back to his players.

“Now, look. If I have to worry about motivating Michigan football players to get ready to play Notre Dame, then I'm coaching at the wrong school, and you're at the wrong place.”

Whenever he addressed his players, it was striking how well he grasped Michigan tradition, relied on it, and broadcast it to his troops better than he ever did to the public.

“I hope you guys aren't listening to anyone outside out of our circle,” he said. “Some of this stuff you might not understand for years—even I don't understand it all right now—but we'll get a lot of answers in tomorrow's game.

“One thing I
have
figured out is that the guys in this program have a lot of pride. So you have to take it
personally
when they say, ‘We can't wait to play Michigan!' That bothers me. And I bet that bothers you, too.”

Rodriguez finished with a classic coaching tactic: the assumptive victory. “I visualize walking across the field after we kick their asses and shaking the fat boy's hand and saying, ‘We can't wait to see you again in 365 days.'

“Get your rest. We'll see you in the morning.”

*   *   *

The Wolverines got off the bus, carrying their bags and wearing their iPod headphones, navy blue nylon Adidas sweats, and stern expressions, and walked through the stadium's tall black iron gates.

If they had kept walking straight, they would have gone right down the tunnel under Notre Dame's huge national championship banners—running from 1924 to 1988, eleven in all, same as Michigan, with both schools claiming 1947—all the way to the grass field.

Instead, they cut just to the left of the ramp and then turned left at the wall, walking past a small brass plaque identifying the room:
VISITORS LOCKER, 1101
.

When they walked through the wooden door they entered one of the oldest locker rooms in the country, and it looks like it. Framed by yellow brick walls, a low ceiling, and textured windows protected by iron grilles, the place feels like a vintage Catholic high school locker room.

In the right corner, there's another big wooden door, through which the assistants found their locker room, a cramped little space with old gray metal lockers lining the walls and a few rusty folding chairs. The only thing that's changed since Michigan's Fritz Crisler coached here in 1942 is the addition of fluorescent lighting and a dry-erase board. That's it.

But when Rodriguez turned right again and squeezed through a tiny passageway to an even smaller room—maybe eight by eight—he'd found the place where the head coach gets dressed, replete with two metal lockers and two additional rusty chairs.

Now, when he turned his head toward the little room's only uncovered wall, a six-foot-wide slab of gray-painted brick, he noticed some hieroglyphics drawn in blue. When he looked a little closer, he realized it was some kind of play, an “iso,” probably drawn by a desperate coach years ago. And, knowing Notre Dame's record in this place, 299–95–5 at the time, it probably failed.

Standing there, squinting at this play, he probably couldn't help but feel he was looking at the final words of a climber caught in a cave on a failed attempt at Mount Everest, who knew he was going to die there.

If you were not careful, this place could get to you.

*   *   *

Three hours later, under ominously dark clouds, the Irish chose to kick, which proved to be a wise move. During that week's practices, when it had been relentlessly sunny, Rodriguez had the student managers hose down the footballs and dunk them in tubs of water to simulate game conditions, but it wasn't enough. Just a few minutes into the game, Michigan fumbled two kickoffs and a pitch-out to fall behind 14–0.

On Notre Dame's next possession, Jimmy Clausen hit Golden Tate for their third touchdown in the first 10 minutes. It marked the most points Michigan had ever given up in a quarter in 129 years of varsity football.

After all seemed lost, the Wolverines settled down, scoring three times to cut Notre Dame's halftime lead to a slightly less ghastly 28–17.

Michigan had reason to be optimistic. The bad news was pretty simple: Unforced turnovers and Notre Dame's 60-yard pass play accounted for three of Notre Dame's four touchdowns, but the Wolverines seemed to be getting the better of them on most plays. Threet had passed for 116 yards, little Sam McGuffie had already compiled 132 yards rushing, and the team had notched 16 first downs—all higher totals than the Wolverines had produced in the first halves of their first two games. The coaches were convinced if they could just hold on to the ball, they might leave South Bend with a surprise. The players felt it, too.

“Plenty of time, men, plenty of time!”

“We got this!”

Michigan's director of football operations, Brad Labadie, popped his head into the cramped coaches' room and said, “Storm will be here soon, Coach. Supposed to last about an hour.”

“Well, all right,” Rodriguez said. “Can't drop the ball any more than we already have, can we?” He paused and asked again:
“Can we?”

Jon Falk spread the word. “Sticky gloves, men! Sticky gloves!”

If the Wolverines could stop Notre Dame on its opening possession, then march down for a touchdown, they would be within a field goal. From there, they believed, their conditioning would take over.

Out in the players' room, offensive line coach Greg Frey assured his charges, “Those guys are dead-ass tired. Whatever you're feeling, they're feeling worse! This is why you did all that work—make 'em pay!”

On Notre Dame's first possession, Michigan's defense got the ball back, and the Wolverines soon found themselves with a first and goal from the 5. They called a play for Kevin Grady, a highly coveted recruit from East Grand Rapids—but the Irish gang-tackled him, the ball popped loose, and the Irish fell on it at the 7.

The third quarter ended with the score stuck at 28–17.

Then the rains came—and kept coming.

With the sky so dark that they turned the floodlights on, Michigan began to drive, pushing the ball to midfield. But when Threet called for the shotgun snap, it slipped right through his hands and bounced off his chest, then off the grass. The Notre Dame linebacker Brian Smith scooped it right up without breaking stride and lugged it all the way to the end zone.

Michigan 17, Notre Dame 35.

On Michigan's next possession, Rodriguez put Nick Sheridan back in; Sheridan drove the offense down to Notre Dame's 3-yard line.

“It was still a long shot,” Rodriguez said afterward in the locker room. “But hell, get into the end zone here, get 2, and you're down by 10. Who knows?” That is what the spread offense was designed for, after all: the endless two-minute drill. But Sheridan dropped back and threw one right at their linebacker, and that was it.

“The worst part?” Rodriguez said days later, after he had cooled down. “We gave them 28 of their 35 points—I mean,
gave
them—and the other seven came off a 60-yard pass we never should have allowed. We fumbled the ball
six
times, lost
four
of them, and gave them an interception deep in the red zone. That's five turnovers, three in their red zone and two in ours. There's your 35 points right there. A giveaway!”

That was enough to drive any coach crazy. But not as crazy as seeing some of your players, in the last minute of a tough loss to an archrival, standing behind your bench, giggling. Exactly what they were laughing at, Rodriguez hardly cared.

The players jogged back to the locker room through the darkness, the rain, and the mud about as miserable as could be, but Rodriguez was so upset he cut through them all and got to the locker room first. He stormed straight to the coaches' room, where his anger boiled over. He hit the metal chairs, banged the chalkboard, and knocked over a trash can. At first he was alone, but after the players got in, his rampage spilled over to their locker room, too.

“DAMN IT!”

He slammed their lockers and kicked over the Gatorade jug—which got everyone standing still, wide-eyed, too scared to move—before he finally spoke.

“We're losing the goddamned game, getting our
asses kicked
, and we've got two guys
laughing
over there on the sidelines,” he shouted. “LAUGHING! We've got seventy guys out there busting their butts, right up to the very end, and a few guys who think it's
funny.
”