Three and Out (40 page)

“We'll stick together.”

*   *   *

The biggest guys on the team can eat 13,000 to 14,000 calories during two-a-days. Yet it's never enough. These guys can eat anywhere, anytime. Even after their huge team dinner and a postmovie snack—which would be a normal dinner for you—the big guys liked to sneak pizzas up to their rooms whenever they were hungry, which was pretty much every Friday night.

Brandon Graham was enjoying a large pepperoni with the self-described “fat boys” when he started talking about two big events in his life: when Rodriguez's regime showed up in 2008, and when his mom was mugged that past summer.

“I can say I had the opportunity to play under Coach Carr and Rich Rod,” he said, and he had respect and affection for both. “When I first met [Rodriguez], I just felt he was going to fight for Michigan. I knew people were going to pressure him, and I didn't want to make it that much worse.

“Before Barwis arrived,” Graham continued, “I was just big. Gittleson called me fat every day. He never let me run the golf course. Said I'd kill myself. I never ran it. Coach Rod came in the next year and said, ‘No more of that.' Then I went from 300 pounds to 260. That was the hardest thing ever—but I did it.

“I used to bench 300. That was it. Now it's stupid.” Graham was on his way to increasing his bench press to about 500, more than doubling his squat from 275 to 625, and tripling his clean. “Mike [Barwis] takes us to a place we hadn't been before. I like my body a lot more now.”

Given his improvement, some thought Graham might apply for the 2009 NFL draft. But he was already leaning toward coming back to get a better draft position—and a degree. During Graham's first two years, he was a shaky student at best. But since all the academic reports started going directly to Rodriguez's desk instead of Draper's, Graham's attendance was near perfect, and he was scheduled to graduate in four years that May.

But the decision to return came with a price. That summer, when his mom had just gotten in her car in their Detroit neighborhood, two local thugs busted the glass on the passenger side and reached in to take her purse—a clear indication they had not met Mrs. Graham before.

“I know my momma, I know her!” Graham said. “We're the same way. If someone's trying to take something that's not theirs, we're gonna fight.”

In the melee that followed, they got her purse and broke her arm.

Carr, Rodriguez, and Barwis are all great motivators, but there is simply nothing any of them could ever say or do to equal the incentive that scary scene had given Brandon Graham to get his mom out of that neighborhood. “That's why,” Graham said, “I play like you're taking my lunch money.”

Barwis knew the personal stories of most of the players, including Graham's, and what motivated them—and he used that information to great effect. During the Iowa game, Barwis talked with Graham for six minutes on the sideline—thanks to a good drive and TV time-outs—reminding him what happened to his mom last summer and what he was playing for.

“This is your chance,” Barwis recalled, telling him, “you need to fight for it. Don't give up, and don't give in. This is your chance to make it all right.”

During the Rodriguez era, however, few good deeds went unpunished. After the game, Judy Van Horn called Barwis to discuss ABC's broadcast. She had already told the entire staff that none of them could discuss football with any of the players anytime outside the allowed twenty hours. That meant, she said, if a player in the hallway or on the team plane asked, “How'd I do today?” the coaches were not permitted to answer.

Apparently, someone watching at home had called Van Horn, concerned that Barwis was “coaching” Graham. Barwis told her he wasn't coaching football—“We have coaches for that, and I never played football”—he was motivating players. “That's what I'm
paid
to do.”

“Yes,” Barwis recalled her saying, “but it's the perception.”

If there was one lesson to be learned from Rodriguez's first twenty-two months in Ann Arbor, it's that perception trumps everything.

In Van Bergen and Martin's room, the concerns were more immediate: Save the season. “If we start dropping the ball and making the same mistakes,” Van Bergen said, “we could lose, and it'll be a lot harder to rally and finish strong. There could be some doubts growing on the team.

“I think this is a determining game for how the rest of the season is going to go.”

Tate Forcier was doing some thinking of his own. “I have to go back to playing the way I was in the beginning of the year,” he said, going over his worksheets. “I haven't been playing well. I haven't been making my reads, and even when I do make the right read a lot of my throws have been late. Especially at this level, you can't be late, you've got to make them right away.”

Rodriguez's decision to crank up the intensity seemed to be having the desired effect. But, as he often said, you can't hide from the field.

*   *   *

Friday's rain clouds gave way to sunny skies in Champaign on Saturday, October 30, 2009.

Paul Schmidt spent the warm-ups watching Brandon Minor run plays, seeing if his ankle looked better, while sharing some of the wisdom he had gained over his long career.

“I was telling Molk, ‘You played every snap last year because you're tough, and you're lucky. You start twenty-four games, you're
really
tough, and you're
really
lucky. You start fifty-three games like Jon Jansen—you are a
beast
, and you are
damn
lucky. You're telling me Tom Brady isn't tough?'” he asked, referring to the former Michigan quarterback who had suffered a season-ending injury during an exhibition game a few months earlier. “It was just his time.”

“I think if we had Molk, we beat State and we beat Iowa. He makes that much of a difference. We'd be 7–1 and in the hunt for a lot of good things. We still wouldn't be a great team, but we'd be that much better.

“He's tough, but he wasn't lucky. Not this year. It was just his time.”

And, partly as a result, it wasn't Michigan's.

When they gathered by the door on one knee, Brandon Graham said, “This is gonna be our sixth win—not their second!”

Rodriguez took a more serious tack. “Listen to me clearly. Don't dare take your ass out on that field unless you are fully prepared to lay it all on the line for Michigan. All out, every snap.”

The Illini were lead by Juice Williams, the same quarterback who had set records at the Big House the year before. He looked just as good opening the game with a ten-play drive straight to Michigan's end zone.

“Hey, Blue!” one fan wearing an Illinois No. 7 jersey said, hanging over the railing by the bench. “Don't be fooled by the record! We comin' after ya!”

Forcier wasn't rattled. He looked calm, confident, and decisive, connecting on all three of his passes for 31 yards. On first-and-goal from the Illinois 2-yard line, Michigan blocked and read the play so well that Carlos Brown—filling in for Minor—simply walked into the right corner.

The Wolverines added two field goals through a wild wind to take a 13–7 lead into halftime.

“This is when you start having fun,” Jon Conover said, “when you're playing well and kicking ass!”

When the teams trotted back to their locker rooms, the home crowd booed the 1–6 Illini, and the game already seemed over.

The stat sheet didn't lie. The Wolverines had bested the Illini in every offensive category, including eleven first downs to five. They had to punt only once.

But Rodriguez was in no mood to let up. He was an experienced general who sensed the moment, a crossroads for their entire mission. “So let's get after 'em
now.
They don't want this like
you
want this! So let's keep hittin' 'em and grind 'em down!”

The Wolverines had shown they could take a punch, time and again. But could they deliver one with their opponent on the ropes?

On third-and-7, from Michigan's own 23, Forcier dropped back with plenty of time to look around. He found Roy Roundtree cutting across midfield and fired it to him right in stride. Roundtree caught it and cut down the middle of the field, going hell-bent for the end zone on as straight a line as any geometry teacher could draw. The defensive players on the bench interrupted their conference to turn and cheer him on, thrusting their helmets into the air.

This was it, the moment when the Wolverines would break the Illinis' backs and put them away. It would mark their fourth scoring drive, putting them up 20–7. The Illini, their season ruined, would take out the dangerous Juice Williams and put in their backup, who was already warming up on the sidelines, and surround him with underclass understudies, hoping to get them ready for the next season.

For the Wolverines, this play would mark the Continental Divide of their season—and Rodriguez's reign. They would end their Big Ten losing streak, getting their sixth win and the monkey off their backs. They'd sing “The Victors” in the locker room once more, with gusto, and enjoy a happy bus ride to the airport in the fading fall sun, take a little hopper home, and still have plenty of time to get out for Halloween parties. The next day's film sessions would be lighthearted, and on Monday, they'd start to think about improving their 6–3 record to 7–3 by beating 3–6 Purdue. Then—who knows?—maybe their momentum could push them past Wisconsin and perhaps even the Buckeyes.

But there would be no overwhelming pressure. The heat would be off. They would start a new streak of bowl games and get the vital fourteen extra practices that come with it. That, in turn, would give a great boost to recruiting, and the train would be rolling.

The particulars didn't matter right now. Just get into the end zone—win match point—and all good things will come your way.

All those visions were riding on the slender shoulders of Roy Roundtree, the freshman receiver running straight to the end zone—but Illinois's Terry Hawthorne had other ideas. Instead of conceding the footrace, the touchdown, and the game—like all his teammates behind him—Hawthorne decided to give full chase to Roundtree, closing the gap bit by bit. When Roundtree crossed the 5-yard line, Hawthorne knew that was his last chance. So he made his move, leaping at the skinny receiver and—incredibly—bringing him down right around the goal line, where Roundtree fumbled the ball into the end zone, and an Illinois player recovered it.

All eyes turned to the referee—who thrust his arms into the air. Touchdown! The Wolverines' cork popped off, and they celebrated, knowing almost everything they wanted was going to be theirs. Their season was saved—and so were their coaches. They had outrun the avalanche.

But just as Jason Olesnavage went out to kick the extra point, the all-too-familiar scenario repeated itself. The referee faced the stands and announced the play was under review.

After several minutes—which in itself might suggest whatever they saw was not conclusive—the same ref went to midfield to announce it was not a fumble, but not a touchdown, either. Michigan would get the ball at the 1-yard line. It all seemed like it wouldn't matter much anyway. Four tries from the 1? Please. Carlos Brown had already walked it in from the 2. No one ever fails in that situation. Right? Even without Molk and Minor, no one seemed worried about this.

On first down, Carlos Brown ran up the middle—and was stuffed by two Illini.

On second down, Brown went over the right end—and got stuffed again. On the bench, the defense became concerned. “We better fucking get this in!” Mouton said.

On third down, Brown ran right again—and was stopped by Illinois's Ian Thomas.

Finally, on fourth down, Rodriguez put Minor back in, by far their toughest runner, even if he was “limited” due to his high ankle sprain.

No matter how much interference and obstruction and undermining Rodriguez had faced in his twenty-two months in Ann Arbor, if they punched this in, none of it would matter. And if you are the game's greatest offensive mastermind of the last two decades, getting it in from first-and-goal with four bites at the apple would seem like child's play.

They had to score.

The play started with Minor back and right of Forcier, which gave him a running start before Forcier handed him the ball. Minor kept slashing to the left—but someone missed his man, who smothered Minor.

But not, it seemed, before Minor crossed the goal line—and fumbled the ball. Michigan's Steve Schilling recovered it in the end zone, and the ref once again thrust his arms into the air: Touchdown!

The Wolverines celebrated again, though not with the same enthusiasm, because they knew, as Olesnavage headed out to kick the point-after-touchdown again, the ref would once again announce that the play was under review.

The debate was not, it turned out, about whether Schilling had scored the touchdown but if Minor's elbow had hit the turf before the ball crossed the plane. The modern game had been reduced to such questions, which would be answered not by players or coaches or even referees but technicians staring at a monitor in a booth hundreds of feet above the field.

After several minutes of deliberation, the head official announced that Minor's elbow had, in fact, touched the ground first.

No touchdown.

The scoreboard remained stuck at 13–7.

Illinois's ball.

They needed five plays to go from the 1-foot line out to the 30. From there, Mikel Leshoure ran over the left guard but was quickly swarmed by a half dozen Michigan helmets. From the end zone camera, you couldn't see Leshoure, just white jerseys. But then Leshoure suddenly and mysteriously popped free from the pack, went wide, and dashed 70 yards down the left sideline, in front of the disbelieving Michigan players.