The Rivalry (7 page)

“Our way of life against theirs!”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

Robinson smiled. “You go to a military academy, you live a distinctly different kind of life than kids who go to a civilian school. It’s kind of a rallying cry about being disciplined and tough.”

Niumatalolo walked in. “Everybody up,” he said in a clear, loud voice, and all the players moved to the middle of the room, where he was standing.

“Fellas, we were a little intimidated at the beginning,” he said. “Not sure why, but it doesn’t matter. We’re every bit as good as these guys on both sides of the ball. If we go out and stay focused and don’t let anything distract us, we’ll win the game. I told you if we played Navy football,
we’d win. You should be more certain now than ever that that’s true. Let’s go!”

The players pushed themselves into a circle with their hands all in and on the count of three shouted, “Better than the Irish!” and then began charging for the doors. Susan Carol was a little less eager. She wanted to stay warm.

The second half started just like the first—except Navy was the team in control. Alex Teich returned the kickoff to the 43, and from there the Mids’ offense was near perfect. Dobbs was making all the right decisions at quarterback: If he put the ball in Murray’s stomach, a hole was open in front of him. If he faked, the Irish still went for Murray and he got to the edge for good yardage. Without passing the ball once, Navy went fifty-seven yards in nine plays, Dobbs following a Murray block into the end zone from the 2-yard line. The extra point made it 14–14.

“Now it’s a ball game!” Robinson said.

Notre Dame picked up one first down but stalled and had to punt.

Navy immediately launched another drive and picked up a first down at the Notre Dame 18 as the third quarter ended.

“I like all the running plays,” Susan Carol said. “Makes the game go faster.”

“I like them too,” Robinson said, “because they’re working.”

Navy ran two fullback plunges up the middle to start the fourth quarter, picking up eight yards. On third and two Dobbs faked to Murray so well that Susan Carol thought the fullback had the ball. But Dobbs suddenly popped up, took two steps back, and lofted a perfect pass to a wide-open G. G. Greene in the end zone.

The stadium was completely silent, except for the five hundred midshipmen who were seated behind the Navy bench.

“Amazing!” Susan Carol yelled as the bench celebrated.

“Not so amazing,” Tamara said, pointing at the yellow flag that was lying on the ground only a few yards from where Dobbs had thrown the pass.

The referee turned his mike on to announce the penalty. “Holding, number 70 on the offense. Repeat third down.”

He hadn’t even turned his mike off before Susan Carol heard Niumatalolo, who was standing way outside the coaching-players area. “Are you kidding me?! On a two-step drop you saw a hold? Were you saving that one for the right time?”

The referee carefully turned his mike off and took a few steps toward Niumatalolo. “Easy, Coach. Don’t make it any worse for your players.”

That was the wrong thing to say. “Worse for my players?!” Niumatalolo shouted. “You’re STEALING THE GAME from my players.”

The referee, who had carefully tucked his flag back
into his pocket, took it out again, retreated, and said, “Unsportsmanlike conduct, Navy bench—fifteen yards.”

Buddy Green, the defensive coordinator, was now pushing Niumatalolo away from the ref. Two flags had moved Navy from the end zone back to the Notre Dame 35. Navy now had third and twenty-seven.

“They should just try to pick up yardage and get a field goal,” Robinson said as Dobbs brought his team back to the line.

Dobbs seemed to be thinking the same way. He faked to Murray, ran to the right, and, as the defense closed, tried to pitch the ball to Greene. Unfortunately, Notre Dame was waiting for the play. Greene was hit just as the ball arrived, it popped loose, and a Notre Dame defensive back picked it up in mid-stride. He was gone—untouched—to the end zone before anyone from Navy realized what had happened.

Just like that, Notre Dame led by a touchdown instead of being down by a touchdown.

“Welcome to South Bend,” Tamara said as the stadium erupted in cheers and the fight song—which Susan Carol was now officially getting tired of—blared through the stadium.

“It’s all in the timing,” Robinson said.

Susan Carol knew he was right. Notre Dame was a great team that didn’t need help from the officials. But the right call at the right time could make a huge difference.

Not daunted by the strangely timed penalty and the sudden change in momentum, Navy took the kickoff and
began another drive. Notre Dame’s defense was tired. It had been on the field for most of the third quarter. The Mids ate up almost seven minutes of clock, running fifteen plays—only one a pass—before Dobbs, again running behind Garrett Smith, punched his way into the end zone with 5:54 left. The extra point tied the game up at 21–21.

The stadium had gone quiet again. It was dark now because the TV time-outs were so long that, even with Navy running the ball, the game had taken more than three hours already. Navy kicked off and Notre Dame picked up two quick first downs, reaching the Navy 37-yard line. The clock ticked down to 3:30.

On first down, Valdiserri faked a handoff and dropped back to pass. But no one from Navy bought the fake. Linebackers Ram Vela and Alan Arnott came in on a blitz from the right side and sacked Valdiserri for an eight-yard loss. Now it was second and eighteen at the Navy 45. Valdiserri dropped back again and saw Arnott blitzing again. He scrambled to his right and tried to throw a pass down the sideline to Bates.

But Navy cornerback Kevin Edwards, who had been lying back behind Bates, jumped in front of him and intercepted the ball. He raced down the sideline with Bates in pursuit. He was finally tackled at the Notre Dame 21-yard line with the clock showing 2:26 to play. Susan Carol realized she was jumping up and down as Edwards sprinted down the sideline. She was surprised when she realized no one on the Navy sideline seemed all that excited.

Then she saw why. The referee was talking to two of
the other officials. He backed away and opened up his microphone. “We have defensive holding on number 15,” he said. “That’s a five-yard penalty and an automatic first down.”

“Oh, wow!” Tamara said. “That’s blatant—even here.”

Susan Carol heard David Robinson, who was known for never arguing during his years in the NBA, screaming at one of the officials. “Is it written into your contract that you have to make sure Notre Dame wins?”

The official looked over, saw who it was yelling at him, and did a double take. “You need to be quiet, Mr. Robinson,” he said, and walked away.

Niumatalolo had thrown his headset to the ground in complete disgust. He was gesturing to the referee to come over and talk to him, but the ref wouldn’t even look in his direction. The officials had marked off the penalty and put the ball in play at the Navy 40. The Navy defense, forced to come back on the field, was clearly in shock. Three times Valdiserri handed off and the Irish picked up fourteen yards, moving the ball to the Navy 26. There was under a minute left in the game.

“Looks like they’re going to run the clock down and kick a field goal,” Tamara said. “That’s a little risky.”

It became less risky when Valdiserri found Bates for a first down at the 12. Navy used a time-out, no doubt hoping to get the ball back with time on the clock. Notre Dame ran two running plays, and Navy used its last two time-outs. There were thirty-nine seconds left. The Irish ran one more play right to the middle of the field and then
let the clock run down to three seconds before calling time out. There was nothing Navy could do.

In came kicker Ted Fusco to try a twenty-five-yarder to win the game.

“Chip shot,” Susan Carol said. “I don’t think he’s missed inside the 40 all year.”

Fusco kept his perfect record intact. The ball sailed through the uprights as the clock hit 0:00. Final score: Notre Dame 24–Navy 21. The stadium was going crazy, the fans apparently not caring even a little bit that the game ball should have been presented to the officials. Niumatalolo tried to get to the referee but was stopped by the ever-vigilant security guards. Susan Carol was close enough to hear him say, “I’d like you to look my kids in the eye and explain how you can do this to them!”

Susan Carol felt exactly the same way. The whole game seemed massively unfair. “How
can
they do that?” she said to Tamara.

“Great question,” Tamara said. “I doubt anyone will answer it, but it’s a great question.”

Matt Klunder took Susan Carol into the locker room again. Tamara Mearns had gone to see if she could get in to talk to the officials.

Niumatalolo stood silently in front of his players for a good long while as they settled in around him—some standing, some seated in front of lockers, others taking a knee directly in front of him.

Finally, he took a deep breath, still clearly fighting his emotions. “Look, fellas, we tell you all the time not to worry about the officiating.” He paused. “We tell you, and I really believe this, that when all is said and done, games are decided by the players. You get a bad call, then you get a good call. It almost always evens out.

“I can’t look you in the eye after this particular game and tell you that’s the case. I’d like to, because we’re not about making excuses, are we?”

“NO, SIR!” they all shouted back.

“So when the media asks about the holding call that cost us the touchdown, and the hold that cost us the interception, you guys are going to say: ‘We don’t make excuses at Navy.’ That’s your answer.

“And the most important thing for all of you to understand is how proud I am of you. You outplayed Notre Dame today, and everyone who watched that game knows it. Right now that isn’t much consolation, but try to remember it. There isn’t another football team in the country I’d rather be coaching right now.

“One more thing. When they ask you on the hall what happened, you have my permission to say: ‘We got screwed.’ ”

They all got a momentary laugh out of that, and Niumatalolo even forced a smile.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get it in.”

They all stood and came together in the middle of the room just as they did at halftime.

Susan Carol whispered to Robinson, “What’s ‘the hall’?”

“Bancroft Hall,” he said. “All four thousand midshipmen live there. It’s the largest dormitory on any college campus in the country.”

As the players formed their circle, their cry on three was: “Beat Army!”

Susan Carol expected she would hear those words a lot the next few weeks.

S
tevie’s experience at West Point for the Army–Georgia Tech game was considerably different. To begin with, there was no snow. And for once he was up earlier than Susan Carol. Kelleher had him walking out the front door of the Thayer by seven o’clock for a tour of the campus. They walked all the way across the Post—going along the Hudson River first, then winding their way up to the Plain and over to Trophy Point, where Kelleher showed Stevie cannons and guns captured in various wars through the years. There were also several more statues.

They stood for a moment at the edge of Trophy Point. They were high up enough to have a great view down the Hudson River. The campus sprawled on one side, and rolling hills went on for miles on the other. The sun had only been up for about an hour and the air was crisp, but the sky was clear. It would be a perfect fall day for football.

“Pretty spectacular, huh?” Kelleher said.

“Unbelievable,” Stevie answered, meaning it.

They were back in the hotel by eight for breakfast and out again by nine. Kickoff wasn’t until noon, but Kelleher wanted to arrive early to introduce Stevie to various people in the press box.

Before that, though, they stopped at a tailgate party that was held right outside the Holleder Center, where Army’s hockey and basketball teams played. Even though he had just eaten, Stevie found the smell of grilling hamburgers irresistible.

“Go ahead,” Kelleher said, seeing the look on Stevie’s face. “You’re still a growing boy.”

“I wish I was growing faster,” Stevie said.

He was waiting for his hamburger when someone behind him said, “Well, if it isn’t my biggest fan.”

Stevie recognized the voice instantly but was still surprised to see Duke basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski standing with another legendary basketball coach, Bob Knight, and Pete Dowling, the Secret Service agent.

“Coach K., you remember me?” Stevie said.

Krzyzewski laughed. “Remember you? If it weren’t for you and Susan Carol Anderson, I’d have another national championship.”

Stevie felt himself turning red. “Well, you know, Coach, we were just trying—”

“To do the right thing,” Krzyzewski broke in. “And you did. Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“Stevie, I’d like you to meet Bob Knight,” Krzyzewski
said, realizing that Stevie was a bit tongue-tied. “And this is Pete Dowling.…”

“We met last night,” Dowling said.

Knight, who was wearing one of his signature sweaters with an ESPN—his current employer—logo on it, shook hands with Stevie and said, “You’re an aspiring sportswriter, I hear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I take it, then, that you’re not very bright. Are you going to just stand there all day or are you going to let someone else eat around here?”

Now Stevie was
really
tongue-tied.

“Coach, I thought we had a deal that you wouldn’t start beating up on reporters until they’re at least twenty-one,” Krzyzewski said, making a joke of it. “Stevie, could you ask for three more hamburgers?”

“Um, sure,” Stevie said, and signaled for three more to the guy at the grill. “What brings you up here?”

“Girls’ field hockey,” Knight answered.

Stevie knew that Knight was famous for being brusque, often going out of his way to be rude to reporters. He had risen to fame while winning three national titles and getting into all sorts of trouble at Indiana. He had finished his career at Texas Tech, and Stevie had read that he had become a kinder, gentler curmudgeon since going to work as a commentator on TV. It didn’t seem quite that way at the moment.