Three and Out (57 page)

“And therrre she gooooes,” Stonum said.

“Wah-wawwww,” Smith sounded.

Whether it was the NCAA interviews that had started that week in 2009, or the pressure of a big rivalry game, or just youth and inexperience, or simply a bad performance at a bad time is impossible to say. But looking back at that 2009 game, it was obvious to the players just how badly they had played. They agreed with their coach: That was their worst performance.

“Man, that's my only fumble since I've been here,” Stonum said.

“Greg [Mathews] was
wide
open,” Hemingway said, “and Tate doesn't throw it.”

“Man, we played so bad in this game,” Stonum said, “and we still almost won it.”

“Whenever we go three-and-out, it's because we stopped ourselves,” Robinson said. “We get this going, no one can stop us.”

“I can't wait for game time,” Hemingway said. “I wish it was tomorrow.”

“Any requests?” Stonum asked.

“Third-and-longs,” Robinson said.

While Stonum fished around for the file on Bromley's computer, they talked about how long their days had already been.

“Classmates say, ‘You look tired,'” Hemingway said. “Yes, I just finished lifting for ninety minutes, before
you
woke up.”

“Or they say, ‘You walk slow,'” Robinson said. “Yes, I do. It's because I'm dead.” And it was true: They run like hell and work like crazy during conditioning and practice, then they walk out of the building slower than their grandparents, barely lifting their feet. They don't waste an ounce of energy getting to their cars.

“Girl calls me up and asks me what I'm doing,” Stonum said. “I say, ‘I'm watching film.'

“‘Oh, what film are you watching?'

“‘No, not
a
film. Just
film
.”

At 10:34, they finally walked out of Schembechler Hall for the last time that day. Normally they would be coming out of the Academic Center, but somehow two middle-aged men carrying a stack of glossy photos figured out where they were and approached Robinson the moment he walked outside to sign their photos of him. It was all for charity, of course, or their ten-year-old kids—they claimed both at various times—so Robinson autographed one each, then said, “That's it, man,” and got into Gardner's pickup.

He would be in bed by eleven, then do it all again the next day—plus a workout and study table.

I had only followed him that day—and I was exhausted.

 

44   LITTLE BROTHER, BIG GAME

“I've never seen it like this since Bo coached,” Jerry Erickson said by his barbershop's picture window, flipping through a stack of tickets the day before the Michigan State game. “I'm getting $100 to $150 a ticket.”

The next day, a picture-perfect Saturday, more than two hours before kickoff, it was obvious this day was different. The team buses drove past crowds that were thicker, louder, and more juiced than at any other time during Rodriguez's reign, exceeding the energy levels before UConn and Western the year before. The cheering and honking never stopped as the caravan made its way through tailgate after tailgate, fans drawn to the buses. The Victors' Walk was pulsing with fans yelling and cheering from new perches they had to seek out, thanks to the overflow crowd.

When Mark Dantonio got off his team bus, however, he was not feeling quite as cheerful. He had suffered a mild heart attack shortly after State's overtime victory against Notre Dame and had not been allowed to coach from the sidelines since, but he still went to every game.

A crowd control volunteer greeted all the opposing coaches when they stepped down from the bus, and, he told me, they always appreciated it. Well, almost always.

“Coach Dantonio,” he said, extending his hand, “I just want to wish you a speedy recovery and welcome you to Michigan Stadium.”

Dantonio brushed his hand away. “Get the hell outta here.”

Back in Michigan's coaches' room, the TVs were off, even though a few Big Ten games were already well under way. The coaches radiated more quiet intensity than they had for any game yet. Before they headed out for warm-ups, Greg Robinson stood up and began shaking the other coaches' hands, starting a chain reaction of back claps and man hugs.

“Let's go.”

“All in this together.”

They knew what this game meant.

While Mike Barwis shouted at the troops—“Today, we start the
demise
of MSU, and the
rise
of MICHIGAN!”—Rodriguez leaned forward in his chair. He was as still as he could be but couldn't stop his feet from tapping a furious beat, like a boxer moments before a title bout.

Someone poked his head in. “Coach, it's time.”

He nodded. He took one last look at his notecards, stood up, exhaled, and walked slowly through the door.

*   *   *

The atmosphere was everything they had hoped for—and more.

It seemed like almost every game in the Rodriguez era qualified as do-or-die, must-win, and a career saver or a career killer—so often that it sounded like crying wolf before long. Certainly the players were tired of hearing it.

But it was so often true. If beating Notre Dame could reestablish Michigan as a national power, losing to UMass or Indiana would put them right back in the also-ran bin, just like that. But for all the hyped-up games of Rodriguez's reign in Ann Arbor, this one topped them all.

On the third play from scrimmage, Robinson ran toward the middle, then cut right for an 8-yard gain.

To the fans, this looked like a decent but unremarkable play. The coaches saw it differently. On the right side, the offensive line had opened up a hole big enough to drive a bus through, or about five Denard Robinsons. Of course, they needed only one Denard Robinson to take advantage of it.

If he had, he would have discovered his men had also picked up the corner blitz perfectly, which took a couple more Spartans out of the play. Downfield, Darryl Stonum had blocked out the free safety. The pathway had been cleared for Robinson. Everyone had done his job perfectly, leaving no one to stop him—setting up the kind of before-you-know-it touchdown runs he'd been executing from his first game against Western Michigan to his last game against Indiana the previous week.

But as Robinson headed for the hole, he got caught by the foot of a lineman who had stepped too far back, forcing Denard to pull back, then run wide around the right end. Eight yards.

When a receiver drops a bomb, everyone sees it. Everyone knows what was lost. But the spread offense is set up more for the run than the pass—not 3 yards and a cloud of dust, but long, game-breaking runs that work better than bombs. So when the table is set to rattle off one of those runs, they have to take advantage of it. If they don't, the crowd doesn't see it—but the coaches do.

In this case, Michigan lost a likely touchdown run, the kind that breaks the game open and makes the crowd explode. It was the first of Michigan's many missed chances that day, but only the coaches and players knew it.

On third-and-4 from State's 10-yard line, Robinson rolled right and saw his receiver cutting across the end zone a step ahead of State's Trenton Robinson. Denard hesitated a split second, then fired—late, and behind, but right at Trenton Robinson, who caught the ball in the end zone. It was the kind of mistake a banged-up quarterback starting his sixth game makes in the biggest game of his career.

The Michigan fans deflated, while Michigan State fans let everyone know exactly how many had made it into the stadium that day.

After Michigan's much-maligned defense did its job, Denard picked up where he had left off: four runs for 15 yards, and six simple, quick passes for 35 yards.

From State's 24-yard line, Robinson rolled to his right. He saw State's cornerback come up to stop the run, and Darryl Stonum slip behind him, unnoticed, wide open in the end zone. All Robinson had to do was loft one over the cornerback's head—the kind of pass he'd been making all season—for the first touchdown, which would set off this tinderbox of a crowd.

But his mechanics were off. He instinctively avoided following through to avoid putting pressure on his injured knee, leaving his weight on his back foot and his left shoulder open. The pass flew too high, exactly like the pass he had missed in Wednesday's practice and for the exact same reason. That's why the ball didn't fall softly into Stonum's waiting hands but kept flying over his head. The Wolverines had to settle for a field goal and a 3–0 lead. But it could have been 10–0, or even 14. And with Michigan's porous defense, the offense couldn't afford to leave plays on the table.

On the sidelines, Stonum blurted out, “Shit!” a half dozen times. “I thought it was going to come down, but it kept soaring! Shit!”

When the first quarter ended, Michigan's defense had held State's offense to zero points and minus 8 yards rushing. Reporting from the sidelines, ESPN's Quint Kessenich asked me, “Was this the same defense I saw two weeks ago?”

But in the second quarter, Michigan's defense finally broke, allowing State's Edwin Baker to convert a simple line plunge into a 61-yard touchdown.

Denard countered with a pass to Martell Webb, who had no trouble beating his man to finish the 12-yard touchdown play. 10–7 Michigan.

But Michigan's defense promptly let the Spartan's Le'Veon Bell beat them for another long touchdown, this one 41 yards. Kessenich was starting to get his answer.

“Once our D steps up, it'll be a different game,” said LaMarr Woodley, who had taken advantage of the Pittsburgh Steelers' bye week to be on the sidelines, with his face painted maize and blue. He, for one, was all in. “They're close, but you can't give up the big play. That's all it is: two big plays.”

After the Spartans kicked a 38-yard field goal and then blocked the Wolverines' 42-yard attempt, the half ended, 17–10 State.

But the Wolverines had reason for hope, plenty of it. They led the Spartans in first downs, rushing, and passing. In fact, just about everything but turnovers—including one crucial one—and points.

The normally reserved fifth-year senior Greg Banks made a desperate plea: “We ain't going out a loser. We ain't going out a loser! This is my last fucking go-round. Let's go!”

To the team, Rodriguez said, “On defense, just a couple big plays got us. Stop those, and we're good. On offense, we're just killing ourselves. Once we get out of our own way, we'll take off. This is it, men. This is our time. Leave everything out there. LET'S GO!”

But after Michigan cornerback James Rogers—one of two seniors on defense—came out with a full-body tension cramp, the Spartans went immediately to his replacement, true-freshman Cullen Christian, burning him for a 41-yard touchdown bomb on the left side.

Only 2:28 into the half, it was 24–10 Michigan State. For the first time all day, the same stadium that had been waiting for a reason to boil over turned cold. There was no energy in the stands and none on the Michigan sideline, either.

Ten plays later, the Spartans scored again, giving them a 31–10 lead—and all the momentum they would need. “FUCK!” Mike Martin yelled. “Fuck, man!” Then he sat down and yelled “FUCK!” again.

Down 31–17 with just under a quarter to play, the game was not out of range—until Robinson threw his third interception on the next possession.

Later, when Rodriguez elected to punt on fourth-and-9 from Michigan's 30, with six minutes left, he got booed, a rarity in the Big House. For perhaps the first time at Michigan, he didn't trust his gambler's instincts, a decision he would say he regretted at the press conference.

But it hardly mattered. What did matter, however, was a far less significant play, with a far more serious outcome, when a Spartan delivered a chop block to Mike Martin's left knee. The ref saw it and threw his flag, but if the lineman had finished the job, Martin would be out of the game, out of the season, and out a career. It was that easy to do.

After a couple of minutes, Martin stood up and left the field with some help. His face was flushed with pain.

At 34–17, with seven minutes left, the Spartan fans started cheering: “Go Green! Go White!” And the far more humiliating “Lit-tle Sis-ter!”

As usual, Rodriguez was rational and as positive as the facts allowed when addressing the team. “Listen up! We didn't play as well as we can play. We know that. We gotta play better. I gotta coach you better!

“It's gonna hurt. It better hurt! But after we see the tape, it's done. No need to hang our heads. They're a good team. They deserve it. But we made more mistakes today than in the first five games combined. But let me tell you this: I'd rather be in this locker room with you men than over there. No question.

“The cockroaches will be out. All the shit will be coming our way. But don't believe it—any more than you believed all the praise last week. We'll get redemption next week when another ranked team comes into our house.

“So let's get in. ‘Michigan' on three, and I want to hear you.”

“MICHIGAN!”

Van Bergen started crying in his stall, burying his face in a white towel. Devin Gardner sat down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

*   *   *

Rich Rodriguez in front of his team is one thing. Rich Rodriguez in the privacy of his office, where his ambition and frustration and self-criticism can run free, is quite another. The second door was still closing behind him when he yelled, to no one in particular, “We're just getting run over! Run the fuck over!” Then he knocked his chair over.

Trainer Paul Schmidt opened the door slowly and said as quietly as he could, “Tay's [Odom] foot is broken. He's probably out for the season.”

It was as good a straw as any.

“God DAMN IT! That's just fucking GREAT!” He grabbed his chair with one hand and tossed it a few feet. With the anger still rising inside him, he kicked the big cooler—filled with a case of Coke and juice and plenty of ice—toward the bathroom tile with enough force to topple it over and send the ice and cans sprawling across the floor.