Three and Out (60 page)

Back in the coaches' room, Rodriguez muttered, “Just ONE fucking stop when it counts would be nice.”

An hour later, Rodriguez signed autographs by the barricade, alongside Forcier, who savored the attention, while Rita waited in the cold by their car, clutching the lapels of her winter coat.

“I just want a break,” she said. “I just want a break.”

 

46   INTO THE LIONS' DEN

Before the Sunday staff meeting, Barwis was hanging out in Rutledge and Parrish's shared office, presenting some surprising numbers. He pointed out they were outscoring teams badly in quarters one, three, and four, but getting “our asses kicked in the second.” Through seven games, Michigan was minus 34 in the second quarter, and minus 24 against MSU and Iowa alone. Why was that?

“It's like in Ultimate Fighting. You hear about some new guy who's undefeated, and think, great, I'll kick his ass. Because he's never been hit. Never gotten smacked around and had to shake that shit off and come back harder.

“And that's what happens to us. We come in breathing fire, all jacked up, and we take it to them. But when they start fighting back, we're surprised. We're stunned! And it takes us a full quarter to get our heads back on straight.”

It made some sense, and spoke to their intensity and conditioning—and inexperience.

Despite the loss to Iowa, the mood among the coaches on Sunday started out surprisingly light. No one was panicking. No one seemed overly stressed. They had lost two in a row, but both loses had been to very good teams, and both times they'd held their own in the yardage battle, even notching a remarkable 522 yards on Iowa.

Of course, it also helped that everyone was in for a bye week—much needed, physically and emotionally—even if the coaches would spend it traveling the country recruiting. Chomping their Sunday night pizza, Magee stopped chewing for a moment and said, “Man, when I close my eyes, I am seeing
little men
running around in my head. And they're not even running any plays I recognize. Man, I have seen
too much film.

“This break could not have come at a better time. Well, maybe last week. But that's it.”

That night, with no pressure to prepare for practice or a game in six days, the assistants had a rare chance to openly consider the possibilities: No one gets fired, some of them get fired, or everyone gets fired.

Frey groaned at the prospects. “What I find amazing is, we're talking about all this stuff, and we're 5-and-2, and this is only our third year. We had only seven scholarship O-linemen ready to play our first year, and none of them were drafted.”

The quality of the cupboard's contents when Rodriguez took over ranks as one of the most frequently debated subjects among Michigan fans. You can very plausibly make a case that if Carr had stayed for the 2008 season, many if not all of the players who transferred, jumped to the NFL, or simply did not return for a fifth year would have played for the Wolverines. And since the team would not be changing coordinators or systems on either side of the ball, they would have the considerable advantage of continuity. Throw in a few breaks, perhaps, and it's not hard to imagine Michigan going 8–4 or even 9–3 in 2008, instead of 3–9.

But even making those concessions, it is much harder to argue that the recruiting classes of Carr's last years would allow Michigan to sustain even 9–3 records.

From 2009 to 2011, the NFL drafted only four Wolverines, and just one—Brandon Graham—in the first three rounds. Even if you count Ryan Mallett and the injured Troy Woolfolk as likely draft picks, the six total is still a third less than the previous low of nine, which is how many Michigan players were drafted from 1984 to 1986.

It's not just the top end that shrank, either, but the middle band of solid starters, too. As a result, in 2010, Michigan played twenty-six freshmen, the third most in the nation. They had only five senior starters, less than half as many as Ohio State, Penn State, Michigan State, and Iowa. On the other end, Michigan started four freshmen, while the top teams listed above all started one freshmen, or none—simply because they didn't have to.

“I don't care what anybody says,” Frey concluded. “The cupboard was bare.”

The good news for the Wolverines was that in 2011 they would return nineteen starters—or twenty-four if you count the injured players who would be returning to the lineup. Of the record 6,011 yards Michigan notched in 2010, all but 67 of them were gained by players who would return in 2011.

“Iowa had never given up a third-and-seven or more
all year
,” Frey added. “On our first third-and-long, we scored a touchdown. They had never given up a rushing touchdown. We scored two. They had only let two runners go over 100 yards in 34 games. Denard did it in the first half. They averaged only 242 yards against their D all year, one of the best marks in the country, and we got 522. More than twice that. They were giving up ten points per game. We scored twenty-eight—and should have scored more, if we could make a red-zone pass or kick a field goal.

“So why is everyone saying, ‘It's all do-or-die,' and ‘We could be gone?' That's crazy!”

In fact, many of the same arguments were being made by ESPN's Ivan Maisel. “Why Rodriguez is considered on the edge of endangered remains mystifying. Michigan has improved and 18 starters return next season. Michigan will be favored in three of its final five games. Regardless of the outcome down the stretch, would it really be better to start over again?”

All true. Which raised another question: At what point did all the predictions of doom and gloom—and with them, the increased pressure—become a self-fulfilling prophecy?

That was virtually impossible to answer, but no one questioned the importance of the Penn State game on the horizon. The Lions were 4–3, and starting a walk-on quarterback.

It was Michigan's third straight match-point opportunity. Win it, and you're free.

One MGoBlog reader listed the stakes of this nationally televised night game thusly: “Our season, Denard's Heisman hopes, R-Rod's tenure, Bill Martin's reputation, a recruiting bounty, my sanity, Dave Brandon's decision, Mike Barwis' weight lifting program, Joe Pa's retirement, my marriage, our future … Let's see how much more shit we can pile on top of the outcome of this game.”

*   *   *

Rodriguez did not need to be reminded, especially with his boss's presence in the locker room. The rumor had spread to the coaches that Brandon had circled this game as do-or-die. Win it, and votes of confidence and contract extensions would flow. Lose it, and—well, they were back to the scenarios discussed over pizza.

Whether the rumor was true, they were too afraid to ask, but it seemed plausible enough for them to worry, and they did.

*   *   *

The most intimidating walk in the Big Ten is not at Iowa's Kinnick Stadium or Spartan Stadium or even the great Horseshoe in Columbus but in Happy Valley, Pennsylvania.

When you approach Beaver Stadium, it looks nothing like the classic coliseums you see in Ann Arbor, Columbus, or Champaign, with their majestic arches in brick and stone. No. Beaver Stadium looks more like the scaffolding set up to
build
a stadium than a stadium itself, with sections of exposed girders and crossbeams everywhere. It takes a moment to realize that
is
the finished product. Thanks to seven expansions in the last forty years, every one of which seem to have been designed by a different architect, it is the Erector set of Big Ten stadiums.

If the outside of Beaver Stadium isn't especially welcoming, the inside is even less so for opposing teams, who get dressed in a concrete box under the stands, then walk through a maze of chain-link fencing, between hundreds of loud, drunk Penn State patrons, shaking the fence and yelling the most popular profanities.

“It used to be fun, but it started changing about ten years ago,” Ferguson County police officer Ryan Hendrick told me. “The language, the spirit of it. It used to be if Michigan made a good play, no one booed, and some people even clapped. Now they just boo. You're considered a sap if you cheer.”

Thanks to the spectators' new habits of spitting and spilling drinks on the players, the security detail added a wind fence a few years ago, which cut down on the worst of it. But it still picks up when Michigan's in town.

“Other teams, you might hear a few shouts. But when Michigan comes through—wow! Caged animals!” Perhaps hearing himself, the officer added, “But that's a show of respect. The students get up for Michigan.”

The coaches and players made it a point to stare straight ahead walking through the labyrinth. Once they ran through the tunnel, the Wolverines faced the loudest crowd that season—maybe ever. The Lions prided themselves on hosting the “Greatest Show in College Sports,” and they made a fine case. The rock music, the scoreboard, the ribbon bands, the marching bands and—most of all—the raucous student section fully pumped up for a night game on Halloween combined to create the happiest—or most hostile—environment in the country.

It wasn't for nothing Kirk Herbstreit declared Penn State had the best student section in the country two years in a row.

There was only one way to counter it: score early, and score often.

The Wolverines started on their 30-yard line, with a chance to quiet the crowd down. Instead they went three-and-out and gave the ball back to Penn State on its 29. On his first play, Matt McGloin stepped back and launched a bomb down the left sideline. It fell incomplete, but it still scared the hell out of Michigan's underconfident secondary, prompting them to fall too far back the rest of the game. It might have been the most important pass of the day.

After that, it was easy. Whenever the Lions faced third down on that drive—three times—or just about any time thereafter, all the walk-on quarterback had to do was drop back, hit a receiver 5 yards away in the right flat, and watch him turn upfield for 5 more before a Michigan defender caught him.

That's how Penn State cut through Michigan's defense to the end zone on four of their first five possessions, giving them a daunting 28–10 halftime lead.

“Hey, Michigan, you guys suck! You really suck!” Brainless and vulgar, yes—but the man had a point.

The news wasn't all bad. Michigan had notched 201 yards to Penn State's 246. But the defense was utterly unable to stop the Lions, and that would get worse after Mike Martin left the game with a sprained ankle, suffered when his roommate Ryan Van Bergen rolled on it in the second quarter.

“We've got a lot of football left,” Rodriguez told his team. “I want to see what you're made of. You know damn well we can play better than that. We're just beating ourselves. Let's go get after their asses!”

But he sounded less confident than anxious, almost pleading with them to perform.

The Wolverines fought back bravely to close the gap to 38–31, but they couldn't get any closer. The walk to the locker room after the game was louder and drunker than the walk out, and seemed to take forever.

“Listen close,” Rodriguez told his team. “Y'all didn't quit and I'm proud of you. We're not that far away. Believe me.

“Now listen: Don't you quit on each other. I will not quit on you! And next Saturday, it's in the Big House, our home. Our fans, cheering for us. So let's go. ‘Michigan' on three.”

*   *   *

On the plane ride back, Rodriguez sat in his customary seat right behind the bulkhead, with Greg Robinson across the aisle, both staring intently at their glowing computer screens. There was no danger of Rodriguez tossing his laptop in anger that night. The ride was quiet, as expected, but without the tension that followed tough road losses against Illinois, Michigan State, and others.

They had just blown their last best chance to save their season, and their jobs. The air was leaking out of their tires faster than they could get around the track.

Rodriguez was not visibly angry. He was not upset. He was something far worse: unhappy—and defeated. Simply beaten. Whether he was beat for the day, or just plain beaten, remained to be seen.

For the first time in the two-and-a-half-year odyssey of setback after setback after setback, Rodriguez looked like he was finally out of answers. He didn't have anything else left to offer.

 

47   A PYRRHIC VICTORY

With Illinois coming to town, the stakes had shifted.

Where the Wolverines had three straight chances to win match point, any one of which would have been enough to secure their future, beating Illinois would not be good enough. The Illini were heading to a respectable 4–4 record in the Big Ten, but they didn't represent the prize that beating MSU, Iowa, or Penn State on the road would have. No, winning would only keep Rodriguez alive. It wasn't his match point anymore. It was his detractors, this time, who would likely be able to wave him good-bye if the Wolverines lost their fourth in a row.

On Tuesday, November 2, after Rodriguez gave his team the weekly rundown on their opponent, he turned the floor over to Mark Moundros, who had asked the coaches to leave so he could address the team. He started out talking normally, but it didn't take long for him to get into a full shout, as he had before many games.

“I just want to take you back to camp,” he said. “We're at the Big House, standing in a circle, holding hands, everyone's got that bond, no one's letting go, holding on to each other forever. We've got four more weeks to strengthen that bond.

“These coaches' jobs are on the line—because of us,” he said, marking one of the few times players ever mentioned this.

“What are you willing to sacrifice for them? For each other? Maybe a little more time in the film room, or on the field?

“They sacrifice for us. They gave up family, their friends, their homes, to coach us. They're hated back in their state—and they did all that for us. What are you willing to sacrifice for them?”