Three and Out (52 page)

Rodriguez looked at his players, held up the printout, then said with perfect comic timing, “I can't make this shit up!

“I don't care where you grew up. I don't care how big your house is. You take
pride
in your family, in your home. You guys play in the biggest house in the country—and I've never heard
any
of you guys disrespect any other team or stadium. Ever.

“There was a time, when Michigan ran down that tunnel with that winged helmet, that was worth 14 points. Now we've got UMass calling it the ‘Little House on the Prairie.' So somewhere along the line we lost that. But we can get that back.

“And it starts with us.

“They are gonna feel the full brunt of our program. Then I want to see if they still got this shit on their website at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon.”

*   *   *

The next afternoon, the players seemed ready, but apparently the Minutemen were, too, jumping out to a 17–7 lead.

Michigan basketball coach John Beilein, sitting in his usual perch in the front row, felt their frustration. “People don't realize it, but UMass isn't bad. You beat Notre Dame on NBC, then come back and play these guys?” He shook his head. “These are nightmare games.”

When Michigan got the ball back with just 1:17 left in the half, Robinson hit Stonum on the first play for a 64-yard touchdown. On the Minutemen's kickoff return, Kovacs ripped the ball loose and recovered it. Four plays and 29 seconds later, Robinson took the snap from the 9-yard line, rolled right, and found Stonum again in the right flat; he walked into the end zone, untouched.

Michigan 21, Massachussetts 17.

Denard Robinson returned to the bench. For the first time all day, he smiled.

But the Minutemen weren't giving up. When they walked back down the tunnel to start the second half, one player yelled, “Let's go shock the world!” while another added, “We're gonna win this one!”—and they both sounded like they meant it.

The Michigan mystique was no longer worth 14 points.

The question to be answered was simple: Was Michigan a weak team, or just a young team? The former needed to be fixed, the latter needed nurturing. The seesaw second half provided evidence for both theories. Michigan's
program
didn't need to be rebuilt. No school had a deeper, stronger foundation than Michigan. But even if Rodriguez's critics didn't want to admit it, the team did.

The Minutemen came back from a 35–17 deficit to cut Michigan's lead to 42–37. But their two-point conversion failed, setting up an onside kick with 2:05 left.

A fan behind the bench gasped in horror, “Ohhhh, my god!” She had probably been in that same seat for the games against Appalachian State and Toledo.

And another: “We want Ron English!” The ghosts were far from gone.

But Michigan got the ball back, and Robinson took a knee. Disaster averted.

*   *   *

The next day, when Greg Robinson nominated Mike Martin and Jordan Kovacs for Codefensive Players of the Week, Rodriguez said, “We gave up thirty-seven points to a I-AA team. No one's getting an award for that.

“Did we have
any
three-and-outs?” Rodriguez asked, as if he hadn't already watched the film three times.

“No,” Tony Gibson said.

“None?” Rodriguez said. “Not one? Hmm.”

From this meeting, you'd be surprised to discover that Michigan was ranked twentieth in the country, one of six Big Ten teams in the top twenty-three—seven if you count Nebraska, which would join the Big Ten in 2011—making up almost a third of the nation's top teams. None of that mattered on Sunday.

 

40   LIFE'S NOT SO BAD

Rodriguez had wisely stayed calm during the UMass game, to avoid disaster. But that didn't mean he was going to let that performance slide.

Instead of the usual Monday routine, in which each coach meets with his position group in their breakout rooms, Rodriguez met with the entire defense in the team room. Once Rodriguez made the announcement, the defensive players knew that they were in for something they called “Movie Night with Coach Rod.” For this premiere, however, there would be no popcorn, jumbo Cokes, or Milk Duds.

“Everyone gets their ass ripped,” Van Bergen explained afterward. “The worst thing you can do is tell him something that sounds like an excuse.”

“That's what they're waiting for,” Mike Martin said. “One ‘But!'”

“Or, ‘I thought,'” Van Bergen added. “‘You
thought
?!'”

Martin laughed. “Oh, yeah. They're
waiting
for that one.”

“What you do,” defensive end Steve Watson said, “is just shut up and take it.”

“That was our first Movie Night after a win,” Van Bergen said. “I guess that tells you something. He expects more. This summer, Coach Rod's big message was: I'm not going to be soft and sensitive about criticizing you anymore. I'm going to get in your face, and if you can't take it, we'll get someone else.

“On Monday, we needed that. None of us objected to what he said. And this week we had more mental focus. We went hard on Tuesday. You're not supposed to tackle them—but there were a lot of tackles!”

“No way we have another game like that this week,” Martin said. “No way.”

*   *   *

At Coach & Four, Jerry Erickson provides tickets, free beer out of the mini-fridge in the corner, and stacks of
Playboys
on the trunk that serves as a coffee table. It is the man cave of man caves. A woman might have walked in at one point, but I can't remember it.

“There are lot more people out there who like him than don't,” Erickson said of Rodriguez, working next to the big window. “The fans like him. Some of the old players don't. There is only a handful of guys who are stirring all the crap up. The thing is, you gotta give the guy a chance. And I think Brandon is going to stick with this guy.”

Pressed for a prediction, Erickson had no trouble saying, “They'll go 8–4 easy. And we're gonna win a bowl game. But don't ask me to put a million bucks on it.”

He stopped his scissors to make his next point. “Beating Michigan State will save his job. But losing to Michigan State? Hooo boy. Not gonna be good!”

Just a few doors down, Red Stolberg was, as usual, taking the other side. “At the start of the season, I said he'd go 5–7, but I might have to bend a little. Now I'm saying they might pick up six. But I think he's got to get at least seven to save his job. And win a decent bowl game, not the Motor City Bowl.”

Would Rodriguez survive the season?

“Hard to say. But,” he said, pointing his razor, “if they can beat [Michigan] State, that's going to be the big one this year. I think right now State is more important than Ohio State, even though that's The Game.

“But if they lose three straight to State—hooo boy,” he said, unwittingly quoting his cousin. “Not gonna be good. Not gonna be good!”

*   *   *

Michigan football players get very little free time, but what they get, they savor.

Friday afternoon is one of those times. After a walk-through, they have about forty-five minutes to hang out in the locker room or the players' lounge watching TV, playing Ping-Pong or pool, or sitting upstairs on the square of couches, where one kind soul leaves three big aluminum trays of his wife's famous supersize cookies. They evaporate quickly.

But before the players do any of those things, they stand in line at the equipment manager's window to get the gear they deem most important. It's not the $257 helmets or $330 shoulder pads or even the $150 jerseys.

Nope. It's the $4 socks. But not just any socks. Twin City socks—the thickest you can find.

David Molk, at the front of the line, handed me a pair. They are so dense, you could wear them as slippers around the home—or fill them with water.

“Best part of being a Michigan football player,” Molk said, holding up a pair, “is these socks.” Every one of his teammates—and I mean
every
one
—
agreed with that assessment.

At dinner Molk approached Mouton, who was enjoying a huge helping of pretty much everything.

Molk asked Mouton if he knew where his Twin City socks had gone.

“I don't know, man,” Mouton replied, taking a bite out of his drumstick and chewing very slowly. “Go see Big Jon.” Falk, that is, the equipment manager.

“It's dinner,” Molk said. “He's not here.”

“Go see him tomorrow,” Mouton said, picking up a roll.

“I want them now.”

“Guess you'll just have to wait, then.”

After Molk turned and walked to the back of the buffet, ticked off, Mouton leaned forward and said, “I'm wearin' 'em.”

*   *   *

After Phil Bromley showed the weekly highlight film, Rodriguez asked, “What's our record?”

“Three-and-oh,” the players replied.

“Right. Life's not so bad, is it? Then why did I have to spend this week answering questions about our team? ‘You're not that good.' ‘It's all offense.' ‘It's all Denard.' ‘You won't last in the Big Ten.'

“Well, I'm used to it by now. And I've thought about it, and now I realize why: They
like
it when Michigan struggles. They like it when we're not in the top twenty-five. So when we win, when we're ranked—well, now they're asking about how many freshmen we have starting. About quarterbacks running so much. All the doubting, all the criticism—and that's when we're
winning.

“A lot of people don't want us to do well. They like it the way it was the last couple years. Well, I've got bad news for the haters: Last year was last year. Those days are long gone.”

The players were nodding. There was no dissension in the ranks, and no taking Bowling Green for granted. They looked properly pissed off, which was bad news for the Falcons.

In their hotel room, Denard Robinson and Devin Gardner were in their usual contemplative states: headphones on, heads bobbing, twirling footballs in their hands.

“Most teams wanted me to play tailback,” Robinson recalled of his recruiting process. “Florida wanted me to play quarterback, but Coach Smith put it in writing, in a letter to me. And he kept his word.”

Robinson had kept his end of the deal, too—and then some. But even his success came at a price. “Ideally, I could just play the game and be with my teammates—that's it. I don't like the attention. But I can handle it, I guess.”

He still spoke with his parents almost every day. “They always say, every time, ‘Stay humble. We'd like you to act like you're still third string. Because remember last year—you were!' My dad cares about the football thing, but he's mostly about grades.”

Denard's dad needn't have worried about distractions. Outside of fans, Robinson didn't have many. He doesn't drink, smoke, or swear very often. Even the night before a game against a mediocre MAC team, Robinson could not relax. He had the butterflies, he said, right on time. And he would have them until the first hit.

But only one thing upset him that week. “The coaches never gave me credit for my pancake, man. I'm mad.”

Tate Forcier was focused on an entirely different set of concerns. “I was in the compliance office yesterday, signing my papers to give other schools the permission to contact me. I should have been gone by today. To Washington, probably.

“I went to Coach Rod, and he said, ‘You'll be playing this year.'

“‘How do I know?'

“‘Have I ever lied to you?'

“‘No.'

“‘Then you need to take my word for it. After this year, if you're still not playing like you should be playing, I'll help you leave. But I think you're going to be a good player and I think we're going to have a special team. You want to be part of this.'

“I thought, ‘He's right.' So I decided to stay.

“Then he gave me a big hug,” Forcier said with a laugh.

The idea that Rodriguez was a snake-oil salesman didn't have much traction among his young quarterbacks.

*   *   *

A little-known custom: Every morning before a game, each position group goes for a walk around the hotel block. They walk past an important house on the Underground Railroad, and down Ann Street, which is actually the street Ann Arbor native Bob Seger is singing about in “Down on Main Street,” but the players were oblivious to all of it—and the people they passed, too.

The three quarterbacks started out an hour before the buses left for the stadium. They wore their baggy blue Adidas sweat suits, their Adidas sandals, and, of course, their brand-new Twin City socks.

Denard put his headphones in his ears and his hands in his pants pockets and started gliding down the sidewalk, very slowly, with his weight back on his heels, deep in thought. When people on their porches said hello, and people in their cars honked their horns and waved, Robinson did not respond. He wasn't being unfriendly. He simply didn't see or hear them.

Two attractive blond students driving past recognized the trio, then turned back to ask if they could take a picture with them. “Sorry,” Denard said, speaking for all three, barely looking and not breaking stride. “We gotta keep going.” And they kept going.

Gardner literally followed in Robinson's footsteps. He wore his Adidas skullcap and jammed his hands in his pockets, but he didn't bring any music and didn't speak the entire walk. Forcier wore earphones but paid more attention to the people and places they passed.

Even fans wearing number five and number sixteen jerseys, grilling on their porches, didn't notice they were walking by.

It made for an odd scene. These three men, who would be the focus of intense national interest when they performed in the center of a 110,000-seat coliseum in just a few hours, could walk largely unbothered through the streets of their fans.