Fourth and Long: The Fight for the Soul of College Football

by Bacon, John U.

  After the buses groaned up the hill, bouncing all the way, they hit a T-stop, then turned right. This is still on the far outskirts of university property—farmland—but you could already hear the crowds ahead. Whatever I’d seen the first two games had been doubled for this one. The nationally televised night game helped, but five straight wins helped more. These tailgaters had their mojo back. They were even a little bloodthirsty.

  When the buses pulled up outside the stadium, the crowd was even thicker, holding up sticks with the stars’ faces on them: McGloin, Mauti, Zordich, Stankiewitch, Hodges, Hill. They still flashed the signs from the first game: YOU STAYED WITH US and WE STAND WITH YOU.

  When the players walked into their locker room, there was no gazing at the names on the backs of their jerseys. This was not opening night. The players were focused.

  Before the team prayer in the dark showers, Larry Johnson Sr., in his lyrical manner, repeated, “This is your finest hour. We were meant to be here. We’re here for a reason. Let it flow through you.” He reinforced those themes in the team prayer, leading up to lineman Nate Cadogan’s unscripted sermon.

  Cadogan’s sermon built slowly, then grew louder, and faster. When Cadogan was finished, Zordich stayed behind to kneel by himself in the corner for a solid five minutes.

  Back in the coaches’ room, their self-imposed silence had only grown heavier, broken by big shouts coming from the locker room. The players had formed a circle in the middle, with Fitz in the bull’s-eye, smashing a Buckeye helmet with a sledgehammer. Spider has traded helmets with each opponent they’ve faced over the years, giving him an excellent collection he keeps on shelves in the equipment room—now minus one.

  When Fitz walked back to Spider’s window, shards of the Buckeye helmet in hand, he channeled his inner John Belushi from Animal House: “Sorry about your helmet.” Spider grinned and nodded. He’d get another one.

  Inspired by Fitz’s gesture, Jordan Hill stood up and announced, “Fuck quiet! We’re getting loud today!” He bounced a circular path in the center of the locker room and said, “When we get a big play, we all celebrate! We score a touchdown, we all celebrate! The whole fucking team—every play, all day! The Buckeyes are gonna learn, this is Penn State! This is Penn State!

  “This is Penn State!”

  O’Brien didn’t have to add much to that.

  Before their first game, they walked out to the tunnel. Before Navy, they trotted.

  Before Ohio State, they ran.

  • • •

  Penn State won the toss, deferred as planned, and watched Sam Ficken, whom they feared had strained his leg, boot the ball deep into the end zone—answering at least one question.

  Ted Roof’s defense answered a few more when it forced Ohio State to punt on its first six possessions. But it could actually have been better—and perhaps should have been.

  On Ohio State’s second possession, with the ball on Penn State’s 44-yard line, Braxton Miller looked to the right flats for Corey Brown, but threw almost directly to Penn State’s defensive back Stephon Morris. Seeing nothing but green in front of him, the crowd stood up—only to watch Morris drop the ball.

  Not long after that, Miller threw an easy interception chance right at Stephen Obeng-Agyapong, who might also have run it back for a touchdown—if he hadn’t dropped it.

  Throw in McGloin’s long ball to Allen Robinson, who dropped it, and Penn State had blown three great chances for touchdowns in the first quarter alone. These were not turnovers or missed assignments or points allowed. But winning big games like that usually takes someone to step up and make big plays.

  The first quarter ended 0–0, and it looked as if the first half would, too, with ten straight scoreless possessions. On the last of those, Penn State drove from its 21-yard line to Ohio State’s 20, but even on fourth and 7, O’Brien refused to attempt a field goal, and not without reason.

  Ohio State took over from its own 17 and went backward. On fourth down, Penn State’s Mike Hull broke through the Buckeye line to block Ben Buchanan’s punt, which Mike Yancich recovered in the end zone.

  Touchdown. Penn State, 7–0. The tinderbox ignited.

  On Ohio State’s next possession, on third and 5, the Lions sacked Miller, forcing the Buckeyes to punt from their own 27. With about five minutes left in the half, Penn State had a good chance to score another touchdown and head into halftime with a 14–0 lead. But the refs threw a questionable flag for holding on Penn State, which gave the Buckeyes a first down, and a new start.

  Braxton Miller finally looked like the Big Ten’s best quarterback on a 33-yard dash down to Penn State’s 6-yard line, but Penn State’s defense held again. On third and goal from the 1-yard line, with less than a minute left, Mauti had running back Carlos Hyde lined up, but the right tackle blatantly held him—but not blatantly enough for Big Ten refs, who made no call as Hyde ran into the end zone.

  When the half ended a couple plays later, the scoreboard said 7–7.

  • • •

  During halftime, they brought out Penn State’s deans and other officials to recognize the university’s academic achievements. They all received warm applause. But they also introduced President Rod Erickson and acting Athletic Director Dave Joyner, who were enthusiastically booed.

  Why the organizers had invited the two wasn’t a mystery. There is no college football without a college, and universities need presidents and athletic departments need directors. Why the two men didn’t anticipate being booed, however, was a mystery.

  The game had been reduced to a thirty-minute sprint, but all the advantages seemed to be Penn State’s: they had left far more plays on the table than Ohio State had, including three dropped chances for interceptions; the defense had sacked Miller an incredible five times; McGloin looked comfortable, hitting 8 of 14 passes for 116 yards, and no turnovers, to Miller’s anemic 4 of 12 for 25 yards; and Penn State would get the ball back to start the second half.

  O’Brien marched toward the coaches’ room, thought of something, stopped, turned around, and marched to the middle of the locker room. “Hey, shut the hell up! Offense”—he pointed their way—“quit making mistakes! Defense”—he pointed again—“keep doing what you’re doing. Keep your stinger!” He punched his hand. “Let’s fuck ’em up!”

  “Yeah!”

  Quarterback coach Charlie Fisher, a kindly man who could play Andy Griffith in Mayberry, tapped McGloin on his elbow and quietly said, “You’re doing a good job.”

  O’Brien met with the offensive staff in the coaches’ shower room. “We gotta relax! We can’t have these penalties and bad plays in the middle of drives. We start out every series second and ten, first and twenty, that gets old. Cut that crap out. We do, and we’re scoring! We’re moving the ball! We’re averaging five yards a carry. We’ve got these guys!

  “Let’s use more comeback and go routes.”

  To the team, O’Brien said, “Our D’s playing their asses off. Their D is playing like they’re tired. They’re not hitting shit. Twenty-eight isn’t tackling shit. Let’s get after ’em now!”

  “They didn’t work like we worked!” Mauti added, almost hyperventilating while strapping his helmet on for the second half. “They sure as hell aren’t leaving here with a perfect record!”

  “We’ve worked too hard!” O’Brien shouted to the team. “We’ve come too far to stop now. So leave it all on the field for thirty minutes. Let’s go!”

  The crowd—fresh from booing its president and AD—came back to life when their team returned, cheering them heartily. The stars seemed aligned for a Penn State surge—but that’s not how it went.

  Ohio State’s kick went only to the 4-yard line. But after Bill Belton dropped it, then scooped it up in a panic, he could only get to the 11.

  Zach Zwinak rushed for 6 yards to the 17, before McGloin got sacked back to the 8-yard line. On third and 13, exactly the sort of situation O’Brien had hoped to avoid, McGloin dropped back, looked around, and fired ove
r the middle—right into the stomach of Ohio State linebacker Ryan Shazier, who ran the ball straight to the end zone: 14–7.

  And just like that, every advantage Penn State had going into the half had been wiped clean.

  The Lions gamely took their next possession down to Ohio State’s 4-yard line, but a holding call and Zwinak runs of 1 and 0 yards forced O’Brien to settle for a Sam Ficken field goal: 14–10.

  Adrian Amos finally made Miller pay for his errant passing with an interception, but a sack forced Penn State to punt. Or so it looked, until punter Alex Butterworth rolled out to the right and saw Derek Day wide-open on the right sideline. But the Buckeyes exploited Butterworth’s hesitation, and the ref’s apparent inability to recognize pass interference, resulting in Day’s bobbling the ball before it hit the ground.

  The scoreboard said 14–10, but the game was over. Penn State had had every chance to jump out to a crowd-rousing lead, but dropped balls and bad penalties prevented them from taking advantage.

  Ohio State took over the ball and then the game, finishing their next three possessions in the end zone. Penn State’s two late touchdowns showed resolve and made the final score look better, at 35–23, but they weren’t enough to make the visitors sweat.

  • • •

  The Lions and their fans were deeply disappointed, but Urban Meyer could afford to take a broader view. Three months later, back in his spacious office in the Woody Hayes Athletic Center, filled with books, motivational messages, and a couple tables and couches for recruiting, he remembered the moment clearly:

  “Here’s what I don’t hear talked about enough: the students, the players, and the former players. They are the heart and soul of college football.

  “In the fourth quarter of that Penn State game [when Ohio State had a 35–16 lead], I took a couple moments to look around and soak it in.

  “I saw 110,000 people in that stadium, all wearing white. They were into it—big-time—one of the greatest environments I have ever coached in.

  “And then I looked out onto the field. You look at these players. Those guys did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong. Not one player on that field did anything wrong.

  “But they weren’t playing for a Big Ten title, or a BCS bowl game, or a Top Ten ranking. All that had been taken off the table. All of that was gone. Both teams, all those players, had already had their hearts ripped out, and for nothing they did—and they were playing like it’s the Super Bowl. Man, both teams, every player I saw, they were putting everything on the line, everything they had, every play.

  “Why do they do it? It’s for the love of each other, and their school, and the great game of college football. Everything else was stripped way. There was no other reason they did that.

  “This is why the game was invented one hundred and fifty years ago. On that day, there were no BCS conversations, no ESPN deals, no NFL draft. Just a bunch of eighteen- and nineteen-year-old kids giving themselves up for each other, their school, and the game. They were not playing for anything else.

  “That is pure college football. You have two teams playing their hearts out like that—how can you not love it?

  “I was actually thinking about all that in the fourth quarter. Those guys on the field, they were playing for all the things we admire. And the crowd could see that. You could feel that.

  “When you’re standing on the sidelines of the Penn State game that night, you see it, the heart of college football. It wasn’t about the media, or the TV contracts, or the commissioners, or the schools jumping conferences every day.

  “It was a bunch of eighteen- and nineteen-year-old kids training hard for each other and competing their hearts out every day in practice and games.

  “Period.

  “That’s it.

  “There is no more after that.”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE BATTLE FOR THE BROWN JUG

  According to the New York Times’ Nate Silver—yes, that Nate Silver, who correctly predicted every state in the 2012 presidential election—the nation’s three biggest college football fan bases are Ohio State’s (3.2 million), Michigan’s (2.9 million), and Penn State’s (2.6 million), for a total of about 8.7 million fans, which is more than the entire Pac-12 combined. These three schools usually lead the nation in home attendance, too.

  Of the nation’s twenty biggest college football fan bases, seven are Big Ten teams’, and only Northwestern is not in the top fifty. The nation’s oldest league has 17.5 million fans, by far the most, followed by the SEC, the ACC, the Big 12, and the Pac-12, in that order. That statistic—not national titles—determines the value of TV contracts, the lifeblood of college football today.

  The real “product” college football is selling is not professional perfection—the SEC currently comes closest—but passion, which constitutes another argument for preserving the charm of the game, instead of “going pro.”

  These stats teach a few less obvious but equally important lessons, too. If these teams depended solely on their students and alumni for support, they would have only about a fifth of their current following, since the “subway alums” constitute roughly 80 percent of their fan base.

  Turning our attention back to the Big Ten’s “Big Three” programs, and the 8.7 millions fans who follow them: their gigantic stadiums hold more than three hundred thousand fans, but that still leaves 8.4 million of their followers on the outside looking in, which those fans eagerly do through TV and the Internet. If you want to know why the Big Ten Network was the first conference network, and is by far the most successful, that’s where you start: 17.5 million fans, dwarfing the next-biggest fan base, the SEC’s, at 13.6 million.

  And that’s why the Big Ten Network now reaches an estimated 53 million households: because it can.

  The Big Ten’s 17.5 million fans undoubtedly include just about every demographic you can name in substantial numbers, but it’s what they have in common that’s most important here: a shared love of their favorite Big Ten schools and the conference itself, its history and traditions, right down to their memories of the same games.

  • • •

  I haven’t met all 17.5 million Big Ten fans, or even the 2.9 million who follow Michigan. But I’ve met a lot of them, and some I’ve known my entire life, including the gang I grew up with in Ann Arbor—the same guys who went door-to-door with their cornets in grade school, playing “The Victors” for their neighbors, and played tailback for Jim Harbaugh in junior high.

  The early habit we all acquired now drives our Saturday get-togethers. In much the same way that our grandparents used quilting circles and our parents used potlucks and dinner parties, watching Michigan football games over the years has been our principal means of staying in touch.

  It helps that we know the schedule, and the games are always on Saturdays (at least in the Big Ten—for now), even if the kickoff times these days can run the gamut, and sometimes aren’t announced until a week or two before the game. As we’ve gotten busier, we’re lucky to catch a few games together each season, but Big Ten football remains one of the soundest institutions left in the Midwest to anchor your social life.

  We settled on the Michigan–Minnesota game—an easy pick, since that weekend Ohio State was scheduled to crush lowly Illinois (and did, 52–22, to go 10-0), Penn State was traveling to pedestrian Purdue (and rebounded nicely, 34–9, to improve to 6-3), and Northwestern had a bye week, standing pat at 7-2.

  One of the joys of the watch party is setting up the watch party. While your ritual may vary, I suspect the pattern is about the same for the rest of the 17.5 million Big Ten fans that get together across the country to watch their favorite teams take the field. Second only to inside jokes, the most common comments in both our e-mails and game-time banter are the endless complaints about our favorite team’s offense. Doesn’t matter the coach, the coordinator, or the quarterback, this stream of criticism transcends all eras and offensive systems.

  The reason is simple: When you’ve been l
iving and dying with your team since you were too young to know you were doing so, you’ve had a lifetime to think about the subject, and your views are heartfelt. You have skin in the game. And the offense is usually the easiest target.

  But the 2012 season contained more than the usual carping about Bo Schembechler’s “three yards and a cloud of dust,” which might have been dull, but it did the job for decades. James Carville, the political guru who backs his home-state Louisiana State Tigers, has made a side job of criticizing Michigan’s boring offense. In 2004, he said, “Michigan plays gutless football. Always has and always will. You could put the New England Patriots in Michigan uniforms and they would still lose to OSU two out of three times and lose the Rose Bowl two out of three times.”

  The phrase that would probably make most Michigan fans wince stands out: “always has and always will.” Intentionally or not, the political guru put his finger on the triple bind of tradition, passion, and results. Michigan fans care about winning, but they also care how their team wins. Results alone aren’t enough. Remember, passion trumps perfection, or we would have quit watching college football a long time ago—or the Little League World Series, for that matter. Like its Big Ten brothers, Michigan needed to win, but in a way that honored its fans’ beloved traditions.

  But underneath their endless griping about the offense was a deeper, though rarely stated, concern: that Michigan’s reliance on its proud tradition and conservative ways prevented it from keeping up with the faster, innovative offenses—the kind that Appalachian State and Oregon used in back-to-back games to give Michigan football the wake-up call of all wake-up calls. If these fears were founded, the team the fans loved so much would soon be relegated to also-ran. While they don’t require perfection to love their team, losing doesn’t foster love.

  The breadth of this fear—and the hope of a renaissance—became manifest after Michigan hired Rich Rodriguez, the father of the spread-option offense, in December of 2007.

  Throughout the 2012 season, I had been surprised to learn how many Big Ten fans—particularly Buckeye fans, I’d noticed—viewed Michigan’s bold move as a clarion call for the rest of the league, hoping it would force their teams to embrace the future, too. If Rodriguez succeeded at Michigan, they believed, more Big Ten schools would start hiring coaches from outside the conference with faster, more innovative offenses, and soon the Big Ten would again start beating the best from the South and the West.