When the Game Stands Tall, Special Movie Edition

by Neil Hayes

  But the decision seemed to pay off when De La Salle shocked Northgate 19–7 for its first victory over an established public school.

  “For a night, anyway, I was the talk of the town,” Hall said.

  The school was growing, but the football program was shrinking. There were only 25 players on the varsity team in 1975, and the junior varsity team, which had only 17 members in 1976, was forced to forfeit a game late in the season for lack of players.

  While other teams had two-a-days during the summer, Hall had three-a-days, and players were not allowed to leave campus between practices. When they did leave, he tracked them down and hauled them back to the practice field. Hall wore a permanent scowl on his face and was so single-minded that he became a curiosity. Players will never forget Hall shouting instructions to them from the back of a moving ambulance carrying an injured player to the hospital.

  “I look back on him as that old-time football guy, leather-faced and very intense,” said Keith Schuler, who played for Hall for two seasons. “He probably did as much as he could with the talent he had.”

  The varsity team finished 1–4 in league play in 1977 and 2–3 the following season. By that time, the losing had begun to wear on Ed Hall.

  “I remember Ed running on the track and it seemed like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Kelly said. “He wanted to bring these kids victories and he couldn’t. He was frustrated, but he was most frustrated for the kids.”

  Hall’s resignation stunned the administration, but many of his players saw it coming. By the end of his final season, the man whose boundless energy established the program looked completely drained.

  “He was a very forward-thinking person,” said Pat Mullen, who was the first quarterback at De La Salle. “He knew we were going to be good someday. He’d say, ‘When De La Salle is a powerhouse you can say you were on the first team.’ ”

  4

  A DEFLATING DEBUT

  The first team dinner of the 2002 season is in a Walnut Creek home that feels more like a small estate. Players eat on the patio as a waterfall trickles into a swimming pool. They gaze down at the private tennis court and batting cage below.

  Parents have spent the afternoon preparing fifteen pounds of pasta, twenty loaves of garlic bread, and 180 pieces of grilled chicken. Players finish their third and fourth helpings and disappear into the house to play video games, shoot pool, or watch football on TV.

  The team dinners began in 1982. Bob Ladouceur was searching for a remedy to the slow starts that had plagued his first three seasons as head coach. He wanted players mentally and emotionally ready to play the night before the game. He remembered his high school coach inviting him and his teammates to his home on Thursday nights for homemade ice cream and to review the game plan—and he started the same tradition at De La Salle.

  The 1982 team dominated early in games and finished undefeated for the first time in school history. Eventually, desserts turned into full-blown meals organized by parents. The meeting evolved along with the menu. What began as review sessions turned into intimate team-building exercises. By 2002, players so look forward to the team dinners that the locker room empties quickly after Thursday’s practice.

  For Ladouceur, Thursday nights can be a chore. Although important work lies ahead, he’s in no hurry to start the meeting as he sips bottled water in the fading light.

  This is not a good team, at least by De La Salle standards, and it isn’t getting any better. Practices have lacked the trademark intensity. Nobody is hitting. Quarterback Britt Cecil continues to struggle. Ladouceur had to stop his offensive linemen during a drill earlier in the week and shame them into getting off the ball and sustaining blocks, and shaming is something he loathes doing.

  In more than twenty practices thus far, Ladouceur estimates he has seen maybe a half-dozen offensive plays that have satisfied him. The effort he has witnessed might be good enough to beat Archbishop Mitty, against whom the Spartans will open their season in 24 hours, but it won’t be enough to beat Hawaiian power St. Louis in two weeks.

  “It’s like this team doesn’t think it can lose,” assistant coach Mark Panella grumbled after practice earlier in the week. “What were they, six or seven years old the last time we lost a game? They think all they have to do is put on a jersey and they’ll win.”

  Terry Eidson was decidedly more upbeat after a chapel service earlier Thursday. Players opened up and spoke from the heart, which is almost as important as what takes place on the practice field. It was the first positive sign he had seen from this team, and it could not have come at a more opportune time.

  “I feel we have a chance now,” he said. “They’re getting it. It’s more than just a game. That’s what you want to see. I think we’ll get the effort.”

  Then he added: “Now we’ll let Lad work his magic tonight.”

  Ladouceur removes the napkin from his lap, pushes his chair back, and contemplates the dessert tray. It’s time for a wake-up call that many of Coach Lad’s assistants are convinced is long overdue.

  “Let’s get this thing started,” he says finally, rising from his chair.

  Coaches separate players into position groups to make final adjustments and set goals for the following night’s game. The offensive line, for example, may make one hundred percent pass protection and two hundred yards rushing its goal. The defensive line’s goal may be to hold opposing backs to less than seventy-five total yards and register three sacks.

  This also is a time when position coaches can talk to their units individually before Ladouceur addresses the team as a whole. Ladouceur always considers his offensive line a microcosm of his team. He tells them where they stand.

  “I’m trying to warn you,” he tells them. “I’m not even thinking about dominating another line right now. I just hope you guys don’t embarrass yourselves.”

  Players gather in the garage when the position meetings break up. Ladouceur stands in the front of the room, deep in thought, his sunglasses hanging from the collar of his gray golf shirt as the sound of metal folding chairs squeaking against the polished cement floor fills the room. When everybody has settled in it gets so silent that the muffled conversations of parents can be heard through the locked door.

  “First of all, when you enter somebody’s home you behave like gentlemen,” he begins, referring to his players’ mad scramble to the dessert tray after dinner, a display that forced him to throw down his napkin and quell the riot. “You don’t bum-rush the dessert counter. You clean up after yourself. You say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to the parents. You’re in someone else’s home. I don’t give a shit how you act in your own home. But when you’re in somebody else’s home you’re a guest, an invited guest, and you behave like one. You treat the property and the people in it with respect.

  “That bum-rush to the dessert tray was embarrassing and unbecoming of you as gentlemen. Like you weren’t going to get a dessert, and even if you didn’t, what were you going to do, throw a tantrum? Are you going to go hungry? Come on.”

  Maybe it’s his soft-spoken manner that makes Ladouceur such a powerful public speaker. He is unflinchingly honest and direct. Even coaches sit spellbound as he paces back and forth in front of a water heater, his voice rising and falling for emphasis. He has prepared no notes. He speaks from the heart, thinking things through as he speaks, creating dramatic pauses that last an eternity.

  I’m the dean of coaches. I’ve been coaching longer than almost anybody else in the Bay Area. I’m not saying I’m the best coach. I’m just saying I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen a lot of teams. I think that’s my strength as a coach. I’m not a genius. I’m not brilliant as a coach. But my strength is being able to tell you guys if you’re playing up to your abilities. That I do know.

  One thing to understand throughout this year is what I tell you will be my perception of the truth. I’m not going to bullshit you, I’m not going to lie to you or make up shit to try to fire you up—none of that stu
ff. I’m going to give you exact feedback of what I see and what I hear.

  Here’s how the meeting is going to go. I’m not going to give you any pregame talk tomorrow. I don’t give speeches. Don’t anticipate some guy firing you up, whether it’s a teammate or a coach. I don’t want to do it and I don’t want them to have to do it [pointing to his assistant coaches]. Do it yourself. If you sit there and say, “I need somebody to fire me up,” that’s horseshit. It doesn’t happen that way. It all comes from within your own heart.…

  The dim overhead light casts Ladouceur’s features in shadow, creating the illusion that there are bottomless black pools where his eyes should be. Players sit like statues in their metal chairs, staring straight ahead, engrossed.

  I’m just going to talk to you tonight, because tonight, you’re going to have to decide what you want to be as a team. I’ve had at least three or four people come up to me since the middle of last summer and ask, “What kind of team do you have this year? What’s the team like this year?” I’m honest with them. I tell them I don’t know.…

  Here’s what I see from you. Every team needs leaders to cut the path and followers who make it wider. Every great team has to have followers, guys who will go, “I believe in this guy, I’m going to do what he says; I’m going to follow his lead. I’m going to be right beside him, whatever he wants.” It’s OK to be a follower depending upon what you’re following. I’m a follower. I’m a leader and a follower and I’ll gladly FOLLOW ANYTHING I BELIEVE IN OR ANY PERSON I BELIEVE IN. I will follow.

  Last year, I think we had a very good group of leaders and you acknowledged and recognized that in them and were good followers. Those sons of bitches took every challenge head on, welcomed it, wanted it, couldn’t wait for it. They practiced like it, too. They kicked the shit out of you in practice every week to get themselves ready for the game. When the game came they were fearless and they played like it. It looks like you guys are looking around going, “Where are those leaders?”

  The effort you put in during the off-season was commendable but it has not translated onto the field. To be honest with you, I think a lot of you are afraid of contact and mixing it up. I’m sorry, but this game requires that of its leaders. I can talk a great game, lift a corner of the weight room, run through the agility stations, but if I don’t hit and I’m not physical on that field, my leadership qualifications drop dramatically. If I’m not a tough son of a bitch on that field, my leadership credibility is diminished.

  You’ve got to decide what you want to be. Because I get the feeling from you as a team that you want to jump up on the throne and let us place the championship ring on your finger. You’re at De La Salle and you deserve that. You guys think you DESERVE that? DO YOU THINK THOSE OTHER TEAMS DIDN’T EARN THAT AND FIGHT FOR IT AND BLEED FOR IT ON THE PRACTICE FIELD? Damn right they did. But it seems like you guys want to hop up on the throne without going through all that. WELL, YOU’RE FOOLING YOURSELF.…

  I talked to the offensive line and hopefully it will be the alarm that wakes them up because next week and down the road they’re going run up against lines that will tear them a new asshole unless they wake up. And then I don’t know where you’re going to be. I don’t know what you’re going to think about that.

  I had a discussion with Coach Eidson. He’s concerned, rightfully, about you guys. I said, “Hey Terry. They’re either going to do it or they’re not. Have we spent less time with them or prepped them less than any squad we’ve ever had? No. They’re going to have to do it themselves.” One thing he said I agreed with. He said, “Yeah, but I hate posers. They think they’re going to do it and believe they deserve it but they won’t go out there and do it.” Hey, that may be who you are.

  That’s my answer to all the people that ask me what kind of team I have. I don’t know. I tell them we’re ragged, not very aggressive, but we do have our moments out there. We have moments of brilliance, but for the most part we’re inconsistent, mistake-prone, ragged, and not very physical. I’m not blowing smoke their way. I tell them flat out. ‘If they continue on this path they definitely won’t beat St. Louis and Poly.’ Now I’m being honest with you. If you do not have a jump in intensity and leadership, if you don’t have a dramatic jump, I’m telling you now, and I don’t mean to be pessimistic, but I just want you to understand this: There are consequences to your play. You will not beat St. Louis and you will not beat Poly with the intensity you’re bringing. That’s all the way across the board.

  That’s where we are, and as much as you don’t want to hear that, that’s my assessment. Right now we’re in over our heads. Do I feel that you guys can pull this off and earn the right to sit on the throne? Yeah, I do.

  I’m not hoping you play well tomorrow. YOU HAVE TO. You have to play well tomorrow. If we had all these big games coming up at the end of the year, I’d say, “We’ve got time.” You don’t have time. The time is right now. You have to play well starting tomorrow night. Now is a decision time for you as a team, as a group of seniors, as a group of returners.

  It’s not going to be easy. Even if you make that decision, even if you step your game up and you guys are playing at your ability level, it’s STILL NOT GOING TO BE EASY. YOU ARE STILL GOING TO FIGHT YOUR ASS OFF FOR VICTORIES IN THOSE GAMES.

  OK, I spoke long enough. But, hey, this has been building. I’ve been patient with you. I’ve been patient. I’ve been saying let’s wait, it’s only been three days, it’s only been four days, it’s only been a week; we’ve only been in pads for seven days.… Time’s up. Either step up or prepare for the consequences.

  There are several moments of awkward silence as his words sink in. The spell is finally broken when players are told to begin reviewing their offensive and defensive checklists, or specific things to be aware of during the game, such as when a team is prone to running a certain play out of a particular formation.

  When the checklists are completed, it’s the players’ turn to speak.

  “I don’t want any saber-rattling,” Ladouceur warns. “That’s not what this is about. Talk about yourself, the guy playing next to you, your friend, or your group. That’s fine. This is about you, mostly, and our team, if you want to speak to our team. But make sure you include yourself in it.”

  Ladouceur believes that his teams win because they care—not about winning, but about one another. Most people spend their lives suppressing the power of raw emotion, choking it back whenever it bubbles to the surface. Ladouceur taps into the individual emotional tributaries of his players and channels them into an unstoppable force.

  The process begins during the off-season program, when players spend countless hours together and become heavily invested in the season before it even starts. It continues during these weekly meetings, when players stand and deliver heartfelt testimonials. You can’t play for Ladouceur unless you’re willing to stand in front of your teammates and bare your soul. You can’t play unless you’re willing to cry.

  Maurice Drew felt Ladouceur’s wrath during a noontime film session when he was caught horsing around. It was a sign of the immaturity plaguing the team. Drew is the first player to stand.

  “I’ll start out,” he says, examining his sneakers. “I’d like to apologize to the team for what I did today at lunch. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  This is kicker Tony Binswanger’s first full season on varsity. The senior stands up in the back of the room and tells his teammates how much they mean to him, even if the nature of his position can make it difficult to feel as if he’s an integral part of the team. “What we have here we’ll never have in college,” he says.

  “The last three years I’ve been in love with this program,” senior Erik Sandie says. “It’s my life. This team is what I am. I love you guys like brothers.”

  Chris Mulvanny transferred to De La Salle following his sophomore year and struggled to fit in. The 190-pound defensive end clashed with his new coaches and teammates and spent the majority of the season on the
bench. He has been Geldermann’s whipping boy during the first four weeks of practice. He’s athletic but undisciplined, leaving his passing lane when he sees a direct line to the quarterback and failing to stay home to guard against reverses.

  “Nobody works harder than us,” he says. “Not St. Louis, not Long Beach Poly. I don’t think anybody, anywhere, gets up at five in the morning to lift weights.”

  The testimonials continue as player after player speaks about the need to come together as a team and start performing like they know they can. The notable exception is Britt Cecil. The inexperienced quarterback remains silent, with his head down, even as Panella and his offensive teammates throw anticipatory glances his way.

  They wonder when the offensive team leader will start acting like one.

  “I want to hear from our quarterback,” Panella finally says, disgusted.

  Cecil rises reluctantly to his feet, his eyes never leaving the floor.

  “I hadn’t really planned on saying anything because I’m unproven,” he says softly, forcing those in the back to strain to hear. “Until I prove myself and prove that I can play, I don’t feel like I should be talking to you guys about it.”

  It’s almost ten o’clock when the meeting ends. Players stack chairs neatly in the corner of the garage, thank the hosts, and file silently through the door.

  ★ ★ ★

  Owen Owens Field embodies the name of the team that calls it home. It’s Spartan to the core. But when the sun goes down and the lights come up, and it’s all decked out for a Friday night high school football game, it glows.

  The stadium seats 3,500, but 6,000 can squeeze in if people stand six-deep in the end zones, as they often do. The bleachers on the home sideline are actually located inside the all-purpose track and extend to within a few feet of the playing surface. A well-struck extra point can land in the condominium complex next door. The Spartans haven’t lost a game at this quirky venue since 1989, but few old-timers know who Owen Owens was and why this unremarkable stadium bears his name.