8802090285 DETROIT FREE PRESS 880909 Friday, September 09, 1988 METRO EDITION

SPT

1D Photo Color WILLIAM DEKAY MITCH ALBOM SEE ALSO METRO FINAL 1D Copyright (c) 1988, Detroit Free Press FOOTBALL IS BO'S LIFE HE IS THE LAST OF THE ONE-NAME COACHES "I have waited each year for that moment. . . . I have watched for that miraculous synthesis. . . . When it comes, I look around my field, I look at my boys, and I want to shout to the sun: 'By God, I have created a team!" Pat Conroy, "The Prince Of Tides" ANN ARBOR -- For five awful minutes he was gone, he had bid farewell, there would be no more teams, no more autumns, no more blocking and tackling on Saturday afternoons. Bo Schembechler was being wheeled into surgery, a quadruple bypass operation, and he figured that was it, another heart attack, his second open heart surgery, he was truly pushing the outside of that fleshy envelope. When he awoke, if he awoke, the coaching -- his love, his life, his passion -- would have to stop. And they operated. And he awoke. And he heard the doctor being asked if Michigan's greatest coach would be able to do it anymore. And the doctor said, "Yes." Bo raised his eyebrows. The shortest retirement in the history of college football had just come to an end. I really had accepted that it was over," he says now, sitting in a classroom, squeezed into one of these desk/chairs you always find in college. "If I wanted to survive I had to change my life. I knew that. I was ready. I really was. "And then there's that press conference and the doctor said it was OK and I said, "Well, holy smoke! THIS IS NEAT!" He slaps his knee and laughs as if that was the funniest joke he'd ever heard. And Bo is back. In his shorts and shirt and blue Michigan cap, he does not look 59, he does not look like a man about to begin his 20th season on the Ann Arbor campus. He simply looks like all real football coaches look in September: grizzled and explosive and ready to go. In a few minutes, the doors will open and the room will be filled with his players and he will address them. Their first game is Saturday at Notre Dame. Already you can hear the gathering in the hall, squeaky sneakers and deep voices. I notice Schembechler's left foot has begun to bounce anxiously, revving up. There is a knock on the door. John Kolesar, his star receiver, pokes his head in, apologizes, and asks, in almost reverent tones, if he can speak to Bo at his convenience. "Whadya you need me for?" "Well, I gotta meet with some writers later and I know they're going to ask about our quarterback situation and, um, what should I tell them?" The coach snorts. "Say if it's thrown anywhere near you, you'll catch it." And the door politely closes. Bo is back. Right where he belongs -- with a whistle around his neck and a swagger in his walk and 100 young soldiers just praying for a nod, a grin, say the word, coach, and we go through the fence. Changes? Sure. There have been changes. He's cheated death. He's survived another major heart operation. And he's now the athletic director as well as head coach. Other than that, it is autumn as usual; the excitable man with the sunglasses is intoxicating himself with the smell of muddy grass and touchdowns. Return to the job? Hell. He is the job. You watch Bo Schembechler and you realize you are watching a legend in hardening concrete, an antique that still works better than the new models. The heart didn't get him. The surgeons didn't get him. The Bear is gone. Woody is gone. Ara is gone. Bo is back. The last of the one-name coaches. When you were a kid, did you want to be a football player?" "Sure," he says. "I played in high school. I was a wingback. But my sophomore year, three freshmen came along that were faster than me." "What did you do?" "I went to the coach and said, 'Where are you really hurting?' He said 'Guard.' " "What did you say?" "I said 'Put me down at guard.' " Does that tell you something? Was this guy born to coach, or what? Never mind that his beloved Wolverines had a down year in 1987. Never mind that they lost to Notre Dame, Michigan State and Ohio State, an almost unheard-of triple play around these parts. Never mind that he was suffering from kidney problems that made even standing up difficult. Never mind the heart attack and the surgery and the Hall of Fame Bowl that he had to watch from bed. Never mind that he opened 1988 football practice by suspending his quarterback, Demetrius Brown for academic uncertainty (he has since been reinstated). Hey. We are dealing with formidable material here. You could build a house out of Bo Schembechler. As long as there are headphones to be thrown and players to be screamed at and character to be shaped, he will have a place and he will keep coming back. And he will win. Believe it or not, The Sporting News, in its pre-season poll, picked the Wolverines No. 1 in the country. "Aw, I think they just did that for attention," he says, growling. "Let me ask you something: How many times have you heard people since then say 'Hey, did you see who The Sporting News picked No. 1? They picked Michigan.' Sure. If they'd picked Florida State, nobody would have noticed. That's why they did it. Attention. That's all. Awww . . . bleep." At Michigan, they call that gratitude. And yet there is more to Glenn (Bo) Schembechler, the only son of an Ohio fire chief, than volume and teeth marks. I'm not sure how many college coaches are left out there who would suspend their incumbent quarterback for grades -- not failing grades, but the possibility of grades that might make him ineligible. Schembechler did it with Brown. "The misconception about Demetrius Brown is that he's been a problem. He's never been a problem. I don't know how to say this exactly, but, well, I want him to have a greater respect for the position. Which means he's got to do more than just say 'Well, I'll make this class up and be eligible.' "When he came into camp and there was a possibility he wouldn't be eligible, I wasn't going to put my other players through that. I wanted to make sure that everybody understood we could play without him if we had to." "So, I asked for his playbook. I said 'Demetrius give me your playbook. And you know what? There was sudden flurry of activity on his part. Because he wasn't so sure it wasn't gonna be permanent." Now. I don't know about you, but I find that kind of story comforting. Think about the splashy news lately in college football: Brian Bosworth claims his former Oklahoma teammates accepted large sums of money, abused steroids and once even fired a machine gun off the top of a building; Miami's Jimmy Johnson led a wild, partying bunch to the national championship; players lose their eligibility for signing with agents; drugs are rampant. And then there's Michigan. Can you imagine someone with a machine gun on a Michigan team? Schembechler would grab the thing, make the player eat the bullets, then kick him halfway to Canada. Agents? Schembechler chops your head off if you go near one. Drugs? Well. Bo Schembechler wasn't about to wait for the Supreme Court to rule on a drug policy. Around U-M, it is simple: If the coach wants you tested, you are tested. At random. Like it or leave it. "Do you get any flack from civil liberties groups?" I ask. "If you write it, I probably will." "That doesn't bother you?" "Well, the fact is, I never had anybody balk yet. I write the parents before their sons come here and I tell them when I recruit that I will do everything I can to keep the kids off drugs when they are at Michigan. And I have had nothing but support." So, you know where he stands on that. OK. Now. You want to see Bo get excited? Ask him about the new breed of coaches, the ones who seem to be running a corporation rather than a football team. He calls them "face men." "You ever see this?" he says, leaping to his feet, imitating a coach with his arms folded, standing still, gazing at the action like a prison warden. "JEEEEEZ! I was NEVER brought up to coach that way! I NEVER saw Ara do that! I NEVER saw Woody Hayes do that! I NEVER saw those guys stand on the sidelines and do NOTHING! . . . "Some of these guys -- not all of them of course -- but some of them aren't really COACHING! They're on TV, they're giving INTERVIEWS, they're at ALUMNI FUNCTIONS! That's what gets them HIRED! FACE MEN! You see, a guy like Earle Bruce, no matter what you say, that son of a bleep could COACH! But he isn't very good in front of the cameras. He doesn't take crap from people. So BOOM, he's OUT! . . . " "The problem is when people go to hire coaches these days they LOOK for that stuff! If you can CON well enough and can keep the RIGHT PEOPLE HAPPY and WIN a little bit, you'll KEEP your job! I can't BELIEVE it!" He sits back down. The wallpaper uncurls. I wait a moment, then ask Bo Schembechler, who has well over 200 college victories and 11 Big Ten titles, if he could get hired were he starting out with his philosophy today. He sighs. "I don't know," he says. "I really don't." Did you know that Bo Schembechler works without a contract? It's true. He has never had one. All these years. All the Ohio State showdowns and Rose Bowl trips. All those 103,000 screaming fans on cold Saturday afternoons. All the rumors about him being wooed someplace else. And technically, he is free to go at anytime, and the university can fire him without repercussion. Why? Who knows why, he says. That's the way it has always been at Michigan. "Bear Bryant used to tell me, (he lowers his voice to a growl) 'Bo, you the dumbest football coach in America. Let me tell you the story a' so-and-so who won the Sugar Bowl one year and they fired him the next year. . . . " "And what did you say to him?" He shrugs. "I told him it was too late." There is a lesson about Schembechler in this story. I would imagine, as big as he is, he could have demanded a contract at some point and gotten one. He would have owned a piece of paper that let him know, even if his teams stunk up the field, he would be paid X amount of dollars for five years. And he admits that, were he doing it now at some other school, "I'd get a contract for sure." But here, there is a tradition. And Bo is nothing if not respectful of tradition. They didn't have contracts when he started. He won't demand one now. "Anyhow, if the university wanted to fire me," he says, smiling, "I certainly wouldn't want to stay." Of course, that's not likely to happen, especially since Schembechler is now the athletic director, a role he really shares with Jack Weidenbach, and a move which gives new meaning to the phrase "Be Your Own Boss." When I first heard about this appointment (which Schembechler accepted only if he could continue to coach) I had this vision of Bo sitting on the 50 yard line at midnight, going through a stack of purchase orders and stamping "YES" and "NO" and "YES" and "NO." It turns out I wasn't far wrong. Each night during training camp, after the two-a-day practices and the film sessions and the coaches' meetings and the media interviews, an assistant brought Schembechler the stack of papers and he rifled through them -- yes, no, yes, no. It is true, he will certainly not ignore his football program in his new position. But it is also true that the athletic director often sets the tone for integrity on a sports campus. And I think, with Schembechler, that is in good hands. "You should see some of the mail I get," he says, laughing. "They send in football plays. Some of them have eight players on the field. Others have 14." "Do you answer those?" "No. They're nuts." There was a moment last December when a roomful of Michigan players squeezed around a telephone and sang "The Victors" to their ailing coach, who lay in bed 2,000 miles away. There are former players, guys like Jim Harbaugh with the Chicago Bears, who still can't speak of the man without a certain light of fear and respect in their eyes. Bear is gone. Woody is gone. Ara is gone. There are still a few great ones working, guys like Joe Paterno and Eddie Robinson, and soon-to-be legends like Barry Switzer and Vince Dooley and Johnson. But of the coaches for whom one name is enough, the craggy men who get in the trenches and throw the damn blocks themselves and who inspire fear and sometimes hatred and often tears but always respect -- well, we're down to Bo. When he goes, there will be a hole in the fabric of college coaching. And I'm not sure any of us realize that yet. So the good news is he is back, his foot is bouncing wildly, and the players are outside the door, psyhcing up, ready to play. Sometime this weekend, maybe during warm-ups, maybe during the opening kickoff, he may be infused with that glorious spirit that Conroy wrote about, the merging of the souls of dozens of young men. And he will look to the autumn sun and shout: "By God, I have created a team . . . AGAIN!" "Do you ever feel like you're the last of a dying breed," I ask. "You know. Like you're, well . . . "Neanderthal?" And he laughs. Those were a lonely five minutes, the Bo Schembechler "retirement." Medically, perhaps, he should still be there, some warm climate, a place where rest and a rocking chair would keep him healthy and alive. But, aww, what do doctors know? A coach is a coach. Besides, when your heart is shaped like a football, the sucker is bound to take some funny bounces. CUTLINE Wolverines coach Bo Schembechler will guide Michigan's troops for his 20th season. Bo Schembechler, in the process of creating a team. U-M;MSU;COLLEGE;FOOTBALL