January 7, 2011

For the past three years I
have been granted unfettered access to the Michigan football program,
from the film room to the locker room, to write a book about what I’ve
seen.  Titled Third and Long: Three Years with Rich Rodriguez
and the Michigan Wolverines, it will come out this fall.   

Before I walked into my first
staff meeting, I thought I knew college football, and particularly Michigan
football, as well as anyone out there.  But after three years of
seeing everything up close, I can tell you this unequivocally: I had
no idea. 

College football is based on
a central conflict: It’s a billion-dollar business that can generate
enough revenue to fund whole athletic departments and enough passion
to fuel endowment drives for entire universities, but it’s all built
on the backs of stressed-out coaches and amateur athletes. 

College athletic departments
now resemble modern racehorses: They’re bigger, faster and more powerful
than ever, but still supported by the same spindly legs that break too
easily and too often.  Michigan’s $226 million renovation of
its stadium—already the largest in the country, and twice as big as
many NFL stadiums—the coaches’ spiraling salaries, and the seemingly
insatiable need to build new facilities for its 26 other varsity programs,
all depend on selling football tickets, seat licenses, luxury suites
and TV rights.  And all that still depends on the arm of a 20-year-old
quarterback, or the foot a 19-year-old kicker.   

That’s why coaches work 100-hour
weeks recruiting, practicing and watching endless hours of film—only
to see that 19-year-old kid miss the kick anyway.  When that happens,
the head coach can expect to get thousands of nasty emails, and just
a few hours of fitfull sleep. 

The coaches have to ask their
players to work almost as hard — not just on the field but in the weight
room and in the classroom.  I followed Michigan’s Big Ten MVP
quarterback, Denard Robinson, for one day, which started at 7 a.m. with
treatment for his swollen knee, followed by weightlifting, classes,
an interview with ESPN Radio, more treatment, meetings, practice, a
third round of treatment, dinner and study table.  When he walked
out of the academic center at 10 p.m., two middle-aged men who’d been
waiting all night asked him to sign a dozen glossy photos.  I went
home exhausted—and I hadn’t done anything more than take notes. 

Conditioning, however, was
even harder.  I worked out with the strength coaches for six weeks,
just to see what it was like.  They doubled my bench press and
tripled my squat – and also showed me I could throw up from running
or weight lifting.  I had not known that.  After
each workout I collapsed on my couch for an hour or two —not to nap,
mind you, but to whimper in the fetal position like a little kid.   

How those players got any school
work done at the end of those days is a mystery to me.  And, thanks
to Michigan’s self-imposed penalties, the Wolverines actually worked
fewer hours than the NCAA allowed. What they do is not against the
rules—that’s the real story there—it’s just very, very hard. 

If any of Michigan’s 125
players do any of these things poorly, or not at all, that’s the head
coach’s problem.  And if any of those failures hit the papers,
the talk shows or the blogs, it’s an even bigger headache.   

This beast we have created
may be bigger and stronger, but the coach’s job security still rests
on kids who might weigh 300 pounds and can squat twice that, but still
can’t grow a respectable mustache.  They really are just kids. 

Having seen it all up close,
I know this much: I don’t care how much money the head coach gets
paid or how famous the quarterback is.  I would not trade with
either of them.  And if you saw how they lived, as I did, you might
not either.