C’mon, Bo, Sock One for Woody

All right, Miss Trueheart, put down the phone and take a letter, if I’m not interrupting anything. Mark it personal and send it express mail to Bo Schembechler.

No, that’s not a blood disease, it’s a man’s name. I think it’s German for “When do we start throwing the shells?” Tell the delivery guys to run like hell the minute they deliver it. OK?

“Dear Bo,

“I hate to tell you this, but you’re a terrible disappointment to all of us this time around. As a Big Ten coach, you leave a lot to be desired. I think you’ve lost the hop on your fast one, Coach.

“I hate to say you’re turning into a wimp, but let’s put it this way: Alan Alda gets the part if they make your life into a movie. People will talk about ‘fine, sensitive performances.’ That’s the kind of image you’re projecting.

“What have you been doing, Bo, eating quiche? Next, you’ll be showing up in gold chains and sockless and saying, ‘Let’s do lunch at the Ma.’

“Bo, let me tell you what a Big Ten coach is like--a real Big Ten coach, say, a Woody Hayes. Ah, Woody! Now, there was a Big Ten coach!

“First of all, Woody would look around for the nearest photographer to bop. Now, this was before he lost. Then, he would form his team in a circle like the pioneers in Indian territory. He would hide them in a monastery so they could not meet any you-know-whos and you-know-whats. Any--come closer--go-go dancers. Woody knew Gomorrah when he saw it.

“I’m told you submit graciously to press conferences, Bo. Now, that’s shocking. I didn’t attend any because I already knew what a Big Ten press conference was like. Lord knows, I went to enough of them.

“Woody’s press conferences were the soul of brevity, to mix a metaphor. Woody had two answers: ‘No comment,’ and ‘What did you want to ask a stupid question like that for, stupid?’

“Woody never let you see his players. I think he was afraid the West Coast wouldn’t show up if he did. He let you see films. As horror art, I would say those films ranked someplace between ‘Dracula’ and ‘The Bride Of Frankenstein.’ You used to wonder what waterfront dive in Marseilles he got these players from. They looked like the crew of a pirate ship.

“They didn’t play any of that la-dee-dah football they tell me your team plays. Woody never put the ball in the air for anything other than the point after touchdown. Their style of play was early German Army. Find a point of attack and pour those steel helmets through until the enemy was up to its hips in the Channel.

“Woody will be gravely disappointed if he finds out you’re going to throw the ball at all, Bo. What kind of sissy stuff is that for a real American? I mean, would Georgie Patton drop leaflets? Call in the Navy? Hardly. He’d tell them to take that hill or he’d personally slap every one of them and write home to their mamas that they were gutless.

“Forget forward passes, Bo. Go out there and kick butt. Tell them how General Grant did it. That’s the way Woody would do it. We don’t want to see some fancy-pants, girls’ hockey game football from a Big Ten team, now, do we? What is this, beach volleyball or a man’s game?

“You’ve got something called Arizona State to play in the Rose Bowl, whoever they are. I mean, it’s not to be confused with a real Pac-10 team like UCLA or USC now, is it?

“But that doesn’t mean you have to be gracious in victory--we take it for granted you’ll be churlish in defeat; I mean, Woody taught you something the years you worked for him, didn’t he?

“Woody once barely beat an Oregon team that he was favored to beat by three or four touchdowns. Woody was undaunted. In the locker room afterward, he went on the attack. He demanded to know who the star of the game was. The startled scribes, who had voted for the Oregon quarterback, were told it was the field goal kicker who had won the game but had not played another down in the whole game.

“When Woody won, he used to allow as how the team he had just beat would be hard put to finish as high as seventh in a real conference--like the Big Ten. When Woody lost, of course, he used to slug the rival players who beat him, particularly when they did it with little treacheries like pass interceptions.

“In Woody’s world, real men didn’t throw passes and certainly did not intercept them, and the balance of the belief is Woody really wanted to punch his guy for throwing the ball in the first place but the guy who caught it was closer. Woody usually had to punch somebody.

“What was it Churchill said about people like Woody? ‘Indomitable in defeat, insufferable in victory?’

“They tell me you haven’t punched anybody, stalked out of a press conference, suggested out loud that Arizona State looks to you like a bunch of drugstore cowboys. That’s depressing. Anti-art. Erich Von Stroheim playing a priest. What are you, Bo, a football coach or a guy running for alderman?

“I can tell by reading my colleagues how you have frustrated the flower of American journalism out here. We can’t handle Big Ten coaches with halos, feeding birds or reading breviaries. We want the real article, Bo.

“I’m counting on you to come out of this, to make an ass of yourself on the sidelines New Year’s Day. Punch somebody, throw your cap, scream at the officiating. If, God forbid, you should lose again, for God’s sake, don’t be a man about it! Sulk, sob, kick a wall, hold your breath. Go into hiding. No more Mr. Nice Guy. It doesn’t play, Bo. This is Hollywood. We like our Big Ten coaches to stay in character.

“When Woody lost out here one year and we couldn’t find him with a posse and a hunting dog, someone asked the sports writer Wells Twombly where he was and Wells grinned delightedly. ‘He’s gone back to the bunker,’ he giggled.

“That’s the part we want from you, Bo. Don’t let us down anymore. We’ll get you a monocle and a riding crop if you want. You want the kids to think you don’t care? Show them how a real coach acts! Hail to the Tantrums Valiant! Go Blue! Language, that is!”