Success Is Fleeting at New Mexico : College football: An unexpected victory lets the team forget the losses for a moment, but it doesn’t save the coach’s job.

It is Saturday morning, 10 hours before New Mexico, one of the losingest teams in major college football, will play Air Force and 48 hours before Lobo Coach Mike Sheppard will lose his job.

The statement, when released Monday by Dr. Gary Ness, New Mexico’s athletic director, will thank Sheppard for his loyal service and applaud his work ethic. “However,” it will read, “the appropriate time for changing the leadership and direction of the program has arrived.”

And that will be that. Sheppard and his 16 assistants will be dismissed at season’s end. After five years and, at last count, only eight victories in 57 tries, Sheppard will be gone but never forgotten by the 86 New Mexico players who were there the night something strange and wonderfully unexpected happened.

Killing time at the Inn. . . . 9:10 a.m.

Wide receiver Carl Winston fakes an out pattern near the Chevy Corsica, cuts back toward the school bus and catches a perfectly thrown spiral over the outstretched radio antenna of a Volkswagen Jetta.

Sadly enough, this will probably be as good as gets for the Lobos, who begin the morning 1-8, in last place in the Western Athletic Conference, in last place in eight league statistical categories, in last place among 106 Division I-A teams in total defense, in last place among the locals and in last place in the eyes of the afternoon Albuquerque newspaper, which didn’t bother to mention a word Friday about New Mexico’s upcoming game against bowl-bound Air Force. There was, however, a front-page story stripped across the top of the sports section that previewed a Lobo basketball scrimmage.

The parking lot of the Midtown Holiday Inn, proud game-day home of the gawd-awful Lobos, is where the New Mexico skill players--the quarterbacks, the running backs and the wide receivers--start their morning. Still sleepy, the players shuffle out into the chilly air and start running half-hearted pass patterns between the parked cars.

Dressed in their red and silver sweatsuits, they move with all of the excitement of a funeral procession. Standing nearby is Lobo offensive coordinator Jan Quarless, or “Coach Q” as he is called by his players.

Quarless came to New Mexico last year, a veteran of two ugly seasons at Kansas (combined record 4-18) and then Northwestern (2-19-1). But this was going to be different, he had told himself. This was going to be the start of something good.

Before his arrival, there had been talk of a bond proposal that would help pay for, among other things, a renovated stadium, a new weight room and a new locker room. As it was, you could impale yourself on one of the bolts sticking from some of the wooden bleachers at University Stadium. The weight room was as big as an oversized garage and the locker room was as small as a studio apartment.

But as has often been the case at New Mexico, nothing happened.

“The bond went haywire,” Quarless said. “From something like $12.1 million, to $6.9 million, to $3.9 million, to zilch. It was never passed.”

The school did what it could, which wasn’t much. The football meeting rooms were expanded and plans were made to install new carpet in the coaches’ offices. It was a fine plan, except that the athletic department didn’t buy enough carpet to do the entire job. Rather than purchase more, two coaches went without the new stuff.

The truth is, nobody cares that much about football here. The nationally ranked Lobo basketball team is king of this campus. Its games easily outdraw those played in the 30,646-seat University Stadium, which almost always has 50-yard line views available. At New Mexico, there are no football pep rallies, no banners strung across the student union, no football-related frat row revelry.

“The kids see it, they feel it, they know it,” Quarless said of the players.

The apathy and frustration take their toll. Quarless said he has doubted himself as a coach, that he has come “damn close” to walking away from the game. But each time he catches himself, believing that there is hope for this program.

Of course, time might be running out for the staff. Married with two children, Quarless has heard the rumors about Sheppard’s job. “It weighs on my mind very heavily,” he said. “My expectations are that they might do something here very shortly.”

Quarless watches a few more passes, glances at his watch and then directs the players to one of the hotel meeting rooms, where breakfast is being served. By 9:30, the room is full.

At one of the tables is Ron Aiken, outside linebackers coach, who has returned from a recruiting trip to Mississippi. Aiken, as well as the other Lobo coaches, is somehow supposed to persuade a high school star that New Mexico is the place to play. It is a hard sell.

Undaunted by the task, New Mexico coaches accentuate the possibilities. After seasons of 0-11, 2-10, 2-10, 2-10 and now 1-8, they don’t have much choice. They tell recruits that the chance to play immediately is available, that Albuquerque is a great town, that there’s nothing like a good challenge and that the academic benefits of the university are numerous.

Then, like recruiters everywhere, they hope for the best. At New Mexico, the best rarely arrives.

The challenge . . . . 10:15 a.m.

Quarless walks to the front of the meeting room and begins pacing as his 28 offensive players shift nervously in their seats. Quarless isn’t a particularly imposing man. He wears glasses and during normal conversation is pleasant.

But Quarless hasn’t called his offense together to exchange pleasantries. He is there to tell the Lobos that the overachieving and 7-2 flyboys from Air Force can and should be beaten.

They are small, he says--no bigger than 245 or so pounds on the defensive line. They are less talented and in some cases, slower.

“But you want to know why they work their tails off six to eight seconds every play?” he shouts. “Because they know they’ll never be able to play again. This is it for them. When they leave (the Academy) they don’t have any more chances. Every game they play is one less game they have left.”

Quarless paces faster.

“I’m challenging you, dammit,” he says. “Right now, I’m challenging you. You got as much talent as they do. The question mark is: Who’s got the biggest heart?”

There is silence, broken only by a nervous cough here, a squeak from a chair there. Quarless stares at his players. After discussing the first two plays to be run that night, he dismisses the offense. His point has been made.

The head coach arrives . . . . 11:30 a.m.

If nothing else, Sheppard is organized. In his sweatsuit pocket is an itinerary of his weekend plans. Nearly every minute, from dawn to bedtime, is accounted for. He is a creature of habit, of preciseness. He insists that the schedule be followed to the letter.

By now, most of his players have returned to their rooms. It is time to nap, to relax or watch television. For Sheppard, who turned 40 last Tuesday, it is a time to worry.

He has been through this before. At Cal State Long Beach, he led the 49ers to seasons of 4-7, 6-6 and 6-5 before taking the New Mexico job in 1987. Sheppard said he didn’t want to leave Long Beach, but when the university couldn’t make up its mind about the future of the program, he had no choice but to leave.

He chose New Mexico because he liked its potential. He had seen what Coach Joe Morrison had done here in 1982--win 10 games--and decided he could do the same thing.

He was wrong. The facilities were semi-dismal. The tradition non-existent. The budget lacking. The scholarship situation untenable.

That was five years ago. Now Sheppard understands.

The tipoff came in the final game of the 1987 season, a 43-25 loss to Arkansas at Little Rock. Because of injuries, he had only 14 healthy defensive players that day. At one point he looked down the sideline, only to see one of his defensive coaches talking to a fullback.

“Uh, Coach, what’s going on?” Sheppard asked his assistant.

“Well, Coach, if one more guy goes down at linebacker, he’s going in.”

Sheppard doesn’t laugh when tells the story.

“I remember thinking to myself, ‘This is going to be tough,’ ” Sheppard said.

Before the 1990 season, Sheppard thought his program had turned the corner. It had, only to run into a brick wall. There were injuries, miscalculations and unrealistic expectations. There were heartbreaks, last-second losses and blowouts.

The simple fact was this: The Lobos still weren’t very good.

This season there have been newspaper polls asking readers if Sheppard should be retained or fired. The vote: fire him. For his weekly radio call-in show, which is broadcast from a local restaurant, Sheppard has walked in wearing an oversized T-shirt with a red target on it.

“I expect to go in there and get shot at,” he said.

Actually, the callers are usually tame in their criticism. The real shots take place in the letters-to-the-editor column. It is there that Sheppard is sliced and diced on a regular basis.

“I can say this: We’ve gotten more competitive every year we’ve been here,” he said.

The seniors . . . . 2 p.m.

Nineteen seniors will play their last home game tonight. None of them will play harder than linebacker Kim McCall or offensive guard Steve Slater.

McCall, an Albuquerque high school star, stayed at home to make his mother happy. New Mexico was not necessarily his first choice--Colorado State and Texas El Paso wanted him, too--but what with his father’s death and his mother’s wishes, McCall thought it best to stay put.

His memories of his Lobo career are filled with disappointment and losses--an astounding 47 losses, each one more painful than the next.

When Fresno State beat the Lobos, 94-17, earlier this year, McCall said he nearly had nightmares as a result.

His recollection of last year’s loss to Brigham Young doesn’t have anything to do with the score--55-31--but with the sight of 66,000 Cougar fans crammed into BYU Stadium. The same goes for his trip to Austin, Tex., where the Lobos lost to the Longhorns, 47-0. A sellout audience caused him to get goose pimples.

“Here it’s a different story,” he said. “Here, we more or less have to take what we get.”

Slater, who will start his 46th consecutive game, has witnessed the same type of lows.

“I come to college for a winning experience, and then this happens,” he said. “I mean, I can’t even remember the wins, it’s been so long. I’ll tell you, I’d trade all those starts for us to have had one winning season. I mean, last year, my junior year, I thought we were going to kill everyone.”

He pauses, tugs at the bill of his San Francisco 49er cap and glances around the hotel lobby. “But we didn’t,” he says. “I mean, geez. . . . “

McCall and Slater haven’t given up, though. To the contrary.

“Hey, we can still win that next game,” McCall said. “I always think we can win the next game.”

Special teams. . . .2:45 p.m.

Vic Eumont, who looks as if he could pinch your neck off with the squeeze of his beefy fingers, conducts the special teams meeting. Eumont, whose official title is assistant head coach/defensive line, goes through the list of assignments for the various kickoff, field goal and punt teams.

“OK, count ‘em off,” he says to one of the players on the kickoff return team.

And so he begins to count, getting up to seven before having to start over again.

“Uh, son, there’s 11 on the team,” Eumont said.

The players lecture. . . . 4:30 p.m.

The pregame meal 90 minutes earlier had been predictably quiet. For a change of pace, Sheppard ordered chicken instead of steak.

“Can you believe that?” Sheppard said. “Some of the players said they were tired of steak.”

Now it was time for the team’s final meeting before leaving for the stadium on two charter buses. Chicken or steak wasn’t on the players’ minds. Air Force was, the same Air Force team that had beaten them, 63-14, in 1988.

Sheppard moves to the front of the room and looks at his list of pregame notes. He has spent about the last hour in his hotel room going over every detail, making sure he has forgotten nothing of importance. At last, he speaks.

“I can only remember twice in my 4 1/2 years here where I thought a team was running it up against us,” he said.

“Air Force was one, the other was Fresno. When something like that happens to a family, you go crazy, that you can’t wait to get on that field. Now we had some seniors who were at that Air Force game four years ago. I’d like them to stand up and tell us what they remember.”

One player: “It really degraded me.”

Another player: “I didn’t know if it was going to stop or not.”

Another player: “Hey, it’s our chance to kick their butts.”

The meeting ends after a the team gathers around the coach and yells, in unison, “Family!”

As Sheppards walks out, you can see a notation at the top of his card.

“Game Card vs. AFA,” it reads. “Payback.”

Pregame. . . .6:20 p.m.

It is cold, 39 degrees and dropping. The wind whips through the stadium, causing New Mexico band members to wince. Some of the Lobo players have taped their helmet earholes shut. David Margolis, the barefoot kicker, is wearing three socks. Several of the Air Force players have wrapped towels around their facemasks. Others, perhaps trying to psych out the opposition, warm up in game pants and T-shirts only.

As the Lobos stretch, Sheppard goes up to each player and pats him on the back or helmet. Then he glances up at the bleachers.

They are two-thirds empty.

Pregame. . . . 6:50 p.m.

Fifteen minutes until kickoff. The players huddle around defensive coordinator Dan Brown, who has asked to address the team.

There, a few feet away from a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s verse, Brown begins working the team into a lather. He ends it with, “Say it after me: ‘I want the seniors to win their last home game!’ ”

You can hear their response half a block away.

Dashing out of the locker room, each player reaches up and slaps a sign placed over the door. It says, “WIN.”

The Game . . . . 7:05 .

First quarter: Air Forces scores on the third play of the game on an 85-yard run. That done, New Mexico answers with its own touchdown. And then another. And another. By the end of the quarter, the Lobos lead, 21-14.

“All night long,” Lobo center Justin Hall says. “All night long.”

Third-team quarterback Jeremy Leach knows better. He approaches starting quarterback Stoney Case.

“Stoney, I’m serious. Whoever scores last, wins,” he said.

Second quarter: Air Force kicks a field goal, cutting the lead to 21-17. After that, nothing. For once, the sieve-like rushing defense of the Lobos is holding firm against one of the best rushing offenses in the country.

“You wouldn’t know this team is 1-8, would you,” said Marcus Goodloe, the backup quarterback.

Another New Mexico player walks toward the bench. He is shivering. There is cotton stuffed in his ears.

Halftime: Sheppard and his staff sit on a stairwell near the locker room and discuss possible adjustments. As they do, the Air Force mascot, a young cadet dressed in a Falcon costume, walks by. His oversized yellow claws smack against the floor.

Sheppard’s final instructions: “Play to win.”

Third quarter: Six of the New Mexico coaches have returned to their view high above the field. There in their glass-enclosed box they call plays, scream, chew tobacco, chew gum, chew sunflower seeds, drink coffee, diet cola and hot chocolate.

Eumont and Quarless do most of the talking.

“Play within the confines of the offense,” he says after Case throws an interception.

“No, no, no,” moaned Eumont after Air Force takes the lead, 24-21.

“That’s the way,” Eumont said when the Lobos regain the lead, 28-24, late in the quarter.

Fourth quarter: The Air Force quarterback, Rob Perez, breaks a tackle, causing Eumont to slam his fist against the table and curse. Elderly Lobo boosters in the next room recoil in horror.

Eumont isn’t done. When New Mexico is penalized for a facemask penalty, he throws his glass of ice water against one of the windows. No one says a word or dares wipe the water from their faces.

The Lobos kick a field goal. Air Force scores a touchdown, converts the two-point try and takes a 32-31 lead with 3:56 to play. Lt. Gen. Bradley Hosmer, the Air Force Academy superintendent, can be seen dancing on the Falcon sideline.

In the end, it comes down to a 30-yard field goal attempt by Margolis. He peels off the socks, jogs to the hashmark, waits for the snap and then, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world, kicks the ball through the uprights.

Fifty-seven seconds later, New Mexico has won.

Postgame . . . . 10:13 p.m.

Air Force Coach Fisher DeBerry meets Sheppard at midfield.

“If anybody ever deserved to win a game like this, it was you,” DeBerry said as they shook hands.

Into the locker room the players go, but not before some of them fall to the ground in joy. Others stare disbelievingly at the scoreboard, which shimmers with the improbable results.

Once inside, there are more hugs. A player sprays soda on anyone who moves. Another player walks in carrying balloons. Then there is Sheppard, who leaps into the air, fist raised, and lands near McCall, who is crying.

“There’s been some big wins around here,” Sheppard said, “but I don’t know if I’ve ever been around any bigger than this. I want to thank you.”

His voice is breaking up.

“The best I’ve ever felt,” McCall said later. “It was cold out there, but as soon as we had a chance to win, I felt so warm. I could have run out there in my underwear.”

Said Slater: “Finally.”

Sheppard leaves the locker room for his radio show. Then he talks to reporters. At last, he retreats to his office.

“When you lose, you go home,” he said. “When you win, you almost feel like you can go out (in public).”

And that he will do. For one night, the facilities, the attitude, the apathy, the record didn’t matter.

“You can see the happiness, the joy of the players who fought so hard,” he said. “You see the assistant coaches and their families crying. The rewards are the highs like tonight.”

Sheppard leaves the office shortly after midnight. He is the last one out of the building.

The Aftermath .

On Monday, Sheppard is fired. He will leave, he said, knowing he left the program in better shape than when he arrived.