‘Rudy’ Had It Easy Compared With This College Career : Football: For a true perspective on the game’s small glories, return to one of history’s worst teams.

This year’s college football season has elicited more than the usual rancor over which team is No. 1. After New Year’s Day, Nebraska and West Virginia could be undefeated, and the debate will rage on.

I have little sympathy for West Virgina, or teams that feel they should be ranked higher. I have less sympathy for fans who feel their team’s bowl is not good enough for them. In fact, I have a problem with any team that feels it has been slighted in any way. It should appreciate every victory and every game, not to mention a bowl of any kind.

I know what a victory means. I played for Columbia, and in my two years as a varsity player we didn’t win a game. My junior year in 1985, we went 0-10 and gained national attention for all the wrong reasons. I have no regrets, and if I had to do it over, I wouldn’t change a thing. Here’s what happened:

In January of 1985, Jim Garrett was hired as coach to replace Bob Naso. Garrett had coached and scouted in the NFL, and he pledged to bring a pro intensity to Columbia, an Ivy League school that has a great tradition--of academics. At the end of the 1984 season, Columbia had an 11-game losing streak that would eventually stretch to 44, the longest losing streak in major college football.

But Garrett was going to change all that in 1985. At Ivy League Media Day, he predicted Columbia would go 10-0 and win the Ivy League championship. The media loved him. He was always good for an outlandish quote and they could write about his sons--John, Jason, and Judd “The Stud.”

Garrett and his sons were going to lead Columbia to the promised land. John, a junior receiver, was a friend, fellow receiver, and classmate of mine. Quarterback Jason was an ineligible sophomore transfer from Princeton. Judd, all-state in Ohio as a high school senior, played on the freshman team.

As the season grew near, “My Three Sons” headlines abounded and Columbia fans began to believe Garrett’s rhetoric. Amid what would be called hype in the Ivy League, we departed for camp at Blair Academy, in Blairsville, N.J.

I had a terrible camp. I hurt my back and caught “dropitis,” a coach’s term for bad hands. I sat out a few days because of the back injury, and when I returned, there was a shortage of tight ends, so I was moved there on the scout team. At 6 feet, 180 pounds, I was perhaps the smallest tight end in college football.

The season started with the infamous loss to Harvard. We led by 17-0 toward the end of the third quarter, but the Crimson scored 49 points in 20 minutes and we lost, 49-17. Jim Garrett called us “drug-addicted losers” and the ignominy was on.

Of course, Garrett meant that we were addicted to losing, but the quote was widely misunderstood, and ended up in Esquire magazine’s Dubious Achievement Awards.

I stayed at scout tight end through the beginning of the season and did not play a down. The team fared no better. When we took the field at Colgate later in the year, the band struck up the theme to the “Mickey Mouse Club” and we were introduced as the “worst college football team in America.”

I could not help but reason that if we were the worst team in America and I couldn’t play a down, I must have been one of the worst players in the country. I became determined to be the best worst player in pads. I played against the first team defense in practice with a vengeance. My game time was practice and I joined forces with other scout team players. We called ourselves the Misfits and studied the opposing teams’ offenses more closely than our own.

As a tight end, my run-blocking was average. But I was unstoppable on pass routes, mostly because of quarterback Jason Garrett. Yes, that Jason Garrett, the backup quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys.

Jason and I had a great agreement on the field. I ran fast somewhere, and he threw the ball right to me. Most of our opponents ran the ball, so we could not showcase our talents, but we loved to throw the ball. Because of his ineligibility, I could imagine his frustration that year. My big break came during Yale week.

The Bulldogs had a great pass-catching tight end, so during that week, Jason threw the ball and I caught it like never before. Jason went to me twice in a row for long touchdowns with the same play, a great accomplishment for a scout team. For my performance, the Misfits voted me player of the week, which meant I received a stolen ball at Sunday’s practice.

Before the Yale game, I entertained fantasies of playing. My sister Lisa and my cousin Terri Solorio had come out from Los Angeles to visit and because of my great week in practice, I thought maybe the coaches would play me. But then I realized I didn’t know any of our offense--I was too busy studying Yale’s plays.

I tried to explain to my sister and cousin about my situation before the game, but I didn’t know what to say. They ended up having a good time, because a friend of mine, Ron Burton, was the student radio broadcaster, and he invited them into the booth during the game.

We lost and I came off the field with a clean uniform. After the game I met my friends, sister and cousin at the subway stop on the way home. (Columbia’s football stadium is five miles from campus on the northern tip of Manhattan). We all avoided mentioning the game or football. It was very awkward and embarrassing.

As it turned out, the coaches did notice my effort. Jim Benedict, the receivers coach, asked for a word before practice. My moment had arrived. I was sure he would ask me to work with the first offense. I was wrong.

“Greg, the defensive coaches like your speed, they want you to work with the scout defense,” Benedict told me.

I was crushed. A move from scout “O” to scout “D” was like getting transferred from cleaning toilets to picking up trash, I thought. I was wrong again.

The defensive backs coach was Rod Perry, the former All-Pro, now the Ram coach for the same position. Perry began to work with me after practice. Long after everyone had returned to campus, he gave me a crash course in reading quarterbacks and running receivers out of their routes. He never once mentioned his own career, and never commented on what must have been the worst team he had ever seen. He gave me confidence and made me believe I was good. I’ll never forget his high-pitched voice.

“Gonzy, “ he said softly one day as we went over zone defense. “Relax back there and watch the quarterback’s eyes. React to the throw, and if the receiver gets his hands on it, just separate the individual from the football.”

I still didn’t get on the field during a game--not yet. Now I was working against the first offense, and I began to switch in on the return teams. During Colgate week, I had another one of those great practices. I returned a punt and a kick for a touchdown and then caught Jim Garrett’s eye during team offense, a scrimmage session.

Because Garrett coached offense, he saw the scout defense play. Playing cornerback, I filled in on run support and laid a great hit on John Chirico, our fullback who later played for the New York Jets.

“Who is that guy,” Garrett screamed. “Superman?”

Garrett had a penchant for the dramatic.

On Thursdays before away games, the travel list was posted in order to pack for the Friday departure to the game site, in this case Hamilton, N.Y. On our two previous traveling Thursdays, I checked the board and walked away with a free Saturday. This time I looked, but found no GONZALEZ G. on the list.

During team dinner that Thursday, I commiserated with the Misfits. We sat around trying to decide who had it the worst. Mike Monteith, the scout fullback, won that night, because he had a 20-page engineering lab due the next day and he hadn’t started. Somebody said, “Here comes the Big Man.” The Big Man was our nickname for Garrett.

Garrett said I should call the equipment office and have someone pack my gear. I was going to Colgate. It sounds silly now, but any small victory was reason to rejoice. The Misfits were happy one of their own had “made it” and made me a congratulatory sundae.

Still, I didn’t play. Not against Colgate, and not the next week against Dartmouth. There were two games left--Cornell and Brown, and I knew my star was rising. I had become a sort of folk hero on the team and the the coaches made an example of my persistence. I enjoyed the attention.

I began to have my wrists taped and tie my jersey in practice, just like UCLA players. Suddenly I was working half the time with the first defense and I found myself playing against the Misfits and Jason Garrett during Cornell week. It was strange being on the other side, but picking off one of Garrett’s passes made it easier to deal with.

I was on the traveling list to Cornell. At the Friday night defensive back meeting, Rod Perry called us together after “Miami Vice” and talked about Cornell’s offense, as well as desire and the will to compete. After the meeting, Perry pulled me aside and said the magic words: “You’re starting tomorrow, Gonzy.”

I could have danced all night. I was going to start my first college game.

My roommate, Greg Fondran, and I talked about upsetting Cornell and breaking the streak, which stood at 19. We talked and talked, until 4 a.m. Who could sleep?

At the team breakfast Saturday morning, Jim Garrett gave his usual pregame speech.

“Today is a big day, men,” he said. “Today you get a chance to show your courage against a great team having a bad year.” Garrett was referring to Cornell’s 3-5 record.

Then he talked about me. “Greg Gonzalez is going to have a great game today. At the beginning of the season, he was so far down on the depth chart, you needed a double-reverse microscope to see him.” That was Garrett’s way of saying I was mired in obscurity.

“But today . . . he’s starting! You know why? Because he has courage . . .”

I couldn’t hear the rest, and my meal of steak and runny eggs began to churn in my stomach. I realized I had not been nervous for a game since my days at Cantwell High.

We stepped out of the hotel, and Ithaca was in the midst of an ice storm. The bus fish-tailed its way to the stadium, where we filed into the locker room.

I put on my pants, pulled up my white socks with Columbia Blue piping and laced on my turf shoes. I had never played on artificial turf before. I went out with the specialists and wished I was in California. The field was covered by ice, and it was raining, sleeting, and snowing at the same time. The wind howled in my helmet’s ear holes. In five minutes I was drenched.

Thankfully, the game started, and I could worry about something besides the weather. I stood on the goal line and waited for my moment of glory. I imagined the lazy flight of the ball turning end over end, and returning it all the way. But the kicker slipped and the ball skittered toward me in absurd, irregular bounces.

I scooped it up at the five-yard line and returned it to the 31. The game alternated between freezing on the sideline and hectic play on the field. We went into halftime trailing, 7-6.

In the third quarter, we trailed by 14-6, but had Cornell pinned with a third and eight on its five-yard line. We went to an eight-man front and a zone secondary, a run defense. I looked across the ball at Cornell’s All-Ivy receiver, Jim Perello. He wore gloves and a scuba-like undershirt while I shivered with tape on my wrists.

According to our scouting report, they liked to run sweeps to the short side of the field in this situation, but the ball was snapped and the quarterback dropped back, looking to my side of the field as Perello ran a 12-yard out pattern. I watched the quarterback’s eyes and the throw came. I broke toward Perello and the ball. He began to cradle the ball toward his chest with his red-gloved hands. I knew my job. I drove my shoulder into his chest and separated the individual from the football. Perry, looking down from the press box, was pleased.

Cornell went on to take a safety, and we lost, 21-8. I pretended to be unhappy, but the Misfits, who had made the trip, wouldn’t let me. They gave me another ball at Sunday’s practice. It was a great feeling to be sore.

I started again the next week against Brown, a 34-0 loss, and had my best game returning kicks.

Two days after the season ended, Jim Garrett was fired. The entire staff, including Perry, left the school.

And I learned to appreciate the little things about college football.