For the past three years I’ve had unfettered access to the Michigan football program, from the film room to the locker room, to write a book about what I’ve seen.
Before I walked into that first staff meeting, I thought I knew Michigan football as well as anyone. 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 fitful 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, too. 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 after 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 follow him.
Conditioning, however, was much harder. I worked out with the strength coaches for six weeks. They doubled my bench press and tripled my squat – and also showed me I could throw up from running or weightlifting. I had not known that. After each workout I collapsed on my couch for an hour —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 here—it’s just very hard.
If any of Michigan’s 125 players do any of these things poorly, or not at all, that is 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, public 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’re still kids.
Having seen it all up close, I know this much: I don’t care how much the head coach gets paid or how much love the quarterback gets. I would not trade with either of them. And if you saw how they lived, up close, you might not either.
