I Will Never Tell You The Secrets of Success on the Field and In Business by Coach X

After weeks of making fun of the Big Ten West for being a collection of hideous punt-lummoxes, Northwestern and Illinois went out there and put on the highest-scoring game in their history that was one of the wildest and most entertaining games of the season.  The Illini were playing for their postseason life, Northwestern was playing to clinch a winning season and a slightly higher rung in the inexplicable Hierarchy of Bowl Game Prestige that is determined on how late the game is played and whether it is sponsored by a company that sells a product that most people would recognize versus a game that is sponsored by a mysterious online financial venture that will declared illegal within seven months; both teams were of course playing for the most prestigious trophy in North American sports: The Hat.

hat hat hat hat hat hat hat hat hat hat hat hat

It was a good game to wear the number 14 as Cam Johnson had his best game as a Wildcat and his numerical counterpart Casey Washington went absolutely nuts for the Illini for more than 200 yards receiving and three touchdowns.  Illinois probably should have won this game except they doomed themselves with  a sequence where they fumbled a punt, allowed Northwestern to score in nine seconds, and then fumbled the ensuing kickoff for a touchdown, which was one of the funniest things to happen in an Illinois-Northwestern game since Tim Beckman accidentally got trucked by an official on a fumble return and then had the ref throw an unsportsmanlike conduct flag on his prone body for going onto the field of play.   

You would think that coughing up 14 points because the return teams were sent out wearing novelty foam claw hands would have been enough, but both teams were at this point foaming at the mouth in their berserk Hat Reverie.  Northwestern, up eight, only needed to stop Illinois from scoring a touchdown for less than a minute.  Casey Washington had other plans.  On the second play of the drive, he found several airplane hangars worth of space in front of the Northwestern secondary and easily scampered to the endzone while I stood in front of my television watching The Hat fade away like a sibling in Marty McFly's polaroid.  There was no doubt who the Illini were looking for on the game-tying two point attempt but Northwestern defenders somehow found a bulldozer and ran Washington over with it in the endzone and the officials picked up their flag saying that the ball was tipped so it was "legal to hit a receiver with construction equipment and groundskeeping tools."  Bret Bielema raged about the call in the postgame press conference, bellowing that it was Bullshit, but it was the impotent fury of a Hatless man. 

 

I wanted to look up whether the Maine Red Claws had ever sold foam lobster claws and got this incredible website copy "whether you need this claw to cheer on your local team or used to promote your business, this claw will surely serve your marketing interests" and have been thinking about someone ordering a Business Claw 

The most improbable season of Northwestern football ends with the Hat back in Evanston and atop the screaming head of new coach David Braun.

A tableau of yelling David Braun heads.  In my season-long quest to figure out what this guy's deal is, apparently he is canonically photographed like a muppet in the middle of singing a song about shapes

The Northwestern Wildcats winning their seventh game and running out of Memorial Stadium with The Hat ends the most improbable and weird season I've ever seen.  It is not exactly a triumph.  It was certainly an impressive achievement for Braun to keep the team together and win games in the wake of the hazing scandal but it is also fair to wonder what exactly has changed when you look at what appears to be a toxic and awful culture pervasive in the program for decades and then feel better because they got rid of one guy who may have been fired for being bad at coaching within a year or two anyway.  I understand fans who want to stay away from the program regardless of how many wins they get and bowl games they go to.  

From a football standpoint, I can understand how Northwestern managed the turnaround.  They brought in a competent defensive coordinator and a steady, veteran quarterback, and a group of excellent wide receivers and were able to go back to the Northwestern blueprint for winning games in the Big Ten West.  It turns out that the defense was good when Mike Hankwitz was here, awful when Jim O'Neil was doing whatever he was doing, and good again under Braun.  Mike Bajakian's offense was acceptably gross with an experienced quarterback and a vision of football that causes Sam Neill to remove his own eyeballs with a rotating series of inexperienced signal callers caught in a slew of injuries.  But I did not understand that.  I thought that the turmoil in the program and abrupt firing of Fitzgerald would trigger a program-wide exile, make the school radioactive, and essentially kill Big Ten football here altogether.  I remain skeptical of the long-term future of Northwestern in the upper echelon of college football programs because the idea of Northwestern remaining in a Super League of College Football because they played games against Illinois in 1912 funny, but if they get thrown out it will be because of money and not because of whatever horrors get unearthed by the legal discovery process.

I did not really expect to watch a lot of Northwestern football this season.  I almost never watch live games during the warm months, so I figured I'd watch a few games on DVR, see them get blown out in the first half, try to figure out with prurient interest how the Big Ten Network would try to artfully sweep all of the allegations under the rug while depending on such precise orators as Matt Millen and J Leman, and write a bunch of silly stories for my blog until the whole enterprise seemed ridiculous or disgusting.  Instead, I watched most of the games, got excited for the big comeback against Minnesota, and actually went to a game in order to see Ryan Field before it is taken apart and hauled to a dump.  

Northwestern got extremely lucky that the team won, that Michigan Espionage Doofus Connor Stalions sucked up all of the college football scandal oxygen, and that they avoided a coach search by seemingly stumbling into a young and promising coach.  The fact that Braun took largely the same group of Fitzgerald's players to a bowl game after Fitzgerald struggled to win games in the United States of America essentially killed any sort of rump pro-Fitzgerald cells in the program, and the last players that could be associated with the hazing scandal will graduate within the next year or two without (as of yet) being named or disciplined.  Braun will come under greater scrutiny next year when an enormous number of key players graduate, the Big Ten West goes away, and Northwestern is forced to play at Stevenson High School or wherever they end up; the university will continue to face lawsuits from athletes and from Fitzgerald.   I hope that the administration learns something from this about fostering an environment for normal athletics programs.

VEGAS

It would be almost impossible to predict this in the beginning of the season, but the Wildcats are playing in a bowl game.  They will travel to Las Vegas to face Utah.  The Utes had a promising season as a major force in the final year of the decimated Pac 12, but they had a ton of injury problems and ultimately got buried by the dominant Washington and Oregon teams to end up here: a pre-Christmas game in Al Davis's Desert Mausoleum against one of the virtually identical slop teams of the Big Ten West.  Of all the early bowl games, this is one of the nicer ones; it is in prime time on Actual Broadcast Television on a Saturday night and in a place that commercials tell me is a Family Friendly Vacation Destination even though in my head it is teeming with 53-year-old Bill Simmons guys all yelling at each other that "Vegas wants you to take the under" and "they're giving away free money with Jared Goff in the playoffs" while yelling lines from Swingers at each other before they are subdued by security personnel.  

Although Utah is obliterated by injuries and has numerous players opting out of the game (Northwestern only has one starter opting out on the offensive line), they are still heavily favored.  I am not a gambler, but I believe this continues a streak of Northwestern coming in as betting underdogs against every single FBS opponent this season.  I have no idea how this game will go, other than Utah coach Kyle Whittingham routinely puts a tough, hard-hitting team out there.  Northwestern has a more intact team, and this will the be final game in purple for many of its top players, many of whom have been around roughly forever because of Covid eligibility extensions.  Utah is still probably smarting from the last time these two teams met in the 2018 Holiday Bowl during an unlikely San Diego downpour when Northwestern came back from down 20-3 in the second half because someone had told Utah players that the moisture falling out of the sky was some sort of liquefied lard product and they were unable to hold onto the ball for more than three consecutive plays.

Utah, get me two bowl games against Northwestern

I have given up on trying to predict Northwestern games this season.  I can't believe they're even here.  They might as well win it.

NORTHWESTERN BASKETBALL UPDATE

It is incredibly fun when Purdue is the top-ranked team in the country because they have the biggest guy.  I have written about this before, but there is a certain aesthetic quality to watching a player dominate a basketball game because they are a giant that is very gratifying simply because the player is so close to the hoop.  Whenever I watch Zach Edey play, it is almost impossible to believe anyone could stop him.  All he has to do is lumber within three feet of the basket and drop it in, pass it to a wide-open shooter, or go to the foul line because the only way to defend him is to grab onto his leg like a desperate peacemaking Van Gundy.  This is not to take anything away from Edey, who is as tough, smart, and skilled a player as anyone with his size who is not one of those gangly NBA freaks can possibly be.  It is just that there is a certain primal quality of seeing Edey come fee-fi-fo-fumming out of the tunnel and wondering how it is possible that any basketball team could ever beat that guy's team, especially when the opponent is Northwestern, and then watching it actually happen because the Wildcats have Boo Buie.

Northwestern basketball, despite its famous tournament drought and overall misery, has had some excellent players come through.  But there is something about Boo Buie over the last few seasons that have elevated him from a great player to something of a Northwestern folk hero.  He has led Northwestern teams to huge upsets against quality opponents.  And he has done something that I can't remember any Northwestern men's basketball player ever doing and that is intimidating other teams' fans.  I can't remember any player ever terrorizing a team the way Buie has horrified Michigan State fans.  And I can't think of another player whose return for another year annoyed so many other opponents.  At a time when players constantly transfer or declare for the NBA draft almost as soon as they set foot on campus, a player deciding to stay at the same school for as long as Buie has makes him seem like he has been here since time immemorial.  I hope that the team is able to get back into the tournament and give them a crack at going further than any other team has gone.  

With Buie and Northwestern defeating Purdue again, I have to imagine they have simply crushed every single opponent that Northwestern paid to come into Welsh-Ryan arena and lose and I'm not looking further into this.

I WILL NEVER TELL YOU THE SECRETS OF SUCCESS ON THE FIELD AND IN BUSINESS

They say the sports biography racket is a tough game.  It is.  But anyone who thinks I’m not tough enough gets to meet a headbutt from feared linebacker Conrad Dobler.  As told to me.

This is a cutthroat business.  An athlete or coach is about to talk, to as told, and the vultures start circling.  I’m not above it.  Circling’s my business too.

Drench Cranen spent fourteen months spotting Tom Thibodeau in a dank basement slowly working anecdotes about how to succeed in basketball and in life in between bench presses.  Then Drench Cranen was spotted falling 14 stories from the Tribune tower.  They say he jumped.  Money problems.  Three weeks later I see The Ice Man Yelleth by Tom Thibodeau with Frank Manztek from the Trib creeping up the bestseller list.

Back in the ‘90s, I got a telegram telling me that Mike Tyson wanted to write another book.  This was right after the ear biting.  I knew it was too good to be true, but if I was wrong, if another writer got to him and asked him “why’d you bite that guy” I could never live it down.  The telegram told me to meet him an abandoned meat packing plant in Queens.  There was someone there, alright.  It wasn’t Tyson but it was certainly someone who had pugilistic experience.  I guess Mitch Albom was not too happy I started interviewing his old professor on Mondays.  At least that’s what I think happened.  The goon he sent was much better at repeatedly showing me the location of my liver with his fist than explaining himself.

You have to have good instincts in this business.  “There’s pain behind these goggles,” is what Éric Gagné told me when we met to start working on his book.  “There’s plenty of green behind ‘em too,” is what I said.  I knew at that point we weren’t going to work together, though he made that clearer when he demonstrated the circle change grip on my face.

They told me there was some young coach out in the midwest who took a team to a bowl game after they threw out the old coach at the last minute.  Nasty stuff.  Ogres involved.  Everyone thought this kid would get eighty-sixed into the lake, but I got a tip to head out there and check it out after they won a couple of games.  I was free in early November and already in Wisconsin after the publishers canceled my book with Craig Counsell called From Brewer Boy to Miller Man: Why I’ll Never Leave Milwaukee.    

You never approach a sports personality through an agent or a team communications person.  That’s a good way to get the word out.  Next thing you know, you’re getting a free ride in Mike Lupica’s trunk while he goes to interview Jason Grimsley.  I like to approach them in a dank alley or in a parking garage.  I heard Rick Reilly hides in their houses and slowly descends from their ceiling while saying things like "They told him that basketball players couldn't play tight end.  But then again, he never had much patience for gatekeepers, even if it was in his name: Antonio Gates."

I thought I had worked out a good system to get to this Braun guy, but someone had dropped a dime on me by the time I had gotten to Evanston.  Maybe it was the shifty looking cabby who seemed a little too interested in my book on both guys named Vernon Wells.  Maybe it was the guy standing a little too close to the airport phonebooth.  Either way, I got a nasty present waiting for me at the hotel, someone grabbing the back of my neck.  “Stay away from Braun if you know what’s good for yous,” he said.  I don’t know what’s good for mes.  “I was expecting flowers,” I said.  What I was actually expecting was the inevitable sap to the back of the head.  Henchmen are always a tough crowd.

I woke up in a dumpster in an alley under the train tracks.  The guys who worked me over thoughtfully gave me a spit of expired gyros meat for a pillow.  The train rumbled overhead and the drizzle helped usher the meat grease from my hair into my eyes.  Good for the skin, I guess. The Greek Treatment.  It was a long hike back to the hotel but I needed the fresh air and didn’t trust a cab.  The doctor had told me I should stop getting hit in the back of the head.  That was three saps, two blackjacks, and a ceremonial parliamentary mace ago.  After Tony La Russa hit me at his golf tournament to raise money for drunk showbiz chimpanzees because I told him he should’ve brought in a lefty when he shanked one bad enough that it went into the Celebrity Ape Gallery.  Nearly made Dustin check out.  I lost out on writing Gifted Handedness: The Tony La Russa Story.

I crawled back to the hotel looking for a shower and a nap and I got neither.  Someone had been in my room looking for something, and it looked like how my head felt.  I was about to pick up the phone to have a full and frank discussion with the manager about their key policy when it started to ring.  I picked it up.  The voice was badly disguised.  Someone was trying to do a cockney accent.  “You won’t find yer book ‘ere,” the voice said.  “Braun’s a puppet, poppet.  You ‘ave no idea. When they win The Hat.” “Shouldn’t it be The ‘At?” I said.  They hung up.

Something was off.  I decided to fish around the practice facility.  By the time I got there the night was busy putting out the last few ashes of the afternoon.  I decided to hide out by the dumpster until it got completely dark.  Sometimes I wish someone told me how often I’d spend my evenings siring lady dumpster around a loading dock before I decided to become a sports personality biographer.

I figure about an hour passed when I saw something flicker from inside the dumpster.  Someone was lighting up a smoke.  Maybe it was a janitor taking a break.  Maybe it was some knuckle-duster out to get the jump on me.  I decided to investigate but as soon as I opened the lid I heard a voice.  “Keep it closed,” he said.  “Stay there.  We need to talk.”  A puff of nicotine wafted from the lid.

“He’ll never let you get close.  He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s pulling the strings.  And he’ll kill you if you figure out his secrets to winning on the gridiron and in the board room.  You can trust me on this.  I'm close.  I'm not exactly against the new guy, but against the world.  But you'll never get to him.”

“Who?” I yelled.  “Who?”  “What are you, some kind of owl?" he said. I grabbed the lid and flung it open ready to give this fella an ornithology lecture with my left and my right but he was gone.  The dumpster wasn’t a dumpster at all.  It was a fake, and it had a false bottom.  I tried to climb in but the door at the bottom was bolted fast.  Even if the guy I talked to was only capable of moving a few yards at a time, he'd be long gone before I got it open.

I had nothing to do but to walk back to the hotel.  I only closed the door and loosened my tie when someone knocked.  Telegram.  It simply said “meet me in Little Birmingham.”  “What the hell is Little Birmingham?” I wondered.  “You can see it right over there,” the telegram man said.  I turned my head and that’s when the blackjack came out.  This time, the lug made a mistake.  I hadn’t taken off my hat yet, which contained a small but resilient helmet shell within the lining specifically to ward off blows to the back of the head.  I ordered from the back of a magazine I got at the doctor’s office called What’s That? A Magazine for the Frequently Bludgeoned.

I whirled around and socked the man telegram operator in the jaw.  He was a oaf, the type of guy who looks like he spends a lot of time in a single-strap unitard.  I grabbed the sap and sent him a telegram of my own with a few full stops around the skull.

Little Birmingham did in fact happen to be right where the telegram guy was pointing before he tried to put my lights out.  It was only a few blocks away but it felt like a different world.  I thought it would be pockets of industrial England selling peas and textiles.  Wrong Birmingham.  There were rows of stores selling Birmingham Stallions nick-knacks.  “Y’all come in here,” they all called to me from their stores.  I had no idea what I was looking for, but I knew I was in a dangerous spot.  Suddenly, I was surrounded by a group of large men in 2022 World Games Fistball Champions sweatshirts and hustled into a vacant storefront at the end of the block.  They shoved me down a staircase into a dark basement.  At least no one gave me a knock on the bean.

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions around here,” a voice said to me in the dark.

“I just want to know if the coach who is winning games at Northwestern wants write a book about Leadership,” I said.

“Then you are asking the wrong person.  Let me ask you something, do you think a defensive coordinator from North Dakota State could orchestrate a 21 point comeback against P.J. Fleck and his All Anagram Defense?  Do you think he could figure out how to stop the UTEP rushing attack in the second half?  Do you think he could do all of that while scouting players for the USFL supplementary draft?”

“USFL?  Wait, a minute, are you…?"

“Who I am is none of your concern.  I’m running a USFL team as well as four other college teams you don’t know about, two NFL teams, the Fehérvár Enthroners, two lacrosse teams, and a team in a sport so secretive you’ve never even heard of it.  My family has been doing this for generations.  And I don’t need any two-bit hacks digging into it.  They already are getting close on what my father did to Ryan Day.”

“What you’re going to get from this project is nothing,” he continued.  “No interviews.  No nuggets.  No secrets of success from the quarterback room to the board room.  No analogies for overcoming adversity on the gridiron and in life.  You will stop.  You will go back to writing about golfers or basketball players or polo players for all I care, but your questions about Northwestern football stop.”

“So why would you tell me all of this?”

“To be honest, what I’m doing is very impressive and I’m sick of secrets.  I am sick of seeing this gape-mouth clod get the accolades while I sit here in the shadows.  But of course you can’t be trusted."  "Klaus!" he yelled suddenly. "Kristian!” I could hear the two burliest fistballers clomping down the stairs.  I knew they were itching to practice their new passing techniques on my kidneys.

“Look out!” I yelled.  "It’s former Louisana Tech Athletic Director Bruce Van De Velde!”

The mystery coach fell out of his chair.  In the confusion, I bowled over either Klaus or Kristian and then shoved the other Klaus or Kristian out of the way before sprinting out of the storefront and making a beeline out of Little Birmingham.

I did not even go back to the hotel where there would certainly be another bigger and meaner galoot waiting there to play the accordion on my spine.  Instead, I headed straight for the train station where I wanted to put as much distance between me and Evanston as possible.

This is a nasty business and a nasty town.  I now understood the lawn signs I saw that said "We've had enough" with the N and U capitalized.  I had eNoUgh as well.  I got back to the office but there was a dame waiting for me there.  She was dressed in the widow’s black and looked like she was working directly for Trouble, Inc.

“Please help me,” she said.  “I cannot sleep.  I cannot eat.  I simply must know how Brad Underwood feels about how success on the court can translate to success in business and in life.”