NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. -- The car rolled toward the hotel exit. Bo Schembechler, squinting in the morning sun, pointed a finger at it, like a traffic cop, and it quickly came to a halt."What?" asked senior lineman Mike Teeter, the driver, rolling down his window. "Am I doing something wrong, Coach?"Bo grinned. "Hey," he said, "I'm not your coach anymore, Mike. I'm just your friend."Teeter smiled and slowly drove away.
PASADENA, Calif. -- In the end there was no Santa Claus. There was no Happy New Year. Bo Schembechler could only stand there, the headphones dangling, as the final seconds of his career ticked away. The wrong way. Michael Taylor, his quarterback, threw wide, the ball hit the ground. He threw deep. The ball sailed past the intended receiver. He took the final snap -- fourth down and miracle to go -- and he was stuffed in an army of Southern Cal defenders.
PASADENA, Calif. -- In the end there was no Santa Claus. No Happy New Year. Bo Schembechler could only stand there, the headphones dangling, as the final seconds of his career ticked away. The wrong way. Michael Taylor, his quarterback, threw wide, the ball hit the ground. He threw deep. The ball sailed past the intended receiver.
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. -- He is walking past the hotel patio and the crowd is swelling -- first two reporters, then four, then the TV stations. Is it Stallone? Is it Elvis? "Bo," says the PR man, "these gentlemen are from ESPN. They want to follow you around today.""Um-hmm," says the husky, balding coach, without breaking stride. "Well, all right, men. But I'm late for a team meeting.""That's OK," blurts the cameraman, "we'll just follow you and shoot. We don't need to interrupt.""Um-hmm."
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. -- Gary Moeller is wearing a tie these days. Pretty soon, the jacket will follow. He'll develop that special walk, the brisk pace that discourages autograph hounds. His eyes will focus straight ahead. His mind will work a mile a minute. He inevitably will have someone on his right or left, a PR guy, an assistant, and he'll turn and say, "How much time do I got?"
NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. -- You want to get Leroy Hoard's attention? Put a whistle around your neck, make your voice sound like Bo Schembechler's, then sneak up behind him and yell, "DAMN IT, LEROY! NOT AGAIN!"Chances are he will spin around and plead, "It wasn't me, Coach! I didn't do it!" Or maybe he will race down the street and block somebody.
Mitch Albom writes about running an orphanage in impoverished Port-au-Prince, Haiti, his kids, their hardships, laughs and challenges, and the life lessons he’s learned there every day.
