November 2006

Remembering Bo

Schembechler's co-author says the coach's values and love of people set him apart

by John U. Bacon

Editor's Note: On Tuesday, November 21, U-M held a public memorial for former football coach and athletic director Bo Schembechler at the place he loved so well, Michigan Stadium. Speakers included coach Lloyd Carr, former coach Gary Moeller, Bo's son Shemy Schembechler, former running back Jamie Morris, and other past players. Some 20,000 people braved the cold to attend.

When Bo died, he was completing work on a new book titled "Bo's Lasting Lessons: Schembechler Teaches the Timeless Fundamentals of Leadership" (Warner Books, due out in August, 2007). His co-author is John U. Bacon, a sportswriter and sports historian. Bacon has published three other books, including "Blue Ice: The Story of Michigan Hockey," and currently teaches a U-M course on the history of college athletics. Michigan Today asked Bacon to consider what made Bo such a powerful and beloved figure, even years after he stepped down from coaching.

Everyone knew the public Bo: the man on the sidelines berating referees, screaming at players, and smashing his headset against the Astroturf. All true, of course. But the public Bo had little to do with the Bo I came to know—the same one his family, friends and former players loved so much.

I first met Bo in 1974, when I was a ten-year-old attending a Michigan hockey game. In the second period the p.a. announcer paged Bo Schembechler to meet someone under the north stands. My buddy and I figured, How many Bo Schembechlers can there be?

Bo Schembechler speaking to a group of kids

Sure enough, there he was, chatting up some old friends, while we waited nearby, nervously rolling up our programs. When he saw us standing there, he interrupted his conversation to bellow, "Now what can I do for you young men?" He signed our programs with care – no small feat when your last name is twelve letters long-- and thanked us for supporting the Wolverines.

They say your character is what you do when you think no one is watching. I've seen Bo pass that test a thousand times, but none was more important to me than that first encounter. If he had ignored me 32 years ago, I wouldn't be writing this today.

Since I became a sportswriter 15 years ago, I've learned the hard way that meeting your childhood heroes as an adult is usually a bad idea. But getting to know Bo the past ten years, while collaborating on articles and now a book, has been one of the highlights of my life.

Contrary to his "football-mad" reputation, Schembechler was interested in just about everything—from the Ann Arbor bus system to race-horse breeding to teacher training—and he had an opinion about all of it, too. This semester he audited a class on politics with his wife Cathy at the Ford School of Public Policy, where he would often admonish his younger classmates to take their hats off.

Bo was a voracious reader, with a weakness for Tom Clancy books. He also loved music, from Cole Porter to Tina Turner (the latter thanks to Cathy). He hummed constantly. It resonated in his chest, occasionally bubbling up to form a verse, which he sang in a deep baritone—"With YOU, I've gone from RAGS to RICHES. I feel like a MILL-ion-AIRE"—then he'd return to humming while filing some papers.

Above all, Bo was interested in people. He hated talking about himself, but he loved talking about you. When he met my father at a book signing, he barked, "I know all about YOU!" Needless to say, my dad has never forgotten it.

When he was in town he'd drive to Schembechler Hall around 10 a.m., park in "Reserved Space 01," and trundle down the second floor hallway to his office. Schembechler might have been a great coach, but he would have made a terrible spy, with a complete inability to whisper, sneak up on anyone or speak anyone's name in lower case letters. "Hey MARY!" he would roar at the far end of the hallway, "Howya doin'? Hey, BIG JOHN FALK! What's the good word?!"

Before he could sit down, the phone started ringing. He would lean forward, snap up the hand piece and shout, "Hel-LO! This is HE! Heyyyyy! How the hell are ya?" then lean back in his chair, flashing his famous teeth-clenched grin.

Chances were good he was talking to one of his 640 former Michigan players, a dozen of whom called or stopped by every day. Whether they were All-Americans or walk-ons, Schembechler invariably remembered their names, their positions, their hometowns and what they were up to the last time they talked. Not surprisingly, almost all of them kept in touch. If you played for Bo, you had two fathers.

His voice is still ringing in their ears, long after they've graduated. "Early is on time, and on time is late!" "There is NO substitute for hard work!" and "You know what the right thing to do is – so just do it!"

He wrote their recommendations, attended their weddings and visited their hospital rooms. If he could do anything to help, he would – just like that – including visiting two players in prison, and successfully working to get them back on their feet after they got out.

They all say the same thing: "You may not always have liked it, but with Bo, you always knew exactly where you stood." Bo insulted you to your face (I was flattered to be added to his long list of victims) and praised you behind your back. In a society that favors image over substance and glad-handing over sincerity, Bo's bedrock values seem almost extreme to us now.

Schembechler was a man who knew exactly who he was, but seemed mystified by the public's view of him. "Hey, I'm not Jonas Salk," he said. "Football coaching should not have so much status attached to it."

Bo didn't get it. His appeal was not based on his victories, but on his values—which were as simple as they were timeless.

It was those values that inspired me to ask him to write a book, but it took me five years to convince him that people wanted – even needed – to hear him now more than ever. "Bacon, nobody cares what I say, because nobody remembers who I am!"

I know, I know. But he came by it honestly. He'd be astounded by the outpouring of affection that followed his death – but we weren't.

When Bo was still coaching, he helped out the Special Olympics by playing basketball with mentally handicapped kids. He loved it because they had no idea who he was, and didn't care. "I was just some old guy who came down to play basketball with them."

That's pretty much how Schembechler saw himself: Just some old guy who once coached football.

We knew better.