The Punch Heard 'Round the Football World

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"Evidently nobody in authority realized that a full–grown man who attached such importance to a game was, at best, immature, not to say a case of arrested development. The saddest part of the whole affair is that nobody at Ohio State saw the denouement approaching and protected Hayes from himself."

Red Smith (1905–1982)

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Red Smith is one of my favorite journalists. I guess it is appropriate to call him a sports journalist, and he probably accepted that during his lifetime, but he wrote that he always "wanted to be a newspaperman and came to realize I didn't really care which side of the newspaper I worked on."

Frankly, I felt the same way. Smith had a philosophy about sports journalism that I tried to keep in mind when I worked on the sports side of newspapers.

"[P]eople go to spectator sports to have fun and then they grab the paper to read about it and have fun all over again," he wrote. "I've always tried to remember ... that sports isn't Armageddon. These are just little games that little boys can play, and it really isn't important to the future of civilization whether the Athletics or the Browns win."

Thirty–five years ago, Woody Hayes would have been smart to heed those words, especially the part about how sports isn't Armageddon. If he had, Hayes' 28–year coaching career at Ohio State might not have come to an end when it did.

Hayes had a reputation for being a disciplinarian, a man who would take young men and mold them into leaders. He was a military historian who often applied principles from military history to his coaching.

It was known that Hayes had a temper that he couldn't always control. He once tried to punch a sportswriter following a loss, but he missed and hit the brother of the sports editor of another paper instead. A few years later, he almost got into a fight with the athletic director of another school during a meeting of Big Ten Conference athletic directors and coaches.

Late in his career, he seemed to have a particular animosity for photographers. He shoved a camera in the face of a photographer before a Rose Bowl game, leading to a three–game suspension, and about a year before the 1978 Gator Bowl, he took a swing at a TV cameraman late in a loss to Michigan.

In spite of his history, no one suspected, when Dec. 29, 1978 dawned, that the Gator Bowl between #20 Ohio State and #7 Clemson in Jacksonville, Fla., that night would be Hayes' last game as a college football coach.

But when Clemson's Charlie Bauman intercepted a pass late in the game to seal a 17–15 victory, Hayes punched him in front of God and the TV cameras — and, at that moment, I knew Hayes was finished.

I'll never forget that night. I was in my grandmother's home. My family had been visiting her for Christmas, but we were frantically preparing to leave Dallas ahead of an ice storm that was expected within a few days. That night, for whatever reason, my father and I decided to stop packing and watch the football game. We both watched in utter disbelief as Hayes struck the opposing player.

An era was ending in college football. It had been kind of a comforting, reassuring era when the giants from the ranks of college coaches were always there on the sidelines of the truly big games. One by one, though, they were stepping aside, and the next generation was taking over.

It was an inevitable transition. It happens in all walks of life with the passage of time, but we all know that people still get sentimental about endings. It is true of coaches, too; people are always wistful when longtime coaches leave. The coaches themselves are often wistful. It is a bittersweet time.

In many ways, the sports world is the same as it was when Hayes walked the sideline. But in other ways it has changed dramatically. One has to wonder, in hindsight, if Hayes could have remained the Ohio State football coach for much longer.

In the years after the legends of the 20th century roamed the sidelines, that drill sergeant mentality gradually fell out of favor with college athletic directors. There may be a few of them out there, but, for the most part, they have vanished.

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"... Charlie Bauman intercepted a pass and went out of bounds right where the Ohio State coach stood. That architect of young manhood laid hold of Bauman and fetched him a roundhouse right to the chops. Fists flailing, he tried to charge onto the field, but his own scholar athletes, already bruised and bleeding from their pursuit of culture, overpowered him."

Red Smith

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Hayes, it was said more and more frequently, physically assaulted his players during practice, and that did bother some people at the time, but most folks were willing to ignore it as long as he didn't do that kind of thing in public. After all, this was football, a man's game, and men are tough.

Today, a college coach who struck an athlete, whether in view of only his peers or a national TV audience, would most likely get the boot regardless of who he was. Politics — and political correctness — won't tolerate that sort of thing.

Three decades ago, schools were more protective of their star coaches, firing them only when they had no choice. And, on this day in 1978, Ohio State was left with no choice.

There really wasn't anything special about the 1978 Gator Bowl. It was the first time — and, until Clemson and Ohio State meet in Friday night's Orange Bowl, the only time — the schools faced off in football.

But the game set no records for scoring or anything else, as I recall. It is remembered only for Hayes' punch.

Role Models

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Everyone has an opinion on the tragedy at Penn State.

I've been trying to avoid jumping in because, frankly, the pool seems pretty crowded.

But, when you get past the posturing and the judging, it still comes down to one thing, even though that one thing often seems to get lost.

Children were victimized by adults — in the original assault and in the effort to cover it up.

They are the victims — not Joe Paterno, not Jerry Sandusky, not Graham Spanier, not anyone in Penn State's administration — although, in true football fashion, there's been plenty of misdirection.

And even some who have defended the actions — or inactions, if you prefer — of the adults.

I have known about this matter for only a few days, and my conscience won't permit me to remain silent any longer.

But silence has been the problem at Penn State, as it has been in other organizations, for a long time.

In fact, until Penn State dismissed Paterno for not doing anywhere near enough after he became aware of his assistant's crimes, it seemed that the university would do as others have done — and conclude that protecting the institution is more important than justice for children.

Our society talks a good game when it comes to protecting children — but it is rare when a mafia mentality of circling the wagons and protecting one's own, even when one's own is clearly guilty, does not take over, and the code of silence descends on all.

In schools. In churches. In athletic locker rooms.

The really heinous part of this is the betrayal of the faith that children place in authority figures — like parents, coaches, pastors and teachers. Children don't always outgrow that absolute allegiance, either. Some adults continue to revere the authority figures from their childhoods long after those authority figures are revealed to be less than superheroes.

(My understanding is that the assistant who witnessed the assault waited a day before taking it to Paterno. He had to consult with his real father first.)

Those relationships have lives of their own, and so do violations of that trust. They live on, influencing others in due course. Whether one prays or not, the victims deserve whatever support we can give them. Most, if not all, will struggle with this for years.

Paterno, in an attempt to appear gracious after his dismissal, urged everyone to pray for the victims, and, on the surface, that does seem to be generous and compassionate.

But "JoePa," the father figure for countless young men, was not being selfless. He was being selfish.

It was face–saving misdirection.

A football coach to the end, he tried to fake out everyone with a little play–action that would give the appearance that he still called the shots. He would leave when the season was over — which, presumably, would have included the Big Ten Championship Game (if the Nittany Lions qualified for it) and perhaps the Rose Bowl.

That would have been the proper way for college football's winningest coach to exit.

He was still trying to exercise control in a situation where he had no more. He lost his credibility when he abandoned his responsibility.

And it is to the credit of Penn State's trustees that they were not faked out.

I have heard it argued by some that it is not always easy to know what to do, that Paterno may have believed he did what was expected of him, and I will concede that point. But JoePa was obliged to do more than the minimum. He occupied a special place in the state of Pennsylvania, not just Penn State.

In most places, a coach does not have more power than the school president, but coaches like Paterno do. With such authority comes an obligation to go beyond the very least that you can do. There may have been acceptable reasons for his actions — and, more significantly, his inactions — but that does not excuse the fact that, when he was told that a member of his staff had assaulted a child, he was obligated to do more than pass the buck, and he did not.

Maybe there was a time when he understood the special role he played in molding the lives that were placed in his care — perhaps, early in his tenure at Penn State, when he watched Woody Hayes strolling the Ohio State sidelines in three encounters in the 1970s.

I thought of Hayes when all this surfaced about Penn State. Hayes was another role model from an earlier era whose career came to an abrupt end under less than ideal circumstances — when he punched an opposing player whose interception secured a bowl game victory for his team.

Everyone always knew that Hayes was a volatile drill sergeant kind of guy, a human volcano, barking out orders and demanding that his players give every ounce of energy to the cause. His bark may have been worse than his bite, but nobody wanted to hear his bark.

Even so, Hayes was considered the kind of man that young men could look up to, and countless fathers wanted their sons to play football for him.

That changed in the blink of an eye.

A role model is expected to do more than talk the talk. He is expected to walk the walk, too.

I guess I first thought of Hayes' case in relation to Paterno's when I heard people say — as I have been saying for years — that Paterno should have retired a long time ago. I was reminded of something I read when Hayes was dismissed.

"People keep saying that Woody Hayes is a great football coach who overstayed his time," wrote the great Red Smith in 1979. "This implies that there was a time when slugging a member of the opposing team was proper coachly deportment."

Or that there was a time when it was OK for a coach to pass the buck when his assistant — who was, for a time, regarded by many as his hand–picked successor — sexually assaulted a child in the locker room.

Jim Tressel's Resignation

Yesterday, after I heard that Jim Tressel had resigned as the head football coach at Ohio State, I sent an e–mail to a friend of mine.

"Did you hear that Jim Tressel has resigned at Ohio State?" I asked.

"It had been building for some time after that stupid bowl decision," he replied. "Probably good for both the school and him. He'll get a job next year very easily at a top program."

I completely agree with his first sentence — and I agree with the second as well. I'm not so sure about the third. I'm kind of inclined to think this is it for Tressel — or that it may be a few years — possibly several years — before he returns to the sidelines.

It's hard for me to say, though. Tressel's decision really caught me by surprise — although, in hindsight, my friend's observation that this "had been building for some time" makes sense — and it may take me awhile to absorb it all.

Others don't seem as surprised.

Brett McMurphy of CBS Sports, for one, wants to know — What took so long?

"Any other coach would have been tossed aside months ago," he writes. "Tressel must have attended — and graduated cum laude from — the Richard M. Nixon School on how to handle a crisis situation. Yet another example: The coverup is worse than the crime."

That helps frame things for me. Tressel does remind me of Nixon in his determination never to admit to wrongdoing. Even his "defense" of his players' violations of NCAA rules against selling memorabilia — that these problems could be avoided if athletes were paid — smacks of the kind of arrogance I have come to expect from Ohio State coaches.

Which brings me to Mike Lopresti of USA Today, who put into words a thought that kept going through my mind.

For reasons I had not been able to pinpoint previously, Tressel's sudden departure reminded me of the demise of another legendary Ohio State football coach, Woody Hayes, who belted an opposing player following a turnover in a bowl game.

They were "[t]wo smart, determined, successful coaches [who] came to messy ends, each from [a] self–induced crisis."

Hayes was arrogant, too — in a different way, perhaps. But each in his own way believed that he and the Ohio State football program occupied a special zone. In that zone, Hayes was entitled to fetch a roundhouse to the chops of an opposing player on national TV, and Tressel was entitled to look the other way while his players ignored the rules by which all others must live.

("If the president does it," Nixon famously said, "that means it is not illegal.")

Nevertheless, Tressel was maybe the only thing sports fans in Ohio had going for them these days. Lebron James left Cleveland for Miami — where he will start playing for an NBA title tonight.

The Cleveland Indians are clinging to first in a pitiful American League Central, but they got hammered the day Tressel announced his resignation, and it is far from certain whether they will still be playing in October.

The Cincinnati Reds, thought by many to be a sure thing for the playoffs when the season began, are in a tailspin; they've lost seven of their last 10 games, and they are currently third in the National League Central.

And probably the less said about the Browns and the Bengals the better.

Tressel's status among suddenly embattled (and presumably embittered) Ohio sports fans may improve. After all, by the time he died, Hayes was remembered for his triumphs on the gridiron and not his indiscretion in the Gator Bowl.

And Nixon, too, was eulogized in glowing terms — nearly two decades after he resigned the presidency.

Time does have a way of healing all — or, at least, most — wounds.

The Buckeyes' History in the Big Easy

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the Arkansas Razorbacks' struggles in the Sugar Bowl.

When they meet the Ohio State Buckeyes in the Big Easy on Tuesday night, though, it will be hard to tell — judging from their histories in New Orleans — which team wants or needs to change its luck there more.

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, the Razorbacks have one victory in five appearances in the Sugar Bowl. The Buckeyes also have one victory, but they have only made three appearances in New Orleans.

And they've been to New Orleans much more recently.

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In fact, their most recent trip there was a success.

On New Year's Day 1999, the third–ranked Buckeyes took on the eighth–ranked Texas A&M Aggies in the Superdome, and the Aggies drew first blood, driving 59 yards in six plays against the nation's second–best defense.

But Ohio State scored three touchdowns before the first period was over. The backbreaker was a blocked punt that the Buckeyes recovered and quickly converted into an unchallenged score.

The Ohio State offense didn't play particularly well in the second half, but the defense lived up to its reputation and stopped every A&M threat except one. Ohio State prevailed, 24–14.

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It was the polar opposite of the Buckeyes' experience the previous year, when fifth–ranked Florida State raced to a 21–3 halftime lead after a fairly competitive first quarter.

Ninth–ranked Ohio State's offense just never got on track, and the Buckeyes lost by a wide margin, 31–14.

But that beating wasn't as severe as the one inflicted on Ohio State when Woody Hayes took the Buckeyes to New Orleans for the first time 20 years earlier.

On Jan. 2, 1978, third–ranked Alabama, led by Bear Bryant, hammered ninth–ranked Ohio State, 35–6.

The Razorbacks don't have a history of success in the Sugar Bowl. With a record of 1–4, Arkansas fans cannot plausibly argue otherwise.

But neither can Ohio State fans.