LEE CORSO WINS HIS FIRST GAME AS A BIG TEN COACH
The Magic of Believing
Appeared in The Courier-Tribune Magazine (Bloomington, Indiana), 7 October 1973
Lee Corso stands there, in the middle of the locker room, waving his arms and screaming like some freaked-out revival minister. Galavanting. Hand-clapping. Rattling the rafters. Cleansing his team of its sins.
It’s halftime and Corso’s Indiana team has come into the locker room with a lead for the first time this year. So Corso’s down on his knees, surrounded by his team — down on his knees, man! — begging his team to win. Not necessarily for the Gipper, but … yeah — for me, Lee Corso.
Smiling Lee Corso, some kind of combination of Billy Graham, Knute Rockne and Al Capone. The man who only wanted to coach a Big Ten team.
When he came to Hoosierland, it was immediate stardom. A happy-go-lucky blue-collar type, he had the kind of charisma that appealed both to the stodgy alumni and the free-wheeling but cynical students. Always smiling and joking around. Friendly Lee.
Nice-enough guy, but can he win football games?
The Corso Method is about something he calls “the magic of believing.” Tell a good football player he’s a great football player and he’ll be a great football player. Be positive. Don’t tell the guys what they do wrong as much as you tell them what they’re doin’ right. This all worked for Corso in the past, so the Indiana fans rallied behind this new coach.
Dynamic. Everyone started calling him dynamic. Like he’s some fantastic new bathroom cleanser. Selling him like a detergent. New and improved Indiana football — now with Corso! A real sales pitch.
Corso was everywhere. All over the television, the newspapers, yakking at banquets all over the state. Really moving into the community and finding his niche right away. A friendly, carefree howareya kind of guy. That’s the image everyone saw. Corso had a reputation as some sort of weirdo when it came to football – playing recklessly, doing some bizarre stunts for publicity.
Maybe some of the Hoosier fans thought Corso cared more about publicity when he lost his first two games as Indiana’s head coach. But they didn’t lose faith altogether. Like Corso says, there are no fans in the world like Indiana fans. They stick with you even when you’re as low as you can go. And Indiana has been pretty low.
The IU-Kentucky game meant a lot to Corso. He’s just moved from Kentucky after coaching at the University of Louisville for three years. Something to prove to the folks back there. Something to prove to the fans right here. Something to prove to the team — that they are as good as he tells them they are.
The Lee Corso the players see is not the same man who sells Fords in TV commercials. He’s deeply concerned with winning football games. No stunts get in the way of winning. And he’s also a lot more compassionate. Sure, tell the team to win it for you, but convince them the victory is for them. He cares about his team. He loves them.
He gets his team up for the game. Leads them in on buses. Has them do a dance before the game. Good publicity? Hell yeah. Put on a show for the folks. But the team digs doing it. Corso’s approachable. Keeps saying how much he loves the fans. So the folks would probably show up even if Indiana didn’t win. And, when the stands started filling for IU-Kentucky, the Hoosiers hadn’t won a game.
Couple minutes before kickoff and the team’s going crazy. Hopping up and down. Filled with nervous energy. Yelling at each other, and they’re louder than the cheerleaders.
Corso’s wearing the usual — his lucky blue shirt and blue plaid pants. Red tie. It doesn’t show, but he’s also got a Saint Christopher’s medal, a pink rabbit’s foot and a green lapel button from his wife that says, “Hang in there, Baby.” A fella can’t take too many chances when facing a big rival.
When the game begins, Corso becomes a different sort of guy. Not exactly somber, but he’s not joking around as easily. No smiles now. He doesn’t let himself get down when someone botches a play and doesn’t go crazy when something good happens.
He goes through a lot of chameleonic changes. When one of the big bad officials threatens, Corso’s the angry, caged mama lion protecting his cubs. About to strike out and rip open anyone that dares to touch one of his running backs. Pacing on the sidelines, snarling like a wild beast. Slowly surveying the scene. Cautious, but ready to attack.
He’s got the team convinced they could take on the Miami Dolphins and stomp ‘em right now. Only the facemasks are keeping the team from eating the bench — running over and taking a huge hunk out of it, eating the splinters raw.
Like this one guy: number 89, Grant Gartis. The sportswriters never heard of the guy. He never plays. He’s suited up over there, hopping up and down on the bench, begging to be put into the game. He isn’t playing, but he isn’t getting down.
“Kick their ass! C’mon, D’s! C’mon Carl! Let’s go, Big Fats! C’mon, Big D! Let’s go, Baby! C’mon, Baby! Stick that son of a bitch!”
The noise of the fans is background music for the scene on the bench. The cheers come down in layers, slowly descending from the upper deck: “Here we go Hoosiers, here we go! Here we go Hoosiers, here we go!“
When Indiana gets the ball, quarterback Mike Glazier leads the team for a few plays until Corso puts in his number-one man, Willie Jones.
Jones starts moving the team down the field. Everyone’s rallying behind him. Cries of “Come on, Willie” float down from the stands. The players call him Dubya Jay and even the members of the Marching Hundred have made up a special cheer for the quarterback. A guy from the Hundred, probably too small to ever play football, paces the sidelines. He’s the imaginary coach. Got his mind made up how to win the game and wants Willie to listen.
“Take it in! Don’t settle for first down! Take it in! Come on, Willie Boy! Let’s go! Let’s go! C’mon, line — move it out. C’mon, Willie Jay! Way to go, Willie!”
Corso kneels on the sideline. Chewing his cud. Or his gum. Not smiling. The play’s over. Corso gets up, talks to Bob Kramer, sends another play in. Paces some more then squats back in the same position to watch the next play. He repeats this. The movements don’t change. Never does anything strange, like he’s fabled to do. His eyes are rooted to the line of scrimmage. He’s oblivious to the geeks standing ‘round him. Ray Shands, a Corso assistant, keeps everyone out of the coach’s way. Corso’s got a wadded, sweaty piece of paper in his right hand. Grocery list? Naw, game plan.
A Hoosier player gets smashed and Mama Lion Corso ruffles his fur. “That sonofabitch oughta…” (then, to a player) “C’mere, Kid. “ He grabs the player by his numbers, shoving his face into the Kid’s helmet, barking instructions through the birdcage. Eye to eye. The Kid runs on the field as Corso pats him on the butt.
Still riled, Corso is the husky stevedore now, just waiting for one of those guys — be they Kentuckians or officials — to make a false move. Then pow, right in the kisser.
When the offensive unit comes off the field and the defense runs on, Corso runs with them. Talking to all 11 guys at once. Out to the hash marks, then he turns around, tripping over a down marker on his way past the chain gang. But he’s still unruffled and squats again in his standard position. He’s rubbing the pink rabbit’s foot. Face contorted like an old grape. Worrying, mostly.
Corso scratches his armpit as he talks to the defensive unit during a time out. He uses the other finger to point right into a player’s helmet. The players rush on and Corso again watches from his helpless stance on the sidelines. Kneeling with hands crossed, chewing silent instructions to his players. Eyes nearly shut, nearly shadows as he watches the playing field. The first period’s scoreless.
Over on the bench Grant Gartis is still hopping, growing hoarse, he’s been screaming so much. “C’mon, Willlllaaaaaaaaay!”
He spots the Kentucky defender — Woodcock, number 20 — hit a Hoosier especially hard. Gartis leaps to the sideline. “Damn you, Woodcock! You’ll get yours, you little son of a bitch!”
When Indiana punts, Woodcock takes the ball deep in Kentucky territory. A couple plays later, Mike DiSalvo pins the Wildcat quarterback in the end zone for a safety.
The Indiana bench goes nuts. Jumping up and down. The scoreboard’s little lighted football blinks off and on, and the cheerleaders throw themselves into the air like popcorn kernels.
Corso, though, is not going crazy. Always thinking a couple of plays ahead. Doesn’t get too involved in what’s happening now. He’s got to be ahead of everyone else.
Ken Starling scores a touchdown, but it isn’t until Rodney Harris runs for a two-point conversion that Corso breathes a little easier. It’s 10-0. Corso’s standing a little looser. He isn’t gripping that rabbit’s foot so tight anymore. But he’s still not smiling.
Before the half is over, Kentucky’s Ron Steele hits a 25-yard field goal. Corso and his team run to the locker room with a 10-3 lead.
While the Marching Hundred toots its way down the field and the spectators eat hot dogs and guzzle Cokes, the team is still working.
The players sit down around the walls of the locker room, to sweat and to breathe. And to listen to the voices of Corso and the other coaches coming from behind the closed door labeled “Coaches’ Office.” The sound of a projector and a lot of yelling emanate from within.
Corso: “Run that one again. Hurry up. See? They’re going outside on that damn thing!”
Another play is shown.
Corso: “Here’s the one that’s hurtin’ us now. Watch! That end, that linebacker’s got room in there, but he’s getting caught by that tackle!”
The other coaches point out what they see. They are all, like Corso, hyper-tense, in fist-pounding rage. The only contact with sanity these men have right now is the can of Coke they carry. They take long gulps. The loudspeaker describing the Marching Hundred meanders through the locker room door.
Back in the coaches’ room — Corso, fiercely emotional: “We’re trying to block that guy out there! Hal … I mean Jim: Try to double up on him. He’ll step over … right there! Make your tackle on that guy. Aw, hell — they’ll kill us in the second half if we let them do that! Look at that son of a bitch. We cannot let him go inside. Okay, that’s it. Look at that guy! All right, turn the lights on.”
The coaches’ office door stays closed. The coaches huddle, trying to hash out the problems. Corso works it out on a blackboard.
Upstairs, on the field, the band is halfway through its routine. The coaches look through their game plans again, trying to come up with modifications. Anything that will end in a win.
Corso: “Hey, Fred — here’s another thing. This guy’s way the hell over too far.”
Fred (apparently): “****.”
Corso: “Yeah, should be back over here.” He draws on the blackboard.
Some voice floating in from the locker room: “Thirty seconds, thirty seconds.”
It begins to quiet in the coaches’ room. Faces are tired, withdrawn. Working out solutions silently. Someone belches loudly. The door opens and Corso comes out, clapping his hands.
“Okay, offense, defense — to your sections.”
Hands clap. The players slowly begin rising from the floor and follow the appropriate coach with his rolling blackboard. Redistributed, the players return to the floor. Some of them are sipping Cokes. Corso’s assistants handle the lecturing.
“Middle linebacker, take away that counter dive. Fill in here. Fill in here. Any problems, men?”
Corso’s so wired, he’s not sure what to do. Chewing his fingernails, running from one group to another. Walks in, yells advice, runs out. Off in search of the next group. Or maybe a urinal.
Assistant coach, deep southern drawl: “You gotta spring out one way — middle linebacker, get in that tight-end hole.”
Corso: “Yeah, that tight-end side is where they’re coming from.”
All right. Hands clap. Magic moment in any football game: the halftime speech. Inspire the team to go out there and win. Lots of coaches do things to get their players up for a game. Knute Rockne said, “Win one for the Gipper.”
But what does one of these new-generation coaches like Lee Corso do?
“Okay, everybody up!”
The groups break and the players circle Corso. Yelling, ready to go back on the field.
“Stay right where you are,” Corso says. “We got a minute more.” He claps until there is silence.
“All right, gentlemen.” Corso in the center of the circle. “Listen to every word I say. We got thirty minutes until a helluva big victory. Do you understand? Thirty minutes.
“I’ll tell you another thing.” He scratches his ear. “This team has not scored a touchdown in the second half this year. Defense! If you hold them, just like you’ve got them now, we win. We can’t … we don’t have …” [Truly astonished] “You know that? We win. Just hold them. Converge on that ball carrier. They’re not going to run anymore. We gotta get after them. Their front runners: who in the hell in this room’s gonna get number 12, that quarterback? Will you tell me? “
Corso’s glancing around the circle, arms outstretched. “Somebody raise their hand if they’ll get that sonofabitch!”
Voices, from all around: “I’ll get him!” “I will!” “Me!” “Get after him!”
“Go after them!” Corso’s veins nearly pop out from his neck. Screaming. “Will you tell me? Is someone gonna get that guy for me? Huh?”
Team sounds like a room full of mad dogs, all wanting to rip that quarterback limb from limb and serve him on a platter for the coach.
Corso, suddenly calm: “You go after them.”
Mad-dog voice, matter of factly: “Put. Him. Out.”
“You go after them on defense,” Corso says. “Keep your cool. Take pride in yourself. Defense! You got two. Let’s see you get two more.” Claps his hands. “Now pay attention. Offensively, you got him on the screen. Got ‘em moving now. As soon as we iron out the power pass, we’ll move the ball down the field. Kicking game’s gonna be very important. Every punt we make, please cover with everything you’ve got, cause …” [He clasps his hands, begging his players.] “… we’re so close to victory.” [Pause] “Now tell me.” [He surveys the room.] “We got thirty minutes left. Do you have it in you?”
Players look up and, without rehearsal, roar a nearly unintelligible yes!
Corso: “Do you know what this victory means? “
The players, near hysteria, can’t want to run back on that field and rip the quarterback.
Corso, quiet now, down on his knees. “Now let’s say our prayers.”
Silence. Some players kneel; others just bow their heads. Preacher Corso, after arousing his congregation to a seething frenzy, now has his players kneeling gingerly in a circle, praying.
The players rise slowly.
“You know how close we are.” Corso gets up slowly. “Please.”
Players rush for the door, screaming letsgoletsgoletsgo.
“C’mon Joe!”
“You’re doing great!
“Keep knockin’!”
“Woooooo!”
Corso is last to leave, following through the door and onto the field.
The crowd’s going nuts as the team runs back on the field. Corso’s at the back of the pack. His speech was short, simple and to the point. Served the same purpose as the long oratory by Pat O’Brien in Knute Rockne All American.
The team is fired up. They sense they will win this game now. An Indiana interception early in the second half assures the team that victory is near. The assistant coaches breathe easier. But Corso isn’t smiling. He’s barking instructions into Willie Jones’ helmet.
Corso stands in front of the team, arms raised like he’s leading the glee club. Then, all of a sudden, he’s Methuselah, pointing out mistakes to his players. Ed McMahon hi-yo yells float down from the fraternity section.
Kentucky has the ball and Corso thinks he knows what can stop that quarterback: Freshman Derek Foree. He’s trained exclusively to maim quarterbacks.
Corso’s pacing, looking for his monster. He can’t find him!
“Foree! Foree! Foreeeee!”
Foree sneaks up behind Corso and taps him on the shoulder. “Yeah, Coach?”
Corso, temporarily startled, soon starts screaming into Foree’s birdcage.
Foree runs onto the field and on the next play, he flattens the quarterback.
Corso, like a drill sergeant: “Your attention! Punt return team, get ready!”
IU has the ball again. Corso’s on the sideline, chewing. Sends in finger signals to the players. Shaking an encouraging fist, Corso stops his manic chewing only at the snap of the ball.
Good play. A smile almost spreads across his face. Then he’s back to brooding — Marlon Brando, James Dean. He’s ornery, on the lookout for trouble.
Corso needs a messenger. Right now. Got to run a play in. He stands up, looks around frantically. He’s a man looking for something that he knows he has. Can’t find it. A messenger, a messenger, my kingdom for a messenger.
Then he finds one. Agile as a cheerleader, he leaps into a scrum and grabs a guy by the numbers, says a quick word in the ear, and throws the player onto the field.
Corso’s biting off his fingers. The nails are gone.
Indiana scores again. They’ve got a 14-point lead, but Corso’s not letting himself go.
Instructions to his defensive-team messenger: “Tell them the sonofabitch is opening to the right! To the right!”
Cheerleaders get the crowd going. “Gimme a C, gimme an O, gimme an R, gimme an S, gimme an O!”
Corso’s kneeling at the sideline, still chewing, oblivious to his hero status.
All of a sudden, the clock says there are only three minutes left in the game. Cheerleaders are smiling. Players are laughing. The crowd gets crazier. No one’s left the stands.
Even Corso has a goofy little smile on his face. The trombone section of the Marching Hundred sways as the majorettes dance in the end zone. Even the usually reserved Quinn Buckner is cheering. And Grant Gardis hops up and down on the bench, hoarse by now. “C’mon, offense! C’mon, defense! Let’s go, baby!” He raises his hands, grins and cheers along with the card section.
Thirty-nine seconds left. Corso still hasn’t let loose with his full-fledged, polyunsaturated grin. He stands on the field, watching the last moments. A steely-eyed official comes over and leads him off the field. The official runs back to the fifty and Corso returns to his on-field home.
Countdown. The fans roar the numbers and time winds down. Finally, Corso begins a smile. Starts about the number eight, and as the fans roar, it gets bigger and bigger. By number three, it’s the television smile that tells jokes and sells Fords. When the gun goes off, Corso’s hands clench in some kind of victory grasp. He lets out some sort of wild whoop and pogo-sticks for a few seconds. The players, the good ones he told were great, surround him. Corso grabs Willie Jones and kisses him. Grant Gardis is jumping high as the cheerleaders.
Corso and the team mad-dash to the locker room. The Indiana fans, who haven’t seen a Hoosier team win a football game for a long time are dazed, not sure how one is to behave after a victory.
Players don’t call him Corso or Lee or even Mister Corso. He’s Coach, a name used with respect. The team’s cheering Coach now, here in the locker room. They carry him to the shower, which he needs since the players also gave him a Sprite bath.
Soggy Corso meets the press. Does nothing but compliment Fran Curci, the Kentucky coach. They’re old friends. Another reason wanted to win this so bad. And he talks about this team as family. He has every member of the team believing they are the greatest football players in the world. When they work together, he says, they really believe.
Coach sits there, dripping with sweat and Sprite, sorting out his emotions for the reporters. He keeps repeating things, but says that for the first time, he was himself during this game. He was himself as the Indiana coach.
As he wipes his face, a radio reporter fires up his gear and Coach says the same things, over and over. Sure feels good to win his first Big Ten game.
Out there in the locker room, he’s got an army of players ready to tear apart every team in existence. Limb from limb! Stomp ‘em! Smash ‘em into the ground for Coach.
Some magic, that believing.