I brought back more pop, but no pizza. As I approached the table, I saw Tim had a napkin unfolded on the table in front of him. He had a pen in one hand and held the napkin down with the other as he diagrammed a play on it. There were several other discarded napkins on the table and a few had fallen to the floor.
I had only been gone a couple of minutes.
"Do you know what it's like, maan?" he asked, barely looking up from his improvised playbook.
"What what is like?" I asked.
"Rhetorical. I know you don't know." He finished drawing on the napkin, stared at it, nodded, folded it up and put it into his jacket pocket. "The whole play-calling thing. It's like a game-plan is this beautiful symphony, maan. The tempo and rhythm can be adjusted. The plays are the notes and even the drives are passages of beautiful music. You get to practice and practice and practice. Every player knows exactly what he has to do. I'm in the box, I see the waves and ripples of what my plays are going to do before the opening kick-off. You dig?"
I had no idea where he was going with this, so I just nodded.
"The music starts, and it's amazing. A-mazing. Even though there's all these distractions trying to throw your musicians off. You got dudes throwing shit at the woodwinds. A snake is slithering between the legs of the string section. An orang-utan is poking his finger into the ear of the bass drummer. All the while the music is coming out perfectly. The conductor has got the whole orchestra focused and it is flowing, maan, just flowing."
He was staring beyond me. He had that thousand-yard stare going on. It was kind of creepy.
"Then, bang!" he shouted as he slapped a hand down, hard, on the table. "First chair violin has a string break. Yeah, she can get a replacement in, quick, but it's not going to sound the same. Half the oboes start playing the wrong piece. People notice, man. The bass drum gets half a beat off rhythm and its starts throwing the whole damn orchestra off. Is that shit the conductor's fault?"
I digested that for a moment before replying. "You know," I said, in a measured tone. "There are those out there that say you can never blame the player. It's up to the coaches to ensure that he's prepared."
"And I would say to them, that they must not have ever had to deal with kids, of any age. Just look around, maan, you see kids driving around, texting and shit. You think mom and dad haven't ridden their asses about that. Kids go out and Saturday night and get shit-faced. Don't you think mommy and daddy haven't told them not to? How much crap do you think you'd get, if you went up to the mom of a pregnant teenager, rolled your eyes and said, 'why didn't you coach her up'?"
"But these aren't kids," I said. "They are legally adults. Shouldn't we treat them with that level of responsibility?"
"Really, maan. Really? These are kids who are out of the house for the first time in their lives. They got football. They got school. In order to be good citizens, we've got them going to hospitals and camps for the underprivileged. Most of them are trying to get or keep a girl. Some even have munchkins. They have twice the responsibility of an average student, and have to, or get to, throw themselves on the mercy of 90,000 fans in the stadium and the millions of faithful on TV. I'm amazed more of these guys don't melt down. Yes, they're accountable to me, and to themselves, they don't want to miss a block, or drop a catch, but it happens. Yes, it is their fault, but it happens. So, where was I? Oh, yeah. I treat them as kids. I hold them accountable when they fuck up. I yell at them when I need to. And believe it or not, I hug them when they need that, too, maan."
"So, who's fault is it, then, when things don't go right?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. Hoping to avoid the inevitable froth.
"Oh, maan. That's the 64-thousand dollar question, isn't it. Ok, maan, lets break this shit down. Lets get molecular, baby. I'm going to take a cosmic number, 64, lets say. That's the number of offensive plays. On one hand, we only scored on five of those plays. So, does that mean we only had a 0.078125% success rate. If so, that's bullshit, maan. Or, do you take all the plays that yielded a less than optimal result? That would mean all the incompletions, right? Tommy went 8-for-21, so that's a minimum of 13 plays with less than optimal results, right? You'd have to break down the game film, to be sure, but how many of those passes were tipped at the line? How many of those passes were throwaways because no receivers were open? How many times did he put the ball out of reach to avoid a sack?"
He was getting really worked up, now.
"So, to go back to our magic number of 64, in order to be successful, we've got to what, hit on at least 48 of those plays? To what degree is it a success? Is gaining 8 yards on third and five any more successful than gaining the needed five? Should Tommy have stopped on his TD run on fourth and four, in order to get more opportunities for success or failure? Yeah, you can sit there and break things down, we're we good on half the plays? One-quarter? One-eighth? That's not how we, as coaches look at it man. We don't have time to worry about whose nit to pick. It's like, ok, that sucked. Call the next play."
"But isn't it the coaches job to put the players in positions that give them opportunities to succeed?"
"Maan, this is just getting so quantum, maan. I mean like Schrodinger's cat, maan. That's what every single play is, you dig? You have a vision of how the play is designed to work. Every player has to do their part. You look in the box to see if the cat is alive or dead. At the moment you grab the lid, it is both, maan. Trippy, I know. At every snap of the ball, we're grabbing the lid. There are an infinite number of possibilities with every single play. You try to minimize the possibilities by having your 11 guys do their job while at the same time recognizing that the other side has 11 guys trying to prevent yours from doing what they need to do."
He suddenly flipped his sunglasses to the top of his head. His eyes were bulging out.
"I have the perfect example of what I'm talking about. 4th and goal from inside Purdue's one yard line. I called exactly the same play we picked up the first down earlier in the drive, because I knew we had an advantage on that side of the line, and I've got Ameer, maan. Small probability effect 1: Pelini rockets the ball right at Tommy's grill. Small probability effect 2: Tommy can't get a hold of the ball, and Ameer tries to scoop it up and plunge it into the endzone. Small Probability effect 3: because Ameer is on the ground, lunging toward the endzone, he gets a great big, 300 pound defensive fat-ass, falling on his leg, spraining his knee. That's three dead cats, maan. If the first cat had been alive, we don't even need to open the lids on the other two."
My head was starting to swim. Maybe the caffeine and sugar rush from the pop was kicking in. Maybe the proximity to what was quite clearly, madness was seeping into me. I had to wrap this up.
"So, In a nutshell, how would you define a successful game?" I asked.
"Are you kidding me, maan? Just look at the final score. We put more points on the board than the other guy. That's not rocket science. That's not complicated. It's the big picture, man. With what I do, its like that painting made up of all the dots, Sunday Afternoon on La Grand Jatte. When you step back, you've got a beautiful picture. Any win is a beautiful picture. It's when you get close up to it that you start to see all the little things that make it up. I'm sure there are critics that try to hammer Seurat with why he put that red dot over that blue dot, and how he probably should have not put so much blue on the monkey's tail and shit like that. Look at the big picture, maan. A win, a 21-point win over a conference opponent. I don't know, maan, does this help you get the vibe, at all?"
Nope. Not really.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Interview With Beck
From the Files of Lloyd
Meeting/Interview with Tim Beck, Offensive Coordinator, Nebraska
2 Nov 14
I got the chance to talk to Tim Beck. He's been under a lot of criticism lately, and I wanted to get a chance to really get his thoughts on the matter. His responses in the local fishwrap and the nightly news have been too, circumspect, too tightly wound and delivered. I don't think the average fan is getting to see the real Tim Beck.
I called in a favor. I helped him out with a little COINTELPRO operation that makes 'Spy-Gate' for the Patriots look like an episode of 'I Spy'. Not saying when or where it happened.
I rolled to the rendezvous point. The local Kiddie Kasino on a school day is a great location. If you go to the upstairs area, you can survey anyone coming in, not that anyone does, and if anyone does come in, they are usually too focused on the flashing lights and the machines vomiting tickets to pay too much attention to anyone else.
I grabbed a couple slices of Vals (bleh) and pop and sat him down. He was agitated, not his normal, 'I'm too busy to do this' agitation. He was looking as wound up as an old, 50's alien invasion robot toy and the spring was pulling on its housing. One more twist of the key, and Kapow.
"So, Timmy, what's going on?" I asked in a clear, cool voice. I didn't want to be the one to push him over.
"You know what, maan," he rasped. "This is the part of the job that sucks. You know what I mean?"
"No. What sucks?"
"We go out there, maan. My guys. We drop 35 points on Purdue. We Drop 42 on Rutgers and it's not good enough. Can't win, maan, you dig?"
"Well, they did look kind of sloppy in both games."
"You don't think I know that. Man, I got the best god-damned view in the house. I see stuff, maan, I see everything, dig?"
"I get that. You know, the fans--"
"The fans?" he spat. "You mean those jack-offs who sit around drinking their red beers and maybe devote a half-hour a day, make that an hour if they listen to Jack-Off and Suck-Me on the local sports radio show. Those guys, who think that because they've been sitting on their asses, flipping through the dial every Saturday, all of a sudden become gurus of football. Those guys?"
"Well, yeah. But my point--"
"Those guys can blow me. I'm out there, every freaking day, maan. Every day. You think I know what Mark Pelini does on game-day that makes it so he can't snap the fuckin' ball right. Never does it in practice. Never. Snaps as beautiful as you'll see. He's like John freakin' Fitzgerald in practice."
"John Fitzgerald?"
"Center for the Cowboys in the 70's. Shotgun City, baby."
"Oh. OK. But what about the play-calling?"
"Oh, maan, the play-calling. Some people are just never satisfied. Every time a play doesn't go right, it's my fault. I hear it, maan. Those same arm-chair coordinators are screaming at their fuckin' TV's every time I call a play that doesn't work out. I got two things to say about that. Every play. Every single play has got 11 kids that have to do enough to make it work. On the other side there are 11 kids doing their damndest to stop it. Then I've got a guy over in the other press box who is trying to keep his job by making me try to do my best. Riddle me this, maan. If Tommy sees Kenny on that pass that he threw to his bff, and Kenny takes it to the end-zone, then I'm a freakin' genius, right? But, noooo, Tommy misses, incomplete. And I'm the moron. I cant go out there and throw the fuckin' ball for him."
"What was the other thing?"
"Complaining about the O.C. is treated as a birthright, in Nebraska. Look into it, maan. Old-school La-Z-Boy coaches screamed at the T.V. whenever Tom (all praise be to his name) would run the option to the short side of the field...and it didn't work. I'm sure Billy Sodbuster, in Alda, used to pound the radio in his combine every time it was 3rd and greater than 15 and Tom (glory to his highest) would call the god-damned draw play."
"You have to admit, though, the yardage hasn't --"
"Fuck yards. The only people who cite yard stats are fantasy Jack-Offs and people who really don't get it."
"Get what?"
"Points is what wins the game. Points. If I get the ball at my own five, drive it all the way down to the opponent's five and come away with nothing, that is a failure. If I get the ball at their 20, and punch it in on the very next play, that is success. In one drive I get 90 yards. Big fuckin' deal, maan. That and three bucks will get me a mocha. Whoop-de-fuckin' do. In the other, I get points, seven of them. Look at it this way, maan. You're going to the moon. If you land on the moon, you're awesome. If you don't, nobody looks at the 238,000 miles you travelled and gives you a consolation prize. You don't get 4 points for getting into the red-zone."
"Some people point at the compensation--"
"Stop right there, maan. Yes, I get 700K to do what I do. I've got a good agent and a good sense of self worth. There are 120 guys with my job description. Narrow that down to the what, 66 guys in the power five conferences. Narrow that further to the 20 or so guys who are expected to keep their teams in the hunt, every single year. I figure I'm worth it, maan. Hell, I think the 700K might not be enough tom put up with all the bullshit. Maybe I should take that Kansas gig. I could get more cash, and have lower expectations."
"You don't think the expectations, here, are justified?"
"Expectations? Here? Justified? You tell me. A win isn't good enough. A good, win, 20+ points isn't good enough. Every little aspect is picked over and the fans forget that football is a dynamic, fluid game. Weird shit happens. I get that part, I know they want the best, but there are some fans out there that wouldn't be happy if we blew out Wisconsin by 50 points and I arranged a orgy with the cheerleaders for them."
The pizza was getting cold and the pop was getting low. I wanted to continue the conversation.
Part 2 to follow.
Meeting/Interview with Tim Beck, Offensive Coordinator, Nebraska
2 Nov 14
I got the chance to talk to Tim Beck. He's been under a lot of criticism lately, and I wanted to get a chance to really get his thoughts on the matter. His responses in the local fishwrap and the nightly news have been too, circumspect, too tightly wound and delivered. I don't think the average fan is getting to see the real Tim Beck.
I called in a favor. I helped him out with a little COINTELPRO operation that makes 'Spy-Gate' for the Patriots look like an episode of 'I Spy'. Not saying when or where it happened.
I rolled to the rendezvous point. The local Kiddie Kasino on a school day is a great location. If you go to the upstairs area, you can survey anyone coming in, not that anyone does, and if anyone does come in, they are usually too focused on the flashing lights and the machines vomiting tickets to pay too much attention to anyone else.
I grabbed a couple slices of Vals (bleh) and pop and sat him down. He was agitated, not his normal, 'I'm too busy to do this' agitation. He was looking as wound up as an old, 50's alien invasion robot toy and the spring was pulling on its housing. One more twist of the key, and Kapow.
"So, Timmy, what's going on?" I asked in a clear, cool voice. I didn't want to be the one to push him over.
"You know what, maan," he rasped. "This is the part of the job that sucks. You know what I mean?"
"No. What sucks?"
"We go out there, maan. My guys. We drop 35 points on Purdue. We Drop 42 on Rutgers and it's not good enough. Can't win, maan, you dig?"
"Well, they did look kind of sloppy in both games."
"You don't think I know that. Man, I got the best god-damned view in the house. I see stuff, maan, I see everything, dig?"
"I get that. You know, the fans--"
"The fans?" he spat. "You mean those jack-offs who sit around drinking their red beers and maybe devote a half-hour a day, make that an hour if they listen to Jack-Off and Suck-Me on the local sports radio show. Those guys, who think that because they've been sitting on their asses, flipping through the dial every Saturday, all of a sudden become gurus of football. Those guys?"
"Well, yeah. But my point--"
"Those guys can blow me. I'm out there, every freaking day, maan. Every day. You think I know what Mark Pelini does on game-day that makes it so he can't snap the fuckin' ball right. Never does it in practice. Never. Snaps as beautiful as you'll see. He's like John freakin' Fitzgerald in practice."
"John Fitzgerald?"
"Center for the Cowboys in the 70's. Shotgun City, baby."
"Oh. OK. But what about the play-calling?"
"Oh, maan, the play-calling. Some people are just never satisfied. Every time a play doesn't go right, it's my fault. I hear it, maan. Those same arm-chair coordinators are screaming at their fuckin' TV's every time I call a play that doesn't work out. I got two things to say about that. Every play. Every single play has got 11 kids that have to do enough to make it work. On the other side there are 11 kids doing their damndest to stop it. Then I've got a guy over in the other press box who is trying to keep his job by making me try to do my best. Riddle me this, maan. If Tommy sees Kenny on that pass that he threw to his bff, and Kenny takes it to the end-zone, then I'm a freakin' genius, right? But, noooo, Tommy misses, incomplete. And I'm the moron. I cant go out there and throw the fuckin' ball for him."
"What was the other thing?"
"Complaining about the O.C. is treated as a birthright, in Nebraska. Look into it, maan. Old-school La-Z-Boy coaches screamed at the T.V. whenever Tom (all praise be to his name) would run the option to the short side of the field...and it didn't work. I'm sure Billy Sodbuster, in Alda, used to pound the radio in his combine every time it was 3rd and greater than 15 and Tom (glory to his highest) would call the god-damned draw play."
"You have to admit, though, the yardage hasn't --"
"Fuck yards. The only people who cite yard stats are fantasy Jack-Offs and people who really don't get it."
"Get what?"
"Points is what wins the game. Points. If I get the ball at my own five, drive it all the way down to the opponent's five and come away with nothing, that is a failure. If I get the ball at their 20, and punch it in on the very next play, that is success. In one drive I get 90 yards. Big fuckin' deal, maan. That and three bucks will get me a mocha. Whoop-de-fuckin' do. In the other, I get points, seven of them. Look at it this way, maan. You're going to the moon. If you land on the moon, you're awesome. If you don't, nobody looks at the 238,000 miles you travelled and gives you a consolation prize. You don't get 4 points for getting into the red-zone."
"Some people point at the compensation--"
"Stop right there, maan. Yes, I get 700K to do what I do. I've got a good agent and a good sense of self worth. There are 120 guys with my job description. Narrow that down to the what, 66 guys in the power five conferences. Narrow that further to the 20 or so guys who are expected to keep their teams in the hunt, every single year. I figure I'm worth it, maan. Hell, I think the 700K might not be enough tom put up with all the bullshit. Maybe I should take that Kansas gig. I could get more cash, and have lower expectations."
"You don't think the expectations, here, are justified?"
"Expectations? Here? Justified? You tell me. A win isn't good enough. A good, win, 20+ points isn't good enough. Every little aspect is picked over and the fans forget that football is a dynamic, fluid game. Weird shit happens. I get that part, I know they want the best, but there are some fans out there that wouldn't be happy if we blew out Wisconsin by 50 points and I arranged a orgy with the cheerleaders for them."
The pizza was getting cold and the pop was getting low. I wanted to continue the conversation.
Part 2 to follow.
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