1989 Essay - by Featured Writer David Haugh
October 08, 2014 | Football
**EDITOR'S NOTE: David Haugh is the sports columnist at the Chicago Tribune and co-host of the “Kap and Haugh Show,'' on 87.7 FM on TheGameChicago.com. Haugh was an All-Mid-American Conference free safety as a senior in 1989 and an Academic All-American. He played for Coach Paul Schudel from 1986-89 and was a starter on the 1989 Mid-American Conference championship team honored Saturday – an experience he reflects on in this essay.
My 1989 California Raisin Bowl watch still works twice a day.
At 1:15 a.m. and 1:15 p.m., it is as accurate as anything made in Switzerland. Its 10-karat-gold plated face still shines but the big and little hands stopped working years ago. The clasp no longer fastens. The glass looks smudged. It always will be my favorite watch. It sits in a box I rarely open but, whenever I look at it long enough to catch sight of the logo, I smile and time indeed stands still.
I remember the time Fresno State put a forgettable end to a memorable season in a 27-6 loss that December day in central California I'll always cherish despite chasing an FSU wide receiver the final 20 yards of a 91-yard touchdown pass. I remember the fog surrounding the stadium and the bright lights accompanying Ball State's first bowl game in forever. I remember a fun time a special group of Ball State football players and coaches always will want to recapture, a time of discovery and determination. I remember a time of victory and validation.
The time of our lives.
***
It was a Sunday night after we lost to Toledo to start the 1989 season 1-2-1 and a sense of regret loomed over our team. We wondered if opportunity had slipped away and whether it was too late to still seize it. We wondered if it would get worse before it got better.
As I walked into former Ball State defensive backs coach Tim Burke's office to watch film, my heart still was in football but my head had begun to move on to graduate school. I felt good about my application at Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism, at least good enough to let that possibility mask the negativity surrounding the beginning of my senior year. We had sung the fight song only once in our first four games and, after a promising 1988 season, nobody expected this. Nobody wanted this. Nobody understood this. To me, nothing summed up the start to our season more than an interception I made in the loss at Toledo – a nice play until I fumbled it back on the return. It was beginning to feel like one of those seasons. Teammates called me “The Professor,'' and I was flunking my senior year of football.
Then Burke, the guy who turned my college football career around, asked me a typically direct question that Sunday night as I sat down to study the next opponent.
“What do you want out of this season?'' Burke asked behind his desk.
It was a question I think many seniors on that '89 pondered that weekend.
I remember looking at Burke blankly, not really sure how to answer. I was rarely speechless around Burke, who liked to debate politics and sports and really anything with players. He was terrific in the way he made you think. But at that moment, a weak one, all I could think about was how I was going to survive this new position coach who likely would start trying to replace me with a younger player soon given our 1-2-1 start. I had nothing witty or wise to reply.
“I want to get better,'' I answered, the best I could do.
“Then let me coach you,'' he said. “Stop coaching yourself. I can help you. It's not too late.''
It's not too late.
I thought about those words driving home that night. I thought about those words at the next practice the first time I considered following my instincts, the way I had for three years as a starter, instead of reading my keys as Burke requested. I thought about those words every day leading up to the next game, which we won, and at every meeting the rest of the season as we went unbeaten the next six games. My personal awakening coincided with a defense that was more disciplined and disruptive and an offense that efficiently balanced power with big plays. We weren't the most talented team in the league but we always were the most prepared. We also benefited, in an odd way, from starting so slow. An underachieving team can provide a captive audience, and after one victory in the first four games, we were all ears.
Our resolve and leadership resurfaced. Our mettle sharpened. Finally, our focus matched our talent. I have gotten a lot of mileage over the years telling people I was a teammate of running back Bernie Parmalee, who shared the load that season with Adam Wilson behind an offensive line led by Ted Ashburn and Todd Wright. I don't think quarterback David Riley broke a sweat that entire year. Riley was to smooth what cotton is to soft. He threw to big-play Sean Jones and little Herbie Jackson, to Jeff Hammond and Eugene Riley. When David Riley got hot, he threw it basically wherever he wanted. As the winning continued, the offense believed it could score on anybody.
Defensively, I am pretty sure linebacker Greg Garnica never missed a tackle – and at least I didn't fumble another interception. Shawon Respress hit running backs into next week and Ralph Wize scared quarterbacks every Saturday. Every week we believed as a defense that coordinator Rick Minter could devise a scheme that the opponent couldn't figure out and every week he proved us right. I have covered college and pro football for 23 years now and cannot recall meeting a defensive coach with a sharper mind than Minter, the man who recruited me and remains a friend. We might not have had the lowest yardage or point totals as a defense in '89 but I would bet we had the highest football IQs.
As a team, eventually we came together, committed to “WHATEVER IT TAKES,'' – and now forever connected by the memories of clinching the Mid-American Conference championship one autumn day in Athens, Ohio.
I remember celebrating in the visiting locker room at Ohio University as we sang off-tune, “WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS…OF THE MAC.'' Burke was making the rounds to everyone in our secondary, young cornerbacks Leo Porter and Keith Hackett, veterans like Sean Turner and Mike Crews. When he came to me, I immediately thought of that night in his office as he shook my hand.
“Thank you for coaching me,'' I said.
“Thank you for letting me do my job,'' Burke said.
***
I don't get back to Ball State as much as I'd like but my college experience still comes up more than I expect, especially in this line of work. One day recently after I wrote a column in the Chicago Tribune about suffering at least two concussions during my playing career, a good friend asked me a fair question.
“Was it worth the risk?'' he wondered.
I've always believed it would have been a bigger risk for me trying to finance a college education without football.
“Without a doubt,'' I answered.
The three proudest days of my life were the day my son was born, the day I was married and the day I sat in front of my parents and signed a national-letter-of-intent to accept a football scholarship at Ball State. For a kid who grew up in a modest home from the small town of North Judson, Ind. – pop: 1,500 – the meaning of a free education still makes me struggle for words hard to find. And I write for a living. The excitement was palpable; the opportunity profound. Every day as a Cardinal, I considered my spot on the team more of a privilege than a right. How lucky I was to find so many teammates at Ball State who shared the same view of playing college football.
We all were fortunate to be part of a Ball State program that properly balanced academics and athletics, business and pleasure. If our facilities at the time didn't keep us humble, our coaches did. If we needed motivation or inspiration, we could find it in the locker room or a coach's office. Not everybody got along but nobody was left behind. We appreciated the value of working hard and working together, the commitment required to reach a goal. We learned how to win but only after we developed the will to prepare to win. Maybe we all would have developed the same discipline and work ethic and other traits that benefited us as professionals without playing college football but somehow I doubt it. I can only speak for myself but I maintain the perseverance necessary to survive a college football career helped prepare me for everything I have faced as a sports columnist and talk-show host, as well as a father and husband.
These days it's not cool to love football. And if you do, expect to be mocked or ridiculed if you admit it publicly. But I love football and never will apologize for that. I always will. I acknowledge all the dangers and demands that have created headlines and lawsuits, some of them tragic, all of them relevant. Nobody's denying the inherent dangers that every current and former college football player realizes are part of putting on a helmet and shoulder pads. Nor can anybody on the 1989 Ball State team deny how either that season or their college careers affected their lives in a way they would never change; or how the rewards were worth the risks and aches and pains and fights and squabbles and everything else.
Coach Paul Schudel was a strong but simple man, someone who preferred substance to style. In each of the 25 years that have passed since that special season in Muncie, I have come to appreciate more the stability Schudel provided and example he set. No matter the circumstance, Schudel stayed consistent. Not every player liked Schudel but every teammate I recall respected him. His character never wavered, even if occasionally the tone of his voice did. You knew what to expect from Schudel and, as a result, he came to know what to expect from us.
I always will remember the day he offered me a scholarship and promised my parents Ball State would be the right decision for me. Sure enough, it was.
I always will remember the sign in his Ball State office that promised: “Those Who Stay Will Be Champions.'' Sure enough, those who stayed were.