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sports

Saying goodbye to Lloyd Carr

By John U. Bacon

January 15, 2008

This essay is drawn from a pair of radio commentaries given by John U. Bacon on Michigan Radio, the National Public Radio news station based at the University of Michigan.

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In the world of sports, people are remembered for their farewells.

Ted Williams is considered the greatest hitter who ever lived. But he is best remembered for hitting a home run in his last at bat, then refusing Then refusing to tip his cap to the crowd, who stood cheering for minutes to no avail.

Fitting finales are especially rare among college football coaches. Only school superintendents are hired with greater hope, and fired with deeper disappointment.

So, it was something to see when the unranked Wolverines battled the 12th ranked Florida Gators in this year's Capital One Bowl.

Almost no one gave the unranked Wolverines a chance against the high-flying Floridians. The Wolverines had limped into the final game with two straight losses. Florida won the national title last year, and had been highly ranked all season. Their quarterback, Tim Tebow, became the first sophomore ever to win the Heisman Trophy. And, just for fun, the game was played in the Gator's back yard, Orlando.

But once toe met leather, the Wolverines showed how good they could be—finally justifying the hype they generated before the season started. They hounded Florida's Heisman trophy winner, their receivers suddenly made circus catches, and quarterback Chad Henne played the best game of his four-year career, demonstrating what he could do when he didn't have to pop his shoulder back into its socket after every throw.

But the best play of the game occurred after the game, when the seniors—who hadn't beaten Ohio State or a bowl opponent until that game—lifted their coach onto their shoulders, and carried him across the field.

The legendary Bo Schembechler became a head coach at the tender age of 33. It's virtually impossible to imagine Bo being anything other than a head football coach. Lord help us all if he did pursue another line of work. He had the kind of charisma that took the air out of any room he entered, and a stage presence, even on TV, that you can't teach.

Unlike Bo, Lloyd Carr was not to the manor born. He spent eight years coaching high school football and another 20 as an assistant at EMU, Illinois and Michigan before becoming Michigan's head coach at age 50.

When Michigan's Mt. Rushmore is chiseled, Carr will have earned his place next to Yost, Crisler and Bo himself.

In fact, Carr might never have become a head coach if his predecessor, Gary Moeller hadn't been forced to resign in the spring of 1995. Carr was the accidental coach, hired on an interim basis.

Carr found most media appearances mildly irritating, and it often showed. The cat-calls started after Michigan finished their first two seasons under Carr at third and fifth in the Big Ten. Then the Wolverines ran the table in 1997, winning Michigan's first national title in a half-century.

It was actually a mixed blessing. As one insider told me, "Winning that national title was the best thing to happen to Lloyd, and the worst. After that, nothing was good enough."

In the decade that followed, the criticism actually grew—despite the fact that Carr's teams averaged more than nine wins a year and grabbed the Big Ten title four more times. At the all-time winningest college program in the country, Carr ranks in the top three in victories, Big Ten Titles, and national championships. When Michigan's Mt. Rushmore is chiseled, Carr will have earned his place next to Fielding Yost, Fritz Crisler and Bo Schembechler himself. Among active Big Ten coaches, Carr ranks first in wins, first in championships—and seventh in salary.

As well as Carr did on the field, he was even better off it. Carr probably does more work for charity than any big time coach in America. He endows a Michigan athletic scholarship—for a female athlete. And the shelves in his office groan under the weight of books by Doris Kearns Goodwin, Stephen Ambrose and Jon Krakauer. He also keeps, just outside the door, an unabridged dictionary on an oak table, which he consults every half hour or so.

I once teased him about it, "I haven't seen too many coaches look up words in an unabridged dictionary."

"Don't be impressed," he said. "It's only because I don't know them."

But Lloyd Carr knows a lot of words—and forced his players to do the same. Any player can visit Coach Carr, but the price of admission is the same for all: look up a word in the big book and use it in a sentence. They get the message—which is one reason why Carr's players rank third in the Big Ten in graduation rate, behind only Northwestern and Penn State.

I teach a class at Michigan on the history of college athletics, and invited Carr to speak. Last year, just three days after Bo passed away and two days after the Ohio State game, Carr asked, "Do you still need a guest lecturer?"

When I introduced him, all 75 students cheered, and he regaled them for the entire hour with stories about Bo, his own career and the importance of doing what you love and giving back. Carr may have a lukewarm relationship with TV, but the podium loves him.

Carr told the class that if he wasn't a college football coach, he would have been a high school English teacher—and a very happy one.

Carr was a teacher—one of the best this university has ever had. And over time, I'm convinced, that is exactly how Lloyd Carr will be remembered.

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John U. Bacon is the author of "Bo's Lasting Lessons: The Legendary Coach Teachers the Timeless Fundamentals of Leadership," and a regular contributor to Michigan Today. He has written for Time, The New York Times, ESPN The Magazine, and Sports Illustrated, among others, earning national honors for his work. The author of five books on business and sports, he also teaches at the University of Michigan, delivers speeches across the country, and gives weekly commentary on Michigan Radio. His website is www.johnubacon.com