The Tuesday after the death of Bo Schembechler, I attended the memorial service at Michigan Stadium.  It was both a wonderful celebration of Bo’s life and a strong reminder of something all football fans should remember.

At the service was current Michigan coach – and former Schembechler assistant – Lloyd Carr.  This is a man who, as the head coach of a high-profile division 1 football program, is a bit of a lightning rod.  When he loses, as he did five times last year, he is criticized; when he wins, as he has eleven times this year, he might be praised; in either circumstance, his every coaching move is analyzed — particularly by excitable fans.

In that context, it’s far too easy for the fans to forget that Carr is simply a person, just like everyone else who fills the stadium on football Saturdays.  It’s too easy for fans to find a receptive website or radio show and excoriate Carr for his failure to be the most brilliant coach in the history of college football.

To be fair, Carr didn’t take this job under any illusions.  He had to know the coach at a high-profile football school would be under a harsh glare at all times.  He took the job, and he has developed the thick skin he needs to keep the job.  But he didn’t surrender his humanity when he donned that headset, and that skin isn’t impenetrable.

That’s why his presence at the Schembechler memorial held significance for me.  Throughout the service, I found my gaze being drawn back to him.  When he wasn’t at the microphone, he was sitting between Jim Brandstatter and Dan Dierdorf, listening to the memories of Bo and, in fact, behaving just like a real person.  Like everyone else, he alternated between joviality and solemnity as he remembered his former boss.  He wasn’t a stern football coach, seemingly impervious to outside criticism; he was simply a man who had just buried a good friend.

That’s what I want us fans to remember the next time we want to tell Carr how much he has failed at his job.  He’s not just a football coach; he’s a person.

I’m not saying we should never disagree with a coaching decision; I know I did just that with three different coaches in a recent post.  But use tact and restraint.  Be careful.  He might not hear or read your specific comment, but he feels the pressure.  Don’t make it unbearable.

And remember: if we were held to the same standards to which too many of us want to hold high-profile coaches, then we’d all be failures.

1)I can no longer restrain myself
A few of this week’s football games were very frustrating to me because I did not understand the thought processes of some of the coaches.

Exhibit A: Southern vs. Grambling
Late in the second quarter, Southern faced third and short inside Grambling’s 5.  After an incomplete pass, they attempted a field goal.  But Grambling committed an offsides penalty, giving Southern a first and goal on the 1 … with ten seconds left, and with no timeouts.  In that situation, what did Southern do?

That’s right — they ran the ball.  Specifically, they ran a quarterback sneak.  The Southern quarterback failed to score, and since Southern had no timeouts, the resulting pile of players allowed time to expire, resulting in a literally pointless trip inside the ten for Southern.

Remarkably, they still won the game.

Exhibit B: Florida vs. Florida State
Despite a miserable first half for the Florida State offense, the game was tied at 14 in the fourth quarter.  Florida took possession, and FSU quickly forced the Gators into a third and long.  FSU blitzed, and Florida made a big play for a first down.  A few plays later, FSU again forced Florida into a third and long.  Again, FSU blitzed, and again, Florida made a big play for a first down.  Just a few plays later, FSU forced Florida into yet another third and long.  What did FSU’s defensive coordinator do?

That’s right — he called another blitz, and Florida scored the winning touchdown.

Exhibit C: Notre Dame vs. USC
In the first half, Notre Dame faced a third-and-1 in USC territory.  What did Charlie Weis do?

Rather than calling a basic, straightforward play that would have a good chance of gaining one yard, he called an option — and it was immediately apparent that the option is a play with which Brady Quinn was neither familiar nor comfortable.  The subpar execution resulted in a loss of three yards.  Weis then elected to go for the first down on fourth-and-4, but the Irish failed to gain the first down.

That said, I doubt Notre Dame would have won the game even if that play had been successful.

2)Jet-Puffed Marshmallows Heisman Trophy Winner
During his time at USC, Reggie Bush was hailed as one of The Best Running Backs Ever In The History Of Life, The Universe and Everything (aided by his being part of a team loudly hailed as The Best Team Ever In … oh, wait, Texas got in the way).  After he won the Heisman, he was drafted by the New Orleans Saints.

When he was drafted, he had his doubters in the NFL.  Some thought he was too small to be a durable feature back.  After watching him yesterday against the Falcons, I have a slightly different opinion:

We may never know just how durable he could be.

I say this because he seems to have the Deion Sanders Syndrome: playing a full-contact sport by avoiding contact at all costs.  Remember Sanders’ efforts to tackle without hitting?  On multiple occasions I watched Bush meekly run out of bounds rather than run forward and gain a few extra yards by initiating contact.

Don’t get me wrong: I don’t have a problem with the idea of avoiding defenders.  Players not named Mike Alstott are wise to do so if possible; good backs will avoid defenders and find space to run.  But Bush wasn’t finding space to run, and he wasn’t in a clock-saving situation; he was running out of bounds in an apparent effort to save himself.

While it may help him last longer, I do not believe an overarching mindset of self-preservation will help Bush be a great running back in the NFL.

On Friday, November 17, just one day before the Michigan/Ohio State game, former Michigan football coach Bo Schembechler died shortly after being rushed to the hospital. When I heard the news, I was shocked. Bo gone? It seemed surreal.

When I left the office, I turned on an Ann Arbor AM sports station. They had caller after caller, some former players and some longtime fans, recounting memories of Bo. The countless memories of Bo were moving; as I listened to emotional callers recall their pieces of Bo’s history, I thought of my own brief encounter with him.

After spring practice one year, I happened to spot him signing autographs and posing for pictures outside the press box. I joined the crowd, and, after a good-natured comment about my lengthy beard, he signed my Michigan-themed army helmet and posed for a picture. It was a brief encounter, but it was one I have not forgotten. I, the self-appointed Sgt. Wolverine, was fortunate enough to meet Bo Schembechler, the great general (retired, but not inactive) of Michigan football. It was a good day.

As that memory mixed with those I was hearing on the radio, tears came to my eyes. I had met him only once, so I knew him only through his immeasurable contributions to Michigan football history; still, the reality of his death brought surprisingly deep emotions to the surface.

It is easy to understand why hundreds of his former players mourn his passing. The endless stories of Bo both as a tough coach and as the most loyal of friends paint a picture of a man who both possessed and taught character and integrity, a man who acted consistently and demanded the same from those around him, and, as such, a man whose passing is rightly and deeply mourned by those who knew him. But I have mourned a man I met only once, a man who coached a team for which I never played, a man whose name is indelibly imprinted upon a university I never attended.

Why do I miss a man I barely knew?

I know I am not alone. On the Tuesday following his death, the university hosted a public celebration of his life; over 10,000 people made the trip to Michigan Stadium to remember Bo. The heart of the crowd was his family, his former players and coaches, and his friends; other coaches from rival schools, like USC’s John Robinson, Michigan State’s George Perles and Ohio State’s Jim Tressel, also came to honor Bo.

But also among those saying one final farewell were those who, like me, might have met him only once, or perhaps never even had the opportunity to meet him — those who know his fingerprints on the Michigan football program far more than they knew him.

Sunday afternoon, two days after Bo’s death, I donned my army helmet and coat and visited Schembechler Hall to see the growing number of tributes in front of the building. Both the collection of items — such as hats, sweatshirts and pictures — and the accompanying messages were touching. Many thanked Bo for his years at Michigan and told him he would be missed; one man left a note that said, “Now my dad has someone to watch UM games with.” As I spent time at the display reading sentiments like that, I found myself crying yet again. This time, I had company.

As I was taking a few pictures, a husband and wife approached the display. With tears in his eyes, he left his own piece of Michigan — a 1997 national championship hat — as his tribute to Bo. He then rejoined his wife, and they stood together for a few minutes, just gazing at the many items left in memory of Bo. They walked slowly past the display, reading the messages, and seemed to be ready to leave. But before they left, he approached me, held out his hand and, in a cracking, unsteady voice, said, “Go Blue.”

We didn’t say much; he told me he had seen me at a few football games, and I showed him the Bo emblem I’d painted on my helmet after I heard the news. That was it. But we didn’t need to say much. We simply stood together for a moment, two strangers who sought no introduction, instead needing only to know that we held a common grief. Neither of us knew the other’s connection with Bo or Michigan football that made us feel a sense of loss; we knew only that we both felt that loss, and that there was something meaningful in those few moments in which we were able to share our grief.

On a larger scale, the gathering at the stadium held similar significance. It was described as a celebration of Bo’s life, but it was not all laughter; there was still room for tears. Current coach Lloyd Carr and former player Jamie Morris both had to pause to fight back tears when they spoke, and Shemy, Bo’s son, broke down several times as he talked. Others in the crowd cried quietly.

It was important not what we did on Tuesday, but that we did it together. We laughed and we cried, and we did so together, an extended family of players, coaches and fans, over 10,000 strong. Many of us did not know him well, but we all were familiar with the football program he commanded for 21 seasons, and that is the thread that brought us together to remember the man we knew or to get to know the man we wish we’d known while he was alive. Whether we had come out of love for Bo or for Michigan football, in the end we had come for much the same reason: Bo and Michigan football are inseparable.

And so we come back to the original question, a question whose answer is actually quite simple. Why do I miss a man I barely knew?

I miss him because I know the legacy he left, and I can see it every time another Michigan football team takes the field. I did not know him, but I know Michigan football; I miss him because Michigan football misses him.