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Personal Foul
Coach Joe Moore vs. the University of Notre Dame
By Richard Lieberman Chicago Review Press Incorporated
Copyright © 2001 Richard Lieberman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-89733-974-2
CHAPTER 1
DECEMBER 1996: SOUTH BEND & CHICAGO
* * *
Early on a grey December morning, while he was getting dressed, Joe Moore received an unexpected telephone call. His new boss, Bob Davie, wanted to drop by and see him for a minute. Joe told his wife Fran, who quickly began straightening the living room. Frowning at the blaring television set, Joe pulled on an old grey sweatshirt. He and Fran had weathered faces, iron grey hair and sturdy physiques reflecting years of physical labor. They lived in a modest apartment across the street from the university campus in South Bend, Indiana.
When the bell rang a few minutes later, Joe opened the door to Davie, a tall, well-groomed blond man in his forties, wearing sharply pressed slacks and a blue sport jacket over his shirt and tie. The two men sat on the couch, and Fran excused herself, walking around the corner into the small hall leading to the master bedroom. Halfway there, she stopped to listen.
She heard Davie say, after asking her husband to lower the volume on the television set, "Joe, this is the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life. I've known you for twenty years." He went on to say that he had just signed a five-year contract with the university, and believed that Joe could continue working for only one, or possibly two, more years. He needed someone, he said, for the full five years.
In his gravelly voice, her husband protested that he was planning on working at least three or four more years, and would see how he felt after that.
Davie cut him off. "At your age," he said flatly, "I can't count on you for five more years. I need somebody younger."
Fran could not listen any longer. She walked into the bedroom and sat on the bed, weeping. Several minutes later, Joe came into the room and stood looking down at her. When he was defeated, he resembled a sad basset hound, an expression that never failed to provoke her deepest protective instincts. As he stood silent, she willed herself to stop crying. In a steely voice, she said, "He can't do that!"
He shook his head. "What do you mean he can't do that?"
"He can't do that. It's age discrimination."
"You're crazy," he said, smiling sadly. "He's the coach of Notre Dame. He can fire anybody he wants."
Joe Moore was the offensive line coach for the most famous football team in the world. For nine years, in partnership with the head coach, Lou Holtz, he led the team into the nation's top twenty college football team rankings every year but one. Once, they won a national championship; twice they ranked second in the country and in other years, they ranked in fourth and sixth place. Joe Moore coached the crown jewel of the Notre Dame football team — the offensive line: the seven players who protect the player moving the ball forward on the field. Sports commentators considered Notre Dame's offensive line the best in college football, and Joe Moore the premier offensive line coach in the entire football profession. But on the morning of December 2, 1996, he had become merely an unemployed, sixty-four-year-old man.
That evening, a local South Bend businessman and friend of the Moores stopped by. Earlier in the day, he had heard from a player's father that Bob Davie, the new head coach, had announced to the offensive line players that Coach Moore had decided to retire.
Joe, still in shock, was suddenly angry. "I recruited every one of them kids to come to Notre Dame and play under me," he said in his foghorn voice. "I promised them I would be their coach during the entire time they were here. For Davie to tell those kids that I retired is the same as saying I welshed on my commitment to them. He said I retired because he didn't have the guts to say he fired me!"
That night, sleepless in the dark, he became more and more incensed over what Davie had done to him. The bitter irony was that he himself was responsible for bringing Davie to Notre Dame's coaching staff, and as a result, Davie had just received one of the most coveted jobs in America. Three years before, when Notre Dame needed a new defensive coordinator, Joe had strongly recommended that Lou Holtz hire Davie, then the thirty-nine-year-old defensive coordinator at Texas A&M. In the 1980s, Joe and Davie had coached together for several years at the University of Pittsburgh, and Joe felt Davie was an up-and-comer in the college football coaching ranks. Despite Joe's recommendation, Holtz had hesitated to hire Davie: he had never heard of him, and he didn't like Davie's coaching at Texas A&M, a school that had repeatedly violated NCAA rules. But Joe urged Holtz at least to interview Davie, and Holtz finally relented. But when Joe approached him, Davie said that he did not want to work under Holtz because Holtz had a reputation of being tough on assistant coaches. Joe pressed Davie to meet with Holtz, telling him that "an assistant coaching job at Notre Dame is the best stepping-stone to a head coaching job at a first-tier college football program," and that if Davie really wanted to be a head coach, his prospects were far better as assistant coach at Notre Dame than at Texas A &M.
Davie took Joe's advice and, in early 1994, became Notre Dame's defensive coordinator. Davie immediately attached himself to Joe, relying on him as a friend and mentor. Almost every day he stopped at Joe's office, down the hall from his own, to gossip, discuss football, and seek career advice. As time passed, Davie's desire for a head coaching job increased, and he plotted his strategy while Joe listened and offered suggestions. Joe didn't think that Davie needed any help in the art of political maneuvering. Davie was a master of the game; he knew who to court and who to ignore. Holtz's relationship with the new athletic director, Michael Wadsworth, was strained and there was a possibility that Holtz might resign, opening up the head coaching job. Even if that was only a remote possibility, Davie carefully cultivated relationships with Wadsworth and anyone else he thought could help him. Joe believed that Davie, with his movie star looks and natural ease with the media, was indeed a prime candidate for any top tier head coaching job — even at Notre Dame.
During the 1995 season, when Holtz had minor surgery and missed several games, Davie filled in for him. Before his first game as acting head coach against Vanderbilt, Davie addressed the team, saying, "Even though we're playing without Coach Holtz, we'll win because we've got Coach Moore with his tremendous experience and ability." At several difficult points during the game, Davie walked over to Joe and asked him what plays he thought they should run. Notre Dame decisively beat Vanderbilt, and Davie, ecstatic, hugged Moore at the post-game celebration.
The night of his firing, Joe lay in bed, his mind endlessly replaying the day's events. He thought how completely mistaken he had been to believe, when Holtz announced his resignation a few weeks before, and Davie was appointed his successor, that he himself would coach at least another five years at Notre Dame.
The next day Joe went to the football office to confront Davie, but he was not there. Unable to conceal his frustration, Joe told the secretaries that he was looking for Davie. The following day Joe went looking for him again; this time, he saw him coming down the hallway and asked him into his private office. Once inside, Joe unleashed his anger and frustration. "On Monday morning you fire me," Joe rasped. "Then on Monday afternoon you meet with my offensive linemen and tell them that I retired or resigned."
"I did it for your benefit," Davie replied calmly.
"My benefit! You didn't do it for my benefit, you did it for your benefit! You were afraid to tell them you fired me. You were afraid you wouldn't look good."
"What do you want me to do?"
"All I want is the truth, no more. Just the truth. I am not retiring." Joe lowered his voice in an effort to control himself. "I don't have any money. How'm I going to retire? I have to work. And I promised those kids I wouldn't leave them, and then you go ahead and tell them that I retired." He began to get worked up again. "I want you to tell the truth! Just tell the truth!"
Davie did not lose his composure. He slowly stood up, hesitating for a moment as if he was carefully weighing his words. Finally, in a flat voice, he said, "Fuck you," turned, and walked out of the room. Staring at the empty chair, Joe bitterly muttered, "Fuck you too." For the first time in his adult life, he was at a complete loss about what to do next. He sat for awhile and then went home.
At my office in the Ross & Hardies law firm, I glanced through a stack of phone messages that had accumulated during the morning while I was on a conference call. I saw three "urgent" messages from my partner Rick Mason, but I had to call a client first. The paging system kept repeating Rick's extension number, but I always put the client's requirements first, so I wasn't able to respond right away.
It was an overcast December morning, and as I looked out the wide window at the grey expanse of Lake Michigan, I felt rather depressed. I had just turned fifty, and although I still felt (and I hope looked) younger than my age, I was beginning to feel the lack of a challenge: it seemed to me that I had essentially achieved everything I had hoped to in my career.
The paging system continued to signal me, but I was still tied up. Finally, Rick Mason and another partner, Tim Klenk, came into my office. After I hung up, Rick explained that he and Tim had discussed a call Rick had received from a friend who had been in his class at Notre Dame Law School. This friend told Rick that Notre Dame had just fired their star offensive line coach, Joe Moore, and a number of alumni were encouraging Moore to talk to a labor lawyer to find out whether his firing had violated any laws. His friend asked Rick to arrange a consultation for the coach with an expert in employment law.
Tim said that he had reminded Rick that it was department policy to represent only corporate clients; since I was head of the labor and employment group, they had to talk to me about it, although they knew I strongly supported this policy. Ross & Hardies lawyers billed these clients up to $300 an hour. If we were to represent individuals on employment matters, we would probably have to do it on a contingency basis with payment depending on whether we won the case. And if we were to represent individuals, we might find ourselves suing — and alienating — potential corporate clients. Apart from the money, it seemed to us to be philosophically inconsistent to represent parties on both sides of the fence in employment and labor cases.
Taking all this into consideration, Tim had already suggested to Rick that Moore be referred to a capable plaintiff's employment firm in Chicago. The only question was choosing the best firm for the coach.
I wasn't a sports fan, and I didn't know anything about Notre Dame's offensive line coach — I didn't even know the name of the head coach. But I did know that Notre Dame's was the most prominent football team in the world; that Knute Rockne had coached at Notre Dame and the Gipper, a Notre Dame football player, had been played by Ronald Reagan in the movies. I even remembered listening, when I was in college, to a radio broadcast of Notre Dame playing Michigan State for the national football championship some time in the mid-1960s when Ara Parseghian was coach.
I asked Rick why Moore wanted to meet with us.
"Possible age discrimination," Rick said. "Apparently someone talked about his age when he was fired."
"They actually mentioned his age in connection with his firing?" I asked. I found that incredible.
That, Rick said, was what had upset Moore.
Against my better judgment, I said, "Why don't we at least talk to this guy?"
This surprised Tim; he decided I was merely being polite, and that we would give Moore advice and refer the case to another firm.
The following day, Joe and his wife Fran were on Interstate 80, driving ninety miles to Chicago through the gently rolling farmland of northern Indiana. During the drive, they talked about whether they could possibly pay for a lawsuit. Their life savings amounted to only $25,000. If the lawyers thought there was a case, Joe was willing to spend their entire nest egg, but Fran told him, "Joe, Chicago law firms can charge $25,000 a month for a lawsuit."
"Fran, I'd spend every penny we have on a lawsuit against them for just one month. That's how I feel."
Throughout the thirty-eight years of their married life, Fran had been his partner and advisor. They had met on a blind date in May, 1955, when she was a student at Montefiore Hospital School of Nursing in Pittsburgh, and Joe was a star football player at Penn State. Fran was a very determined and focused young woman whose father, chief of police in her Pennsylvania hometown of Rankin, was her role model. She had been a leader and valedictorian in high school and nursing college.
On this first date, Joe took her to a cabaret in downtown Pittsburgh where performers imitated Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich and other popular singers of the day. As they sat in the dark club, Fran thought it was incongruous that a rough and tough football player would choose such sophisticated entertainment. As she watched, she was struck suddenly by the singer's sturdy legs, broad shoulders and deep voice. "If I didn't know better," she whispered to Joe, "I'd say that that woman is a man." Joe shrugged and chuckled. Fran asked him what was so funny. He hesitated, and she persisted. Finally, he said, "She is a man. They're all men in dresses." Fran had heard of female impersonator bars, but she never thought that someone would take her to one on a first date. This guy's a nut, she thought. But he's cute and funny.
Later in the evening he took her to a crowded neighborhood bar. Sitting at a table in the back of the noisy, smoke-filled room, Joe told her that he had just reentered college after almost two years in the service. His family lived in Pittsburgh and his father, John Lawrence "Dinty" Moore, whom Joe spoke of with great admiration, had been a legendary local Pittsburgh baseball and football player. After Dinty Moore's playing days ended, he managed sandlot baseball teams. "When Honus Wagner, the great baseball player, retired from the majors, he played for my dad's team," Joe proudly told her. "I was the bat boy for my Dad's team and met Wagner."
In his deep, gravelly voice, Joe told Fran that, like his father, he had played football and baseball in high school. He got about fifty offers from colleges to play football and accepted a scholarship with the University of Tennessee. He was the freshman quarterback, but the adjustment to southern Tennessee was difficult for a boy born and bred in an eastern steel town surrounded by family. After his freshman year, he transferred to Penn State. But he struggled at Penn, earning only about thirteen credit hours in two years. When he flunked ROTC, he decided that college was not for him. But twenty-one months in the army changed his opinion about college, and after the service, he returned to Penn State and focused on his studies, getting good grades. As the starting running back for Penn State, he realized that he loved the game of football more than anything, except his family. He also greatly admired his coaches at Penn, and told Fran that, if things worked out, he would like to be a football coach himself.
After only three dates, Fran accepted his fraternity pin, and at Christmas he took her home to meet his family. Fran was struck by the family's devout Catholicism. All three of his aunts on his father's side were nuns. Joe's father never left the house without crossing himself. Fran thought the whole family was wonderful and unique. Joe and his three brothers had the same distinctive voice — like a foghorn with a Pittsburgh accent. When Fran phoned the Moore house, she could never tell if it was Joe or one of his three brothers (he had one sister) who was answering.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Personal Foul by Richard Lieberman. Copyright © 2001 Richard Lieberman. Excerpted by permission of Chicago Review Press Incorporated.
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