Free Three and Out by John U. Bacon

and focused on the one he had, things started stirring.
    In his fourth year at Glenville, Rodriguez added the position of athletic director, which boosted his salary from $35,000 to $50,000. If he stayed one more year he stood to receive a $50,000 annuity: “Big money to me,” he said. But in 1997, Tulane head coach Tommy Bowden called out of the blue. Rodriguez didn’t know Tommy as well as he knew his dad, Bobby, and he knew even less about Tulane. But he was willing to listen.
    After a brief bit of small talk, Bowden asked point-blank, “So, would you like to come down?”
    â€œWhat’s the job?”
    â€œOffensive coordinator.”
    â€œWow, that’s something,” Rodriguez said. “But you know I run this spread offense, right?”
    â€œRun whatever you want.”
    It was the break he’d been waiting for, but Rodriguez still had his doubts. Rita had just given birth to Raquel, they had never lived out of the state, and the money at Glenville was getting better. Rodriguez also wasn’t sure if the spread option offense would work in Division I.
    Rita wasn’t having it. “If you don’t take this, you might not get another chance.”
    â€œAs usual,” Rodriguez noted, “Rita was right.”
    But in his first spring game at Tulane, his offense couldn’t even get a first down. “It was like our first year at Glenville all over again.” Rodriguez’s fancy new offense was so pathetic that Tulane’s defensive coach let one of his student trainers call the defense—and her plays were producing sacks, too.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Bowden told Rodriguez. “It’ll come together. This is what I hired you to do.”
    When Bowden’s crew took over, the mayor of New Orleans, a Tulane grad, told them Tulane football succeeds only when the city’s with them. When Tulane opened the 1997 season in the Superdome against Cincinnati, only fifteen thousand fans bothered to show up to see the debut of the spread offense. The city was clearly not with them.
    The Bearcats had little trouble jumping ahead 10–0, while Tulane couldn’t seem to move the ball at all.
    â€œWe are in some serious trouble here,” Rodriguez thought. “But all of a sudden—and I remember it like it was yesterday—[quarterback] Shaun King calls a play-action pass, and he hits the fullback on a wheel route, and it goes for a 40-yard touchdown.”
    Tulane won 31–17, and the Green Wave started to roll. Rodriguez kept tinkering with his new machine, adding wrinkles, including a slot check for every running play. If the slot receiver—who sets up between the tight end and the wide receivers—was not covered, the quarterback was instructed to forget the run and just throw it to him. That’s why slots don’t have to be tall, just fast, which allowed Rodriguez to recruit players most teams overlooked.
    Rodriguez also wanted King to utilize the zone read more often. Originally, whenever the defensive end started chasing the ball carrier, Rodriguez wanted his quarterback to pull the ball and run into the space just vacated, like Drenning did that memorable day in Glenville. But King knew he could get crushed, and he wanted no part of it. He made a deal with Rodriguez: If no receivers were open, then he’d run it.
    Rodriguez wisely adapted, the Green Wave kept winning, and the crowds started coming. Tulane finished the 1997 season at 7–4, the kind of mark that would create complaints at Michigan but generated something closer to euphoria at Tulane. It was the program’s best season since 1980, producing twenty-five school and conference records.
    After starting the 1998 season with three straight victories, Shaun King broke his left wrist. They devised a special cast for his nonthrowing hand, taught the center to hike the shotgun snap to his right, and kept tearing up the record book. King