This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2015, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
Ask any football coach about training camp or preseason practice and he'll reinforce what convention says: It is significant, and even defining, when it comes to the success of a team.
If you had five bucks for every time a coach has said his team's toughness and readiness late in the fourth quarter of games in October and November were earned in August, you could build and donate a posh new football center with every cool technological advance known to man for/to the school of your choice.
But every year at this time, when injuries happen, when blood, sweat and tears flow onto the fields, you wonder — believe me, players do, too — how much is enough and how much is too much when it comes to preseason preparation. How much hitting, how much toughness-building is necessary to properly battle when the games really count and how much is excessive, to the point of senseless coach gratification.
The NFL leads the planet in overcooking the preseason. So many exhibition games, with practices in-between, in the run-up to the regular season is a joke, an exercise in control, in doing things a certain way because that's the way they've always been done and because football-hungry fans have to cough up big dollars for their seats to watch these tedious ordeals. At least the players in those cases also get paid.
In college ball, despite the periodic matchups of major powers against Skedaddle U. and St. Bethany's Choir School in the season's first few weeks, you have to give the programs credit for preparing to do their authentic competitive work from the jump.
Still, when BYU, which has been criticized in the past by some for not being tough enough, had four players who needed assistance for variations of heat exhaustion during and after practice the other day by way of drills that were intended as team "punishment" for players fighting with one another, you wonder about the process.
Coaches wonder about it, as well. Most of them aren't doing what evil, uncaring, heartless coaches in the movies do, trying to squeeze the hydration straight out of their guys just because they can. Bronco Mendenhall and Kyle Whittingham are not Bud Kilmer.
But they are at the organizational head of a hundred players between the ages of 18 and 24, trying to pull order out of chaos, trying to ensure that discipline is in place, because, if it's not, somebody's going to look bad when the season is underway and that somebody is them.
Some coaches swear by having their players get rough in August camp as a means of building that toughness. Some even privately like it when their players get into skirmishes with teammates during camp, on account of it showing fury and fire.
Utah defensive coordinator John Pease told me the following words: "If you want to find out what somebody's really about, go 10 days of two-a-days in the heat, getting all bruised and bloodied up, you're going to discover the guys you want to be with in a street fight."
Football, to Pease, is a street fight, in a figurative way. He's a respected veteran coach, beloved by his players. And football is, at times, a brutal game. But the question returns: How brutal should it be early on?
Rob Morris, a linebacker who played at BYU before a successful career with the Indianapolis Colts, said this week he sees the usefulness of a sound, practical approach to preseason practice, not a Neanderthal mentality. He said he used to get in fights in college, but after being exposed to the more cerebral philosophies of Tony Dungy, he changed.
"I had this great misconception back when I was in college that getting in fights was somehow helpful for the team. Let's be clear, it does not help the team," Morris said. "In no way does it help the team. Somebody gets hurt, somebody breaks a hand, somebody breaks a jaw. … It's a testosterone, egomaniac game. But this notion that fights toughen up players and are good for the team is ignorant."
As for overly physical camps, Morris, who now owns a gym in Lehi, said: "One of the things I learned from Tony was … It's about execution. We're trying to execute. When I played for Jim Mora, we got after it, we ground it out [in the preseason]. When I played for Tony, it was a completely different atmosphere. We had a ton of practices where we didn't have pads. We had a lot where we had walk-throughs. Everyone says they want guys who are tough. But when you have those guys, you don't need to have two-a-days.
"If I'm training somebody, and I have a group class, if somebody throws up, or urinates in their pants, that's my fault. I've done a poor job. They've exceeded what they can handle. If someone thinks throwing up during a workout is a badge of honor, unfortunately, that carries over. If they're puking they're working hard. Well, if they're puking or they can't walk afterward, then how can they [effectively] practice the next day?"
Good point.
Some positions are more physical than others. Quarterbacks are protected by their green or yellow jerseys, signaling their no-hit status, but other players also are designated as off limits by coaches who decide they need no toughening up, that the reward isn't worth the risk. Whittingham said on Wednesday that running back Devontae Booker would experience no contact during camp: "The first time he'll be tackled is in the Michigan game."
It's a complicated job, coaching football, finding the right line, the optimum mentality and methodology to get guys to play hard and smart. Fortunately, for the most part, coaches are more enlightened than they once were. Calling for toughness is fine and good, but going overboard is just stupid.
Morris said he liked the way Dungy did his business, putting a plan in motion, expecting motivated behavior from his players, without being a maniac.
"Tony treated us like men," he said.
GORDON MONSON hosts "The Big Show" with Spence Checketts weekdays from 3-7 p.m. on 97.5 FM and 1280 AM The Zone. Twitter: @GordonMonson.