Cover image for The sweet season : a sportswriter rediscovers football, family, and a bit of faith at Minnesota's St. John's University
The sweet season : a sportswriter rediscovers football, family, and a bit of faith at Minnesota's St. John's University
Murphy, Austin.
Personal Author:
First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : HarperCollins Publishers, [2001]

Physical Description:
xxiii, 312 pages ; 25 cm
Personal Subject:
Format :


Call Number
Material Type
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Item Holds
GV958.S697 M87 2001 Adult Non-Fiction Central Closed Stacks

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After fifteen years as a Sports Illustrated writer, pleading for interviews with large men in possession of larger egos; after a decade and a half of waking up in hotels and wondering Where the hell am I?, Austin Murphy decides to bail out. The time has come, he concludes, to step to the sidelines, to fly beneath the radar of big-league sports, to while away a season with the Johnnies. That is, he moves his family to the middle of Minnesota to chronicle a season at St. John's, a Division III program that has reached unparalleled success under the unorthodox guidance of John "Gags" Gagliardi.

After too many interviews with the coronary-courting control freaks that comprise the ranks of today's bigtime coaches, for Murphy, meeting Gagliardi is like a hit of pure oxygen. A grinning iconoclast whose philosophy owes more to Yoda than to Rockne, Coach Gagliardi is the winningest active coach in the country. But he is also a man unafraid to send his players inside when the gnats on the practice field get too thick. Here's a guy who's won more games than any five NFL coaches, but who still insists that his quarterbacks call their own plays. "Why not?" says Gags. "These guys are a hell of a lot smarter than I am."

The Sweet Season is an account of what happens when a family pulls up stakes and spends months in a strange and wonderful place; when the stresses of everyday life are, if not stripped away, at least significantly reduced, and two people are allowed to remember what they saw in each other in the first place. It is also, not incidentally, the story of the most incredible football program in the country, run by a smiling sage who has forgotten more about the game than most of his peers will ever know.

Reviews 3

Booklist Review

After 15 years of covering major-college football for Sports Illustrated, Murphy spent a six-month sabbatical following the gridiron fortunes of tiny St. John's College in rural Minnesota. St. John's coach, John Gagliardi, who leads all college coaches in career wins, knows football, but more importantly, he uses the game to help his players succeed at life. Following the St. John's team, Murphy rediscovers the excitement and satisfaction of sport for sport's sake. He's tickled at the prospect of a whole football season in which he has no contact with felons. This could easily have degenerated into a yet another sermon with a "little is good, big is bad" moral. Murphy won't permit it. He's a clear-eyed reporter with the objective sense to realize that St. John's isn't perfect and that the University of Miami isn't a human cesspool. In the end, his season at St. John's teaches him more about himself and his values than about football--just the way it works for Coach Gagliardi's players. --Wes Lukowsky

Publisher's Weekly Review

Murphy, a Sports Illustrated writer whose beat exposes him to the ballyhoo of college football on fall Saturdays and the high maintenance millionaires of the NFL on Sundays, takes a season-long respite from egos and attitudes at idyllic St. John's College in Collegeville, Minn., to cover the school's Division III squad, the Johnnies. Murphy seeks rejuvenation, for himself and his relationship with his wife and two small children. He also seeks enlightenment from John Gagliardi, the Johnnies' eccentric coach whose unorthodox style includes never allowing his players to hit each other in practice. He's also the winningest active coach in NCAA football and second on the all-time list. Murphy's dry, delightful humor keeps him out of trouble when sappiness looms. Upon his final visit to the Johnnies' stadium, he writes, "Here... I will let go of the season. Here, I will bid bittersweet adieu to the Natural Bowl, my favorite sports venue of all time. Here, I will search for the Starbucks commuter mug I left under the bench this afternoon. The goddam things go for about seventeen dollars." He also shows his sportswriting talents with several vital, original descriptions reminiscent of Hunter S. Thompson's gridiron coverage. "Moore hip-faked the poor boy halfway back to Wisconsin," Murphy writes of the Johnnies' offensive star, "sold him a parcel of swampland, a used '74 AMC Pacer with a cracked engine block." Readers will also appreciate Murphy's funny, self-deprecating reflections on his family life, though the passages sometimes drag on. But invariably Murphy comes to the rescue with a well-timed one-liner, a signature of this lighthearted, enjoyable book. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

St. John's is a small Benedictine college in Collegeville, MN, whose hugely successful Division III football program has been coached since 1953 by the highly unorthodox John Gagliardi. Gagliardi has flourished with a style different from most football coaches: no spring football camps, no whistles, no calisthenics, no hitting during practice, and no cuts. Murphy is a Sports Illustrated writer who did a story on the "Johnnies" in 1992 and returned to Minnesota, book contract in hand and family in tow, to cover the 2001 St. John's season. His book is first about the football program and the participating players, coaches, and fans. Second, it depicts the cheerful, peaceful atmosphere of a small, Midwestern, Benedictine college through a prism of everyday experience. Finally, much of the book is autobiographical, dealing with the author's life and family and how this experience affects both. By turns, funny, touching, and inspiring, this is an interesting story well told. John Maxymuk, Rutgers Univ. Lib., Camden, NJ (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Sweet Season, The Chapter One The Journey Minnesota was a go! All that remained -- after tying up a mere two or three hundred logistical details -- was to have a trailer hitch affixed to the family station wagon, rent a U-Haul, and hit the trail! If you need a trailer and long for a taste of good, old-fashioned Soviet Union-style customer service, I would recommend the U-Haul Moving Center in San Rafael, California. These people could screw up a cup of coffee, and how they stay in business is a mystery to me. I'd phoned a fortnight ahead of time to set up a date to come and have a trailer hitch attached to the station wagon. When I showed up, they looked at me as if I were an idiot and pathological liar. There was no hitch. The eczema-afflicted U-Haul guy behind the counter asked, Did you call to confirm that it was here? Actually, I replied, the way that works is when an appointment is set up weeks in advance, you call me if the part is not in. That's when he began to get flustered, asking the person in line behind me, "Can I help you, sir?" which is when I began to feel sorry for him, because the individual he was addressing happened to be a very buff, very butch woman who was not amused by his confusion over her gender, and looked as if she might tear off his head and defecate down his neck. About ten minutes later a UPS person walked in and leaned my hitch against the counter. Two days later I was back in the Soviet Union, so to speak, to pick up the five-by-eight trailer I'd reserved. Naturally, it was not available. I was sent to a U-Haul outlet three towns away, where things went more smoothly. But then, really, how could they have gone less smoothly? August 11: Hard to believe, but we got a late start . But that's okay. A short day is scheduled -- it only takes four hours to cross the Central Valley skirt Sacramento, and commence climbing the Sierra Nevada mountains. Our first night will be spent at the Resort at Squaw Creek, near Lake Tahoe. The Resort has several pools, one with a bitching waterslide. I have been selling this waterslide to the kids for a good three months. We check in, change into bathing suits, and get down to the pool by 5:15. The waterslide is closed. "We close at five everyday," an off-duty lifeguard tells me on his way to the parking lot. We are the Griswolds, standing before a shuttered Wally World. I stand before my children exposed as an impotent bungler. Go ahead and use the waterslide, I tell the kids once the lifeguard is safely out of sight. I'll guard your lives myself. They do, and I do. August 12: It is beginning to dawn on me that the concept of additional time in the bosom of family, virtuous and swell in the abstract, takes on an altogether different meaning when one is called upon to actually pass that time . As we cruise past Reno this morning, Willa and Devin, the lights of our lives, are attempting to stab one another with the plastic legs of the Wild Wild West mechanized tarantula facsimiles dispensed by a fast-food chain. This is but a sampler of the hostilities that will erupt between them over the next 1,800 miles. Projectiles will be thrown, pinches and gougings meted out, hair pulled, epithets cast. The warfare is not always conventional. Checking the rearview mirror one afternoon in the middle of Montana, I saw my son thrust his fingers under his sister's nose. "Hey, Willa," he said, sounding quite sinister, "smell this part of my body." "Devin, God damn it!" I said. "It's disgusting to put your fingers in your crack." (He is, alas, a recidivist crack-scratcher.) Without skipping a beat he asked, "Does Jar Jar Binks have a crack?" That threw me, I will admit. Flustered, defeated, resigned, amused, I asked him, " Why? " After a pause, he came back with this: "Because I don't know." Jar Jar Binks, the grating, bug-eyed amphibian from Star Wars: Episode 1 -- The Phantom Menace , is among the dramatis personae in one of the half-dozen cassettes I purchased for the trip. The tape is called the J edi Training Manual , and the kids will insist on hearing it six times a day, on average, throughout the trip. I don't know if Jar Jar has a crack. I don't where our kids come up with this stuff, just as I don't remember what Laura and I did before we had them. We share dim memories of carefree dinners in Manhattan; lengthy workouts, fortnight-long vacations abroad. It all came to an end in the small hours of March 28, 1996, twenty-five days before Laura was due to deliver our first child. When she shook me awake to report that her water had broken, I assured her she had merely experienced incontinence, and went back to sleep. Fifteen minutes later she curled into a comma and began regular contractions, between which she said things like, "We still don't have a pediatrician!" and "I never got sheets for the bassinet!" Nine hours later, without benefit of anesthetic, she delivered seven-pound, eight-ounce Willa Madigan Murphy, who has been in a hurry to get places ever since. Willa's early arrival was both an augury of her impatience, and a kind of cosmic rebuke for our hubris -- our smug, yuppie expectations of a tidy, micro-managed birth. No, we hadn't set up her nursery or found a doctor for her because, well, the kid wasn't due for another month! We had time! We did not have time. We have not had time since. We had less than an hour... Sweet Season, The . Copyright © by Austin Murphy. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from The Sweet Season: A Sportswriter Rediscovers Football, Family, and a Bit of Faith at Minnesota's St. John's University by Austin Murphy All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.