Untitled Mike Flynt Project

When a 59-year-old former strength coach decided to reenroll at his alma mater and play one final year of college football, he seemed like the lead in the greatest sports movie ever. He had rabid fans, a quirky coach, heroic young teammates, and a complicated backstory filled with rebellion and redemption. Roll cameras . . .

by John Spong

March 2008

(Page 5 of 5)

Flynt didn’t talk much about the eighties. But buried in the mountain of media coverage of his historic 2007 season was an October blog post written by a Baptist minister who’d taught Sunday school to the Flynts after they moved to Tennessee, in 1985. He thrilled at the comeback, described praying with Eileen, and called Flynt a friend. He also recalled Flynt’s frequently approaching him with investment opportunities. “I never bought the stock he offered for Gold Mining in Arizona,” he wrote, “or the stock he offered about raising the Titanic. A little off-the-wall for someone like me.” When I asked Flynt about that in a December phone call, he said he’d once done consulting work for a man who was doing contract work for RMS Titanic, the Florida company that began retrieving artifacts from the shipwreck in 1987. But Flynt insisted he would not have offered stock because he had never held a license to sell securities.

The gold mine reference was more complicated. It was related to a series of investments Flynt had entered into in 1981 with a childhood friend from Odessa. The deals were ultimately determined to be a pyramid scheme that bilked hundreds of people out of tens of millions of dollars. Flynt had been close enough to the pyramid’s top to have been indicted, along with his friend, on four counts of felony fraud in 1985. The friend was convicted, but the charges against Flynt were dropped three years later, according to court filings, after he paid restitution to an investor who’d gotten in through him. When I asked Flynt about the scam, he said he’d been a victim too. He called the experience a painful nightmare. Presumably, that was the rock bottom to which he’d referred.

As for the fabled “one fight too many,” the hinge on which the Flynt legend swings, I talked to thirteen of his 1971 teammates about the infamous fight. Some had witnessed it in the courtyard, some had been inside the dorm and come out for the ensuing melee, and others had merely heard the next morning’s reports. Their memories had diverged over 37 years, and they told conflicting stories. Some cited the curfew violation, but others remembered the fight’s taking place in the early evening while the sun was still out, and most said that the real crime was that Jacob Henry’s brother, whose name was George, had shirked his freshman duties. The team had a tradition of initiating newcomers, who had to shave their heads and wear beanies until the Lobos’ first win. They were frequently made to wash upperclassmen’s cars. “Even in the rain,” a friend of Flynt’s joked.

Every player I talked to said that when Flynt made his demand of George, the freshman mouthed off and Flynt coldcocked him. But what Flynt left out of his version was that George was black. Though no former player, black or white, suggested or implied that race had anything to do with the punch, they all said that the commotion that followed, which was described as either a face-off or a gang fight, was divided along racial lines. They said no ambulance had come for George—most said they didn’t think Alpine even had an ambulance in 1971—and that he had never threatened to kill Flynt. Coach Harvey told me that the police had not been called, nor had president McNeil called him. Harvey’s concern had been that the fight would split the team, that bad feelings would resurface throughout the season. He said that was why he had made the hard decision to kick Flynt off the team.

But the bigger problem with Flynt’s story had to do with George Henry, whom I reached on the phone in December. He had recently retired and was moving to Kentucky from Denton with Jacob, who was actually his older brother. It turned out that George had been a true freshman in 1971 and that he had never, as Flynt stated, been in prison. He was nineteen years old and, at barely 150 pounds, the smallest player on the team. He also said he didn’t smoke back then.

“It was getting on to dusk,” George recalled, “and Flynt told me, ‘You’re going to wash my car tomorrow.’ I said, ‘Wash it yourself.’ He got pissed and threw the first punch. I don’t know why he’s saying this stuff now. I’ve always said I hated to see him kicked off the team. He was a good football player. We could have used him that year.”

After talking to George, I called Flynt to reconcile the stories. He quickly grew angry. “Look, I didn’t even have a car,” he said. “Apparently it’s pretty foggy to a lot of people if you’re getting this many stories.”

He tried to make his version fit with the others. He said that he had not actually seen the ambulance himself but had heard about it from Coach Parsons. He said that perhaps Coach Parsons, who’s now dead, had told him about the ambulance and the gun to get him to stay in his room. And he said that Coach Harvey had definitely mentioned McNeil, maybe to pass the buck. As for George, he said, “It was my understanding that he’d been in jail. I didn’t create that. As far as I’m concerned, the fight took place for whatever reason it took place, and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Whether I hit him with a left hook or an uppercut, all that’s immaterial.

“If you can’t get comfortable with the facts, just don’t write the story.”

With 3:39 left to play in the season finale, against Mississippi College, Flynt finally saw game time at linebacker. The Choctaws were up 56—35, and Davidson, trying to engineer another miracle, had just been intercepted at Mississippi’s 14-yard line. Even in a season in which anything seemed possible, this unmistakably ended any chance of a Lobos victory. But it did nothing to the excitement level in the Jackson Field bleachers. Flynt’s five games spent blocking on kicks had been inspiring but uneventful. Here was his chance to complete his dream.

After watching a 4-yard pass, Coach Wright called a time-out to send Flynt in. The crowd reaction was exactly as expected. The Baby Boomers who were as hungry as Flynt, started chanting, “Push ’em back, push ’em back, way back!” Camera crews and photographers jockeyed with Lobos players for angles, and reporters scurried to find the Flynt family. As before, Flynt had no time for kudos or reflection. He later told the AP, “I was totally focused on my responsibilities.”

The first play was a run to his side. Flynt hooked up with a 270-pound offensive guard who was pulling on the play and watched the Choctaws tailback dart inside, gaining 3 yards. The next play was a handoff that went the other way. Flynt started in pursuit, then tripped and fell on teammate Chris Vela. The two watched the end of the play from their bellies.

On third down, Mississippi ran up the middle. Flynt was blocked out of the play but, refusing to quit, followed the ball carrier and jumped on the pile of tacklers 6 yards down the field. There was less than a minute to play as an official signaled first down. One more snap and the quarterback took a knee. Thirty-nine years after it began, Mike Flynt’s Sul Ross football career was over.

If the postgame scene on the field could have been viewed from above, the crowd would have looked like ants running for a dropped piece of candy. Everyone wanted a picture taken with Flynt, the players, their parents and girlfriends, the opposing coaches, and the referees. Reporters lingered on the periphery, trying to be respectful before moving in.

There was one person in the crowd who did not hustle to Flynt. Near the visitors’ benches, Coach Wright was lying on his side, picking at the grass. I walked over and sat down next to him.

“You know,” he said, “it’s so impressive to have bounced back after the way the first half ended. What were we down there, forty-two to fifteen? And for us to start the fourth quarter down only thirteen? Folks, if we convert that fourth down, we’re one play away—or one holding call or one interference call—from winning that ball game.”

He sat up, put his hands on his knees, and looked at the scoreboard. Then he watched the crowd.

“Isn’t this team fun?” he said. “God, if the injuries hadn’t hit us this year. I tell you, they’ve got something that in thirty years . . .” He grabbed another piece of grass and flashed a washed-out grin, looking significantly more worn than he had at the start of the year. A football season will do that to you.

He was already thinking about next year. He said Flynt had promised to be the liaison to the Boomers, to help realize his comeback’s institutional benefits by organizing fundraisers and game-day reunions. Then he talked about players he hoped would return. “Jamal Groover should eventually be able to replace T. J. Barber. And Carlo Dominguez will be a hell of a lot of fun to watch, wherever we play him.” He showed no indication that in a month’s time he’d resign.

I left him to find Flynt. As he finished talking to an El Paso news crew, I jumped in and asked what he felt he’d accomplished. “Personally, I came back and helped a group of young men I didn’t know, and that’s what I set out to do—to right what I felt was a wrong. I’d like to think these young men are better off for having known me. I know I’m better off for having known them.” Humble to the end, he gave no sign of the big developments coming his way. In mid-December, shortly after Coach Wright’s resignation, Flynt would sign with the sports marketing firm started by NBA superstar LeBron James. The agency would negotiate his movie and book deals, as well as arrange endorsements and speaking engagements. There would eventually be talk of a Mike Flynt—model Nike shoe. As a second news crew fired up its camera and nudged me away, Flynt fell into the crowd for more hugs and handshakes.

Somewhere in there, Flynt would later tell me, he had a short conversation with one of his teammates. He said he thought it was Kyle Braddick, an eighteen-year-old linebacker who saw most of his action on kick returns. Braddick played recklessly and left nearly every game banged and bruised. But he kept coming back, and Flynt was part of his inspiration.

“Kyle said, ‘Mike, I wanted to see you intercept a pass and run it back for a touchdown.’ And I said, ‘I know, Kyle. Maybe we can do that in the movie.’”

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