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I Pnnn A gtinAnv C)rtnhEsr 16.1977---The Michigan Daily
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Father Miller's sideline service
Tending to tendo
with trainer Mc e
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THOUGH THE YOUNG football fans
stationed in the Michigan freshman
block seldom take Wolverine games sitting
down, few can match the bubbling en-
thusiasm of 63-year-old Father Alexander
Miller.
For the past 18 years; Father Miller has
been a fixture on the sideline during
haired rector says he does try to make
himself useful by gathering up fallen
plumes and scattered band folders.-
Miller received his undergraduate
degree from the University in 1941. While
in school he beat the snare drum in the
marching band and played the bassoon in
the concert band and University sym-e
a
I have no duties whatsoever. I just go down
.. and say 'Hello, Hello' and 'Go, Go.'
because "I'd much rather be working than
not working."
Sporting his clerical collar, black beret
and a fresh carnation, Miller professes
delight in dancing with the cheerleaders
(the female ones) and leading his favorite
cheer, "Let's Go Blue."
"I think I contribute a lot of enthusiasm
and maybe some inter-generational
thing-so the kids know not all clergy-type
ducks are sticks.
"Basically," he continues, "I'm just an
enthusiastic person and I'm proud to be
part of this outfit. It's a very high caliber
place."
Miller admits he doesn't care much for
cold, rainy games, but he won't miss a
match, whatever the elements may be.
"Heck, no,-I never get to the point where
I wish I didn't come (to the game)," Miller
says. "Sometimes I wish it wasn't quite so
lousy but I'm always glad I'm there."
Miller has also become somewhat of an
expert on crowd reaction, and laments the
almost inevitableflack of spirit when the
Wolverines roll far ahead of hapless op-
ponents.
"I suppose after a while the enthusiasm
is almost bound to go down," he explains.
"It's like having too many chocolates.
Pretty soon they're not near as good as
they were."
Miller's allegiance, however, doesn't lie
with the fans but with the band members
with whom he keeps company.
"I just love being with all those vital
young people," he exclaims. "They know
they're part of a great band and they work
awfully hard. It isn't easy to make that
full, rich sound while they're gyrating
around."
Perhaps Father Miller serves no crucial
function at the games, but he religiously
adheres to the frolicking tone of Football
Saturdays. As one band member aptly put
it, "All he does is stand around and say 'Go
Blue' but we love it. He's great. "-S.W.
Michigan games, thoroughly relishing his
position as the "self-appointed"' band
chaplain.
"I have no duties whatsoever," says
Miller of his chaplain post. "I just go down
and smile and laugh and say 'Hello, Hello'
and 'Go, Go.' "
However, the mustachioed, silver-
phony.
"I've got music in my souL," boasts the
self-confessed-Michigan chauvinist.
Last year, Miller retired after 25 years
as rector of an Episcopal parish in Flint.
But upon retirement, he immediately
became assistant to the rector at St. An-
drews Episcopal Church in Ann Arbor
'4
SOMETIMES YOU'RE just unlucky,"
Lindsy McLean says with a shrug.
This year, it would seem, is one of
those times.
For McLean, head University athletic
trainer, the 1977 football season has
already produced more than its share of
sprained ankles, wrenched knees and
assorted bumps and bruises.
"We probably have more injuries
during the week than most, schools
because we have fairly intense-practice
sessions," says the 39-year-old McLean,
now in his tenth year as head trainer.
"Considering the amount of contact, the
size of the players and the speed of play
on artificial turf, I think it's surprising
we don't have even more injuries."
McLean and his staff of four assistant
and eight student trainers can make use
of the services of the two team physicans
if any cases are beyond their range of
expertise. But McLean, a registered
physical therapist, notes that today's
trainer is far more skilled than his coun-
terpart in the days of Fritz Crisler and
Fielding Yost.
"Back in the '30s and '20s anybody that
knew how to rub on linam
the breeze well, could
bucket on the field an
anything else to do wits
time could pretty well, f
hang on to and say he wa
observes.
But despite his profe:
McLean says the traine
emotionally involved N
bodies he inevitably tapes
in preparation for Footba:
"You get to know the pl
says. "You're a lot close
the coaches. They say
training room) that they
the field. They really
down."
And you can bet your
McLean gets pretty ups(
those bodies becomes r
speedy repair.
"You feel about the
McLean says of the play
enough to sustain a debi
"But these things are out
Injuries are a risk you
play football."-B.Z.
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Let's
the Unsung Heroes of
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Football
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By Sue Warner
and Barbara Zahs
Artwork by
Keith Richburg
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Tumbling around with
Newt the cheerleader
(More Heroes on Page 10)
()N WEEKDAYS, Newt Loken goes
about his business like any other
Natural Resource School junior. But on
brisk autumn. Saturdays, he- spends
several hours bouncing in the air, rolling
on the ground, screaming and yelling.
No, Loken is not a neurotic student. He
is a Michigan cheerleader-that breed of
all-American wholesomeness who flips
and flops his way into the hearts of foot-
ball fans everywhere.
"Cheering for the team is really
rewarding," says the first-year squad
member, who also contorts his torso for
the University gymastics team.
"Sometimes I wonder if the football
players actually hear us, but when
they're fighting hard it seems if we can
get some good cheers going, they might
just get inspired."
Loken, one of twelve cheerleaders
selected last spring from a field of 25
hopefuls, was required to perform some
pretty weird routines during his tryouts.
Things like taking three back flips off a
table, standing on his hands for ten
seconds, tumbling, and offering a ren-
dition of the "Michigan locomotive"
cheer.
"I had to smile a lot, too," he adds.
Despite long hours of practice, Loken
admits that cheering before a crowd in
excess of 100,000 can be a nerve-
wracking and sometimes embarrassing
experience. Several weeks ago, he
demonstrated one of those rare moments
when clumsiness takes the placeof coor-
dination.
"At the Navy game I came out under
the banner pretty fast, mainly because
there were 50 guys twice my size right
behind me," he recalls. "I did two hand-
springs and a flip, then slipped and fell
flat.
Loken is a native Ann Arborite who is
no stranger to Football Saturdays. "I've
been going to the football games ever
since I can remember," says the slightly
build cheerleader, who laments that his
physical stature has kept him off the
gridiron.
But, for now, he says he's proud to play
some role in the time-tested tradition of
Michigan Wolverine football.
"After watching for so long and really
digging-it, now I'm actually helping, or at
least trying to."- -S.W.
; ,m a; - * -- - ' - - . '- - -_ ________ -
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Howard King 's vocal vocat
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PERCHED HIGH above the 50-yard line,
Howard King has one of the best seats
in the house at Michigan Stadium.
But in spite of his enviable pressbox
view, King seldom finds time to enjoy the
action on Football Saturdays. His duties as
stadium announcer oblige him to watch
the game for business rather than
pleasure.
"Sometimes somebody will say to me
the next day, 'Wasn't that a great play in
the third quarter?' and I'll say 'What
play?'," muses King.
"I usually don't know what really hap-
pens at the games. I go home and watch
the films the next day."
Two spotters in the booth and two more
on the field assist King in calling the plays.
Their goal, he says, is accuracy above
speed.
"We might delay three of four seconds
on a call to be sure that we have it right,"
he says. Occasionally, everybody misses
the play, but fortunately that doesn't hap-
pen very often.
Before each home game, King must
study the roster of the visiting team and
familiarize himself with the names of the
players.,
Once in a while, however, the announcer
flubs before the fans.
King recalls his announcing debut when
the opening kick-off went to a Michigan
player wearing Number 6. "I looked down
(at my list) and there was no name for
Number 6."
King's field spotters furnished him with
the player's name within a few seconds,
but to King, "it seemed like an eternity."
Now in his sixth season as the Voice of
Michigan Stadium, the mustachioed King
still suffers from occasional pangs of pre-
game jitters. He says he dreads the days
when "your mouth doesn't do what your
brain tells it to."
When his mouth disobeys, King tries to
maintain his composure. He merely
repeats the description of the play or re-
pronounces the name, often drawing an
appreciative round of applause from the
fans when he finally gets it right.
his booth open,
King finds it di
completely from t
"While everybod;
games, you've go
says.
"My goal as an
I usually don't know what ha
games.
His biggest critic, he says, is his 12-year-
old daughter, who has been known to call
her dad "fumble-mouth."
For King, announcing is only a -hobby,
and an unpaid one at that. By profession,
he's a management consultant.
His pressbox position, King says,
removes nim somewhat from action on the
field, so he insists on leaving the window in
get in the way of g
I want to say as li
As much as he
is grateful for t
And what does he
celebrate Footba
He listens to the
.
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77-