Sound and the Fury

THE BISON PLAY FOOTBALL WITH THEIR EYES. Joshua Doudt calls it "swivel-head," where players constantly turn their heads from side to side and scan the field. If you don't, he says, you'll get popped.

"You can feel the thud of a tackle," says Calvin, through an interpreter. "But you're more seeing the thud. You see the helmets hitting. You see the tackles. You see the pain and the anger. We don't know what sounds we're missing -- we've never known them."

The team doesn't huddle up, even though Gallaudet invented the huddle in the 1890s to keep opponents from reading its signs. Today the players sign openly to one another, assuming that their opponents won't know enough of the language to understand.

Coleman leads the offense to the line and crouches behind center Justin Lathus. There is no snap count. Coleman leans on Lathus's thigh ever so slightly to signal that he is ready. The rest of the players don't move until they see the ball snap, which is why Gallaudet has few false-start penalties.

Against Salisbury State, Gallaudet jumped to a 14-point lead, but by halftime, the score was tied, which made Hottle furious. On the way into the locker room, he was gritting his teeth and cursing. Some of the players read his lips.

Once inside the locker room, Coleman signed angrily at a few players, but Hottle came in looking calm. "We're okay," he signed. He took out a dry erase board and went over the defensive strategy, saying how much more aggressive the defensive end needed to be. "It's easy," he signed. "It's just like we did in practice. Nothing's changed." He paused. "Hold your head up."

Gallaudet played tighter in the second half. The crowd stomped its feet on the bleachers, hoping to inspire the Bison with the vibrations. Gallaudet scored one touchdown, then another. The final score was 28-14.

After the win, Coleman gathered his teammates at the far end of the field. The players got down on one knee, holding their helmets. "I got frustrated earlier because I knew we could play better," Coleman signed. "Everybody, look up."

He waited until the guys were staring at the drizzling gray sky. Then he waved his hand to get their attention. "With this team," he signed, "there are no limits."

AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SEASON, Hottle assigned J.J. Damas -- the team's only hearing player, who learned sign language from his deaf parents -- to a starting defensive end position. The decision raised concern among some players. Was Damas given the position because he could hear the coach?

Hottle had told the team that he chose the best player for each position, that his selections had nothing to do with hearing status. But players had also noticed that three out of the four captains were hard of hearing, with only one, Coleman, deaf-deaf, or truly deaf.

"The deaf-deaf can't have that verbal communication about a play, ask a question or express a concern," said Tingley, explaining why some of his teammates were upset. The coach might not always understand what they were saying, or vice versa. "They get frustrated and start to feel inferior. A hard-of-hearing athlete has more access to coach."

On the field, the guys said, they were brothers, but off the field, differences divided them. Last year, for example, there were more players on the team who'd been "mainstreamed," meaning they were educated in their local public schools, where the majority of deaf students today are educated. Students from mainstream schools, such as Tingley, were taught primarily how to communicate in a hearing world. In those situations, deafness could be treated as something to overcome, and many students learned to read lips and speak, even if they couldn't hear their own voice.

Coleman came from a high school for the deaf. Students at deaf-only schools were educated exclusively in American Sign Language, so that they could communicate fully and freely. Deafness was celebrated. Because many of the deaf-only high schools play one another in sports, Gallaudet athletes know many of their teammates.

Mainstreamed students sometimes arrive as freshmen and feel alone because they don't speak the dominant language. Tingley didn't learn a word of American Sign Language in the public schools in Upstate New York. Early on at Gallaudet, he couldn't communicate with most students. He was depressed, he said, until he joined the team. Playing football helped him make friends with people who were more likely to put their backgrounds aside, and they helped him learn sign language.

ONE AFTERNOON, A COUPLE OF HOURS BEFORE A PRACTICE LAST FALL, Coleman went in to talk to Hottle. The two knew little about each other's personal lives -- Hottle said much of the life-lesson conversations that he was used to having in his other coaching positions had been lost here because he was not fluent in American Sign Language. Still, Coleman often e-mailed Hottle analysis of what was working in practice and what wasn't, and Hottle often listened. The two would chat online about college football games, and Hottle sometimes asked Coleman what was going on with certain players. Coleman's dream was to one day replace Hottle as Gallaudet's coach.

On this afternoon, Coleman was delivering a warning. "They're saying that you favor the hard-of-hearing kids," he signed to the coach. "You're playing them more than the deaf kids."

At that day's practice, Hottle couldn't get the accusation out of his head. He called over his co-captains, told them he was tired of players thinking that they were owed playing time and didn't have to earn it. Then he sulked off the field. He returned to practice half an hour later and didn't address the accusations directly. But for the rest of the season, he would yell at anyone who forgot to sign, especially Damas, the hearing player.

"This is a deaf university," he signed to Damas one afternoon when he knew many of the guys were watching. "Stop talking -- sign."

IT WAS POURING RAIN WHEN THE PLAYERS BOARDED THE BUS FOR WORCESTER, MASS., EARLY LAST OCTOBER. TV camera crews were waiting at the school's entrance. They were there for the live 6 a.m. news because students had planned protests against Gallaudet's president-designate Jane Fernandes.

Gallaudet had played mostly JV teams this season, and Becker College, a small school in Worcester, was one of two NCAA Division III teams on the 2006 schedule. A win here would be Gallaudet's 13th straight victory and further demonstrate its readiness for Division III varsity status in 2007. Before the trip, Hottle gave out navy blue T-shirts he had made that read: MAKE A STATEMENT.

The bus pulled into a truck stop in Connecticut, where some players walked over to a Wendy's restaurant. At the counter, one by one, they held up six fingers for a No. 6 meal, pointed to the beverage-menu emblems to indicate they wanted fruit punch or made a dipping motion to get sauce for chicken nuggets. Tingley ordered for Phil Endicott, an offensive lineman. Endicott could speak, but he was self-conscious.

"I can't really pronounce words right," he said, "so I feel dumb."

One player wrote "8 frostee" on a piece of paper, for the No. 8 combo meal.

"You want eight Frosties?" the cashier said.

The player looked confused. He didn't understand what the cashier was saying.

"I don't know what you want," the cashier said. She wiped her brow and looked at him impatiently. The player turned to an assistant coach for help.

Coleman coolly typed his order on his hand-held device and held it up to the cashier: "one bacon cheeseburger. fries. thanks."

Once in Massachusetts, the team checked into a drab hotel across the street from a Staples. In the morning, Hottle woke the players one by one with a gentle shake, because they can't hear a wake-up call. At home, they are awakened by devices they put under their pillows that vibrate when it is time to get up.

After breakfast, they headed over to Becker College's Foley Stadium, an aging tan-and-green structure surrounded by a chain-link fence with barbed wire on top. The field was muddy. When the guys went inside to change, Hottle began pacing.

"He's always so nervous," his mother, Terry Desilets, said, watching him from the sidelines. She attended every game. "The way he's walking is the way his father would walk -- arms crossed, lips tense, analyzing the situation. When his father died, he gave a speech. He said that he often wondered why his father was so hard on him, but now he knew. He was preparing him for a day like that one."

Gallaudet's offense struggled from the start. Coleman was sacked repeatedly.

Because Becker was stacking up on the inside, Hottle had his players run outside. Becker stopped them there, too.

Becker scored a touchdown. Then a second one. Before the end of the first half, Becker put in its second-string defense.

"That's how serious they're taking us," Hottle told an assistant coach.

Then Becker scored a third time.

At halftime, the Gallaudet team returned to the locker room, fists slamming into lockers, everyone blaming someone else. Coleman signed furiously to teammates. Hottle came in and told them to stop talking -- the game was not over. As soon as he walked out, Coleman was back on his feet, eyes narrowed, venting his frustration about the plays they'd been running.

Hottle popped his head in and asked Coleman to help review offensive strategies. Once outside, Coleman was still agitated, so Hottle motioned for his wife to come down from the stands. He pulled his 3-year-old daughter, Madalynn, from his wife's arms and put her in Coleman's. "Babies are soothing," he told Coleman. "Relax."

IN THE SECOND HALF, GALLAUDET BEGAN TO FIND ITS RHYTHM. Becker brought many starters back into the game. With three minutes left in the third quarter, Gallaudet scored its first touchdown. "We're coming back," Tingley signed. "I know it."

A minute later, Gallaudet intercepted a pass. Then, in the fourth quarter, Coleman connected on a pass to Becker's 1-yard line. A few plays later, Gallaudet scored and made a two-point conversion, cutting the deficit to 18-15.

As the Bison closed in, tension on the field intensified. One Becker player told the Gallaudet players "to put their hearing aids back in." Another grabbed a Gallaudet player's face mask and head-butted him.

With less than two minutes left in the game and the 12-game winning streak on the line, Coleman led the Bison on a seven-play, 47-yard drive that stalled on the Becker 9-yard line on fourth down with three yards to go for a first down. Hottle found himself with a choice -- kick a field goal to tie, or go for it on fourth down. Gallaudet kicker Justin Wilson was nursing a broken finger on the sidelines. Hottle asked him if he could kick, and Wilson said he wasn't sure. His legs were fine, but he was woozy from the pain. Hottle masked his irritation.

"We're going to win it right here," he said, directing his offense back onto the field. Players on the Gallaudet bench grabbed hold of one another's hands.

The ball was snapped. Coleman handed off to running back Robert Haney. Haney put his head down and charged into the line, close to the first down. Everyone was quiet as the chain gang was sent out. They lined up their poles, pulling the chain taut.

The Becker players erupted in cheers. Gallaudet had come up inches short of the first down. Coleman collapsed onto the ground. Tears began streaming down Tingley's face. "We could have kicked a field goal," Tingley signed to a teammate.

After the Bison showered and changed, they were particularly subdued, but Coleman tried to see the situation in a different light. He signed to a teammate: "Losing this game was a monkey off our back. We won't feel the pressure anymore. We can just play football."

THE TEAM RETURNED FROM WORCESTER TO A CAMPUS FRAUGHT WITH TENSION. Student protesters had shut down the university's main academic building, eventually forcing the administration to cancel classes for several days. The protesters wanted president-designate Fernandes to resign, and they showed little interest in negotiating. They had a list of complaints: She was cold; graduation rates had plummeted on her watch as Gallaudet's provost; she'd hired too many professors who didn't know sign language.

A few nights later, Coleman called a team meeting. He said he was fed up with Fernandes. He was growing impatient with the protests, and he wanted classes reopened. Protesters had talked about extending the blockade to campus entrances, but Coleman wasn't sure they'd pull it off. He had a hunch that if the football team got involved, and shut down the entrances, the administration would force Fernandes to resign -- because no one would be able to get on or off campus otherwise. A majority of the players said they'd help. Many were still angry at Fernandes for requiring some players to perform community service for tearing down the goal posts after the 2005 undefeated season.

Before dawn, Coleman and 20 other players held hands and walked to the campus entrance, just off Florida Avenue NE, and linked arms in a human chain. No traffic could get into or out of the university. Television and newspaper reporters were using interpreters to interview students.

Coleman peered through the gates, wearing the MAKE A STATEMENT T-shirt that Hottle had handed out. Hottle, who was blocked from entering the campus by protesters, yelled to Coleman through the gate, telling him to read the playbook for the upcoming weekend's home game -- though it seemed likely the game would be called off. Coleman apologized that he couldn't let him through.

"If you need me, page me," Hottle signed. The words came fast to him now.

In the weeks leading up to the protest, president-designate Fernandes had shown interest in the team. She attended home games. She told the athletic director that she believed the team was an important recruiting tool. She promised that she'd increase funding, enough so that Hottle would be able to buy new uniforms and equipment, and hire a full-time assistant. If Fernandes resigned, Hottle knew, the athletic department would have to build a relationship with a new president from scratch. He didn't think Coleman had considered that when he led the team in protest.

Hottle went back to watching the protest from an assistant coach's front porch across the street. Practice was canceled that day and again the next. When it seemed certain that the weekend's game would be called off, too, Coleman found Hottle to gauge his reaction. The players weren't sure whether he was going to be angry or understanding. "My dad always told me, 'You have to finish what you started,'" Hottle told him. "Go finish what you started."

A few days later, Coleman paraded into Hottle's office wearing diamonds in his ears, a Redskins hat turned sideways and a white T-shirt with 720600540 written on it in black Magic Marker. It was the booking number from his arrest for disorderly conduct two nights earlier -- the night before the canceled game. Then he held up a white sign he had been carrying around with him. It read: FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED!

AFTER THE ARRESTS, PROTESTERS AGREED TO OPEN ONE CAMPUS ENTRANCE SO CLASSES COULD RESUME. Practice resumed, too, just in time for the following weekend's homecoming game against Walter Reed Army Medical Center, a club team.

Tingley was upbeat now, but he had been feeling down since the protests -- his final football season was being stolen from him, he said. After one game was canceled, he worried that the team would have to miss another.

"Fruitcake," Tingley signed and yelled to Hottle when he started a meeting one day. Hottle laughed, which made the players cheer -- they liked seeing his expression change from stern to silly, and they especially liked it when he picked up on their lingo. They'd taught Hottle the sign for "fruitcake" at the beginning of the season after he heard them calling one another the name. Over time, Hottle started calling the players "fruits" if they made him laugh or made him proud. The word had become a term of endearment.

"My daughter learned a new sign this weekend," Hottle signed back. "Fruit."

The players erupted in laughter.

"Let's talk about this week," Hottle signed. "Walter Reed is a good team. They want to win. But the situation is not good with the protest. You must make sure that you eat and sleep. No hunger strike. Right, Calvin?"

Calvin nodded.

"If the faculty's holding classes," he signed, "you must show up."

"How do we concentrate?" one player asked.

"I need you for 2 1/2 hours every day. That's all. Don't think about the protests. See you on the field."

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE WALTER REED GAME, Hottle learned that the university president had canceled all on-campus homecoming events. The administration was trying to prevent large numbers of protesting alumni from taking over campus. Still, Hottle was determined to find another field for the team to play on, and he'd told the players so. He had already called coaches at Catholic University, the University of Maryland, Georgetown University, St. John's College High School, Bowie State and local public high schools, but no one had called back.

"The University of Maryland said no," said athletic director DeStefano as he walked into Hottle's office. "I don't think we're going to find a place to play."

"Then you can tell the team," Hottle yelled. "I'm not [expletive] telling them because it makes me look like a liar."

"People don't want us, Jimmy," Hottle went on. "They've seen the news. They don't want this mess coming to their school."

Finally, DeStefano managed to get the Maryland School for the Deaf's field in Frederick. There, during warm-ups, the bass drum rang out. And at the homecoming dance later that night, the team celebrated its 49-0 victory.

While the players were being taped for the final game of last season, a 21-20 loss to the Bridgewater College JV that would give the Bison a 6-2 record, Hottle stood outside with a lump of tobacco tucked under his lower lip. He told his assistant coaches about next season's schedule. Newly reinstated as an NCAA Division III program, the probation sanction notwithstanding, Gallaudet will play 10 games, eight against Division III schools. An assistant coach asked Hottle how many games he thought the team would win.

"Every one," he said.

The assistants broke out in laughter, but Hottle wasn't joking.

Brooke Foster is a senior writer at Washingtonian magazine. She can be reached at brookeleafoster@yahoo.com.