Culture
Emails reveal nixed hiring of Connor Stalions, ex-Michigan staffer accused of sign-stealing
William McMichael, the coach at Detroit’s Mumford High School, insisted he wasn’t looking for publicity when he offered a position to Connor Stalions, the staffer at the center of Michigan’s sign-stealing scandal and the central character in an upcoming Netflix documentary.
Publicity found him anyway. Mumford, a program that has gone 2-16 the past two seasons, made national headlines last week after news broke that Stalions would be on the coaching staff. McMichael’s phone rang all morning, and reporters showed up at practice to catch a glimpse of the coach he described as “the most hated man in college football.”
“I’ve been getting bombarded,” McMichael said with a chuckle.
But McMichael wasn’t the first coach to take an interest in Stalions. Before Stalions accepted a volunteer position with Mumford, he was under consideration for the defensive coordinator job at Berkley High School, a program outside of Detroit that finished 0-9 last season and was outscored 382-46. The ensuing controversy, detailed in email correspondence obtained by The Athletic via a public records request, offered a window into the half-life of the Michigan sign-stealing scandal, which continues to have far-reaching consequences.
Since October, the NCAA has been investigating allegations that Stalions coordinated a scheme to collect video footage of opposing teams’ signals shot from the stands and appeared incognito on the sideline for a game between Central Michigan and Michigan State. The NCAA shared a draft of potential infractions with Michigan earlier this month and could deliver a formal notice of allegations any day.
Michigan fired linebackers coach Chris Partridge in November for allegedly interfering with the investigation, and head coach Sherrone Moore faces allegations that he deleted a string of text messages with Stalions. Meanwhile, Netflix on Tuesday is set to release a documentary called “Sign Stealer,” described in promotional materials as a film “told directly by viral villain Connor Stalions, who forever changed college football.”
Stalions hasn’t spoken publicly about the scandal aside from a brief statement issued through his lawyer when he resigned in November. He did, however, address the situation in emails to Berkley School District administrators as he pleaded his case to become Berkley’s defensive coordinator. In the emails, Stalions appeared to reference the documentary as part of an effort to clear his name.
“Legally, I cannot get into the details, but I have great news!” Stalions wrote to Berkley administrators on March 8. “While I understand what has come with my name over the last five months, very soon the media, the NCAA and all the misinformation about the entire NCAA ‘investigation’ is going to be exposed. I’m excited that Berkley Schools will have the opportunity to be nationally portrayed in a positive light in this story.”
The appeal didn’t work. Stalions didn’t get the job. His attempt to join the staff at Berkley High School, like seemingly every other aspect of this story, left a trail of controversy in its wake.
On Feb. 15, Casey Humes, the first-year football coach at Berkley, emailed an executive assistant with the Berkley School District human resources department to request that a new football coach be added to Edustaff, a third-party staffing agency that Berkley uses for substitute teachers, coaches and other contract employees.
The administrative assistant forwarded Humes’ email to Taylor Horn, Berkley’s athletic director, for approval. “Yes, he is good to go,” Horn replied roughly 15 minutes later. The same day, Horn emailed Humes to inquire about the new hire.
“Have I met (Connor)?” Horn asked. “What position is he taking?”
Humes assured Horn that he wasn’t trying to keep Stalions’ hiring a secret.
“I was in the middle of drafting the email for you now,” Humes replied. “I was going to have (Stalions) meet me at the high school to meet with you tonight.”
This exchange touched off a conflagration involving the district superintendent, human resources, the school principal and Horn, who resigned as Berkley’s athletic director at the end of the school year. Horn, reached by email, declined to say if his resignation was related to the Stalions situation.
Carla Osborne, who has a son on the Berkley team, said Humes told team parents in February that he was planning to bring Stalions on board as defensive coordinator.
“Coach had reached out and said, ‘Do you know who Connor Stalions is?’” Osborne said. “I’m like, ‘No, I don’t.’ He’s like, ‘Don’t Google him. Just let me tell you.’ Of course I had to Google him.”
Despite the headlines about Stalions and the Michigan sign-stealing scandal, Osborne said most of the team parents supported hiring him. Parents were excited by the prospect of hiring a military veteran who’d worked on the coaching staff at Michigan, Osborne said.
“We hadn’t won a game all last season,” Osborne said. “We have a whole new coaching staff. Why don’t we give our kids this great opportunity to have somebody who has been on the sidelines at a Big Ten school?”
District higher-ups ultimately overruled the coach’s attempt to hire Stalions, concerned about the negative attention that could be generated by the NCAA investigation. In a series of increasingly strident emails, Stalions refused to relinquish his position while district officials claimed he’d never been hired in the first place.
The emails do not show who ultimately nixed Stalions’ hiring. But by March 5, the decision had been made. Horn informed Stalions and Humes and recounted their reactions in an email to superintendent Scott Francis the following day.
“I told them that we had concerns with his background, and that we as a district do not feel like it is the right time for him to be on the staff,” Horn wrote.
There was one problem: Stalions believed he’d already been hired. And he wasn’t going to give up the job without a fight.
Horn cautioned the superintendent that Stalions and Humes were upset. Stalions already was working with the team, and players were under the impression that he would be part of the staff. After learning that Stalions’ hiring hadn’t been approved, Horn wrote, Humes spoke with players’ parents to share the news.
Christopher Sandoval, the district’s deputy superintendent of schools and human resources, expressed concern about Humes’ message to parents.
“I sense that the Coach may have overshared and told parents that he wanted to hire Connor and that we said no,” Sandoval wrote.
Humes did not respond to email requests for comment. In an email to The Athletic, Jessica Stilger, director of communications for Berkley Schools, said assistant coaches are hired on the recommendation of the head coach, who submits his recommendations to the athletic director. The names are then referred to the human resources office for review, Stilger said, and sent to Edustaff for processing.
“Our decision not to continue the Edustaff contract for Mr. Stalions was based on him not being a good fit for the program,” Stilger said.
Upon learning he wouldn’t be hired, Stalions contacted the district superintendent for clarification. Sandoval emailed other administrators to say he would respond to Stalions with a “very generic” message that his skills and qualifications weren’t a good match for the position.
“Thank you for reaching out to Superintendent Francis yesterday,” Sandoval wrote to Stalions later that day. “After several conversations with Mr. Horn regarding this matter, it appears that there has been some misinformation given to you regarding the football coaching position. My sincere apologies. I can certainly understand why Mr. Horn’s call to you yesterday was both confusing and upsetting.
“In general, candidates are selected for positions after consideration of their qualifications and experiences to the specific needs of our schools/programs. Thank you for your interest in Berkley Schools and best wishes to you.”
Stalions did not go quietly. About 30 minutes later, he responded to Sandoval and said he’d been working with players for several weeks and that Horn, Humes and principal Andrew Meloche had all confirmed his hiring. He included a screenshot from Edustaff that showed he had been approved for the position.
“With that being said,” Stalions wrote, “am I being fired? If I am being fired, I will need justification for termination in writing.”
Sandoval forwarded Stalions’ email to the superintendent and Meloche, the Berkley principal.
“I’ve never even talked to this guy,” Meloche responded.
The news that Stalions had been working with players for several weeks prompted consternation among the administrators. The blame appeared to fall on Horn, the athletic director.
“(Stalions’) background check was completed last week so if it’s true that he has been interacting with our kids for three weeks, it will be another ding on Taylor,” Sandoval wrote to Meloche.
Two days passed. Stalions emailed Sandoval and cheerfully informed him that, since he had not received a formal termination notice, he planned to continue working with the team.
“I’m really looking forward to continuing to install the defense with the players,” Stalions wrote. “Thank you again, for giving me the opportunity to coach here at Berkley High School. I look forward to being part of the program’s turnaround. Go Bears!”
In the following days, Stalions softened his stance. He emailed Sandoval to say it had become clear, through conversations with “many individuals in the community” that “the Berkley Administration does not wish for me to serve in a paid position.” Instead, Stalions offered to stay on as a volunteer.
Sandoval thanked Stalions for the offer and attached a volunteer release form but advised he would only be allowed to volunteer once the NCAA investigation was complete and Stalions had been cleared of wrongdoing.
Stalions argued he’d already passed a background check and filled out the necessary paperwork to be hired in a paid position. The offer to volunteer, he said, was made with the assumption that he’d already been approved.
“If that process is not as smooth as I assumed, then I am remaining as an employee,” he wrote. “Until I hear back from you, I will remain as the Defensive Coordinator.”
Sandoval fired back an email that afternoon.
“You are not, nor have you ever been, an employee of Berkley School District,” he wrote.
Stalions emailed Sandoval again to ask why his Edustaff profile listed his employment status as “active.” Two days later, he sent another email requesting an in-person meeting. Humes and Horn met with him in person, Stalions wrote, and did more due diligence “than the local and national media did (and definitely more than the NCAA, if what you’re claiming is true and they are actually investigating).” Sandoval did not respond.
Four days later, Sandoval and his executive assistant received a missive of roughly 1,500 words from Stalions. Stalions claimed that district officials were portraying him as “media hungry” and suggested that the superintendent was “too scared” to meet with him in person. He also claimed to have control over media coverage of the situation.
“The local and national media wants access to me since I’ve never done anything with the media,” he wrote. “The meaningful media members aren’t going to write a story if I ask them not to.”
Reached by phone this week, Stalions declined to comment.
Stalions closed the email by appealing to the plight of the Berkley players in limbo without a defensive coordinator. “This needs to be resolved one way or the other ASAP,” he wrote. “For the kids.”
Sandoval forwarded the email to several people but did not respond. A Freedom of Information Act request produced no other correspondence between Stalions and district officials.
The NCAA shared a draft of potential infractions regarding the alleged sign-stealing with Michigan earlier this month. (Jaime Crawford / Getty Images)
Roughly 80 percent of the team parents signed a petition in favor of Stalions’ hiring, Osborne said, and the petition was presented at a meeting with district officials. It was clear that the officials weren’t going to change their minds, Osborne said, and the parents relented for fear that their efforts might cause problems for Humes.
“We felt if we kept pushing, we were going to jeopardize our coach,” Osborne said.
Not long after Stalion’s hiring at Berkley fell through, an acquaintance put him in touch with McMichael, the father of former Michigan recruit Jeremiah Beasley and the new coach at Mumford. Stalions agreed to join the staff as a volunteer defensive coordinator in May or early June, McMichael said.
Stalions is set to coach his first game Aug. 29, two days after the Netflix documentary premieres. Despite the history of controversy, McMichael didn’t feel he was tempting fate by adding Stalions to his staff.
“As a person, he’s intense when it comes to football,” McMichael said. “When he’s away from football, he’s just a regular guy.”
The Athletic’s Katie Strang contributed to this report.
(Illustration: Dan Goldfarb / The Athletic; photo: Adam Cairns / Columbus Dispatch / USA Today)
Culture
Book Review: ‘Ghost Stories,’ by Siri Hustvedt
She was blond and he was dark-haired; they were almost photonegatives. She looked as if she’d been in Bergman films. He was, visually, America’s Camus — wary, heavy-lidded, wreathed in cigarillo smoke, an intellectual turned out in black Levi’s and sheepskin-lined leather jackets.
Hustvedt and Auster’s double-barreled impact could prompt strange reactions. Before their wedding dinner, Hustvedt writes, a poet friend of Paul’s lifted a glass and said, “To the bride and groom, two people so good-looking I’d like to slice their faces with a razor.” Hustvedt wasn’t surprised when he slowly faded from their lives.
Auster was diagnosed with cancer in January 2023, when he was 75. Hustvedt tells the story of his illness — the chaotic E.R. visits, the hair loss, the shrinking and then metastasizing of his tumor, the wracking immunotherapy, the wheelchairs, the inability to write and the gradual loss of language — largely by reprinting the matter-of-fact group emails she sent to close friends to keep them apprised of his progress.
These sorts of missives, as anyone who has written or received them knows, are an art form of their own. When delivering good news, Hustvedt urged caution. “There is an important difference between optimism and hope,” she wrote in one such email. “The optimist’s tendency to cheer every piece of good news and predict a good outcome is understandable but creates emotional swings that, at least for those who love the patient, are unsustainable. Hope, on the other hand, is necessary for living on.”
Auster was stoic about his illness, but restless and held captive in the borderless region he termed “Cancerland.” No longer able to write fiction, near his death he began to compose a series of letters to his grandson. These letters, which are largely about family history, are printed here and are models of that form: warm, direct, undogmatic.
Culture
Can You Match Up These Novels With the Writers Who Died Before They Could Finish Them?
Welcome to Lit Trivia, the Book Review’s regular quiz about books, authors and literary culture. This week’s challenge is focused on unfinished novels that their authors didn’t live to see published. In the five multiple-choice questions below, tap or click on the answer you think is correct. After the last question, you’ll find links to the books if you’d like to do further reading.
Culture
Book Review: ‘Chernobyl, Life, and Other Disasters,’ by Yevgenia Nayberg
CHERNOBYL, LIFE, AND OTHER DISASTERS, by Yevgenia Nayberg
“You have to share many things with others … but what you remember belongs to you and you alone,” Yevgenia (Genya) Nayberg writes in the author’s note to her graphic memoir, “Chernobyl, Life, and Other Disasters.”
The elegantly composed pages of this moving story, told largely through Nayberg’s effervescent illustrations, make clear the special place she holds in her heart for memories of her childhood in Kiev (now spelled Kyiv), Ukraine.
It is 1986, Ukraine is still part of the Soviet empire, and the entire world is anticipating Halley’s comet. Yet there are more important things in Genya’s life than the approaching comet. She is 11 years old and preparing for the entrance exam to Kiev’s National Secondary School of Art.
Inspired by her mother, who is an artist, Genya loves to draw and paint. But there is an obstacle: The family is Jewish and the art school — like many schools in the former Soviet Union — accepts only 1 percent of Jewish applicants.
When Genya was 5, her grandpa, who lived through Stalin’s Terror, told her she should “not stick out in school.” He taught her to read using Pravda, which was filled with articles about imperialism and inflation — evil spirits that haunted her dreams. (Pravda and Izvestiya — The Truth and The News — were the two major newspapers in the Soviet Union, and everyone knew the joke that accurately reflected Soviet reality: There is no news in The Truth and no truth in The News.)
In first grade, Genya’s “Honorary Teacher of the Soviet Union” — as manipulative and sinister as the government she served — demanded unconditional love from the pupils in her class, going so far as to ask them to raise their hands if they were willing to give blood to her in the event she needed a transfusion.
The same year, in military training class, the children learned the pretending game: When Genya complained that the gas mask she was supposed to practice putting on, in case of an American nuclear attack, was too big for her face, the instructor replied, “Pretend that it fits.” Both teachers and students were to pretend that everything in the country was ideal, while they waited for the promised dawn of a bright Soviet future. Nobody knew then that the nuclear fallout would come not from across the ocean but from within.
Now it is spring and Genya is bored, painting Young Pioneers with red neckties (a Soviet national scout group) over and over again at the behest of the tutor who is helping her get ready for the July exam. She consoles herself with the thought that if she is accepted she can paint whatever she likes.
On April 26 there is an accident at the Chernobyl nuclear plant, 90 kilometers from Kiev, but there is no official information about the damage or even about the accident itself. On May 1, International Workers’ Day, everyone goes outside for a parade, as usual.
On the left-hand page of a double-page spread, Kiev, in Nayberg’s exquisitely wrought, soft-hued rendering, is “blooming like a giant cream cake with white, pink and purple chestnut flowers.” On the right-hand page, as if it were part of the same scene, Nayberg has drawn a stark picture of the Chernobyl nuclear plant, stamped with the word “RADIATION” in Russian, that makes it look like a colossal tombstone. “Like every year,” young Genya wryly comments, “it is a perfect day.”
In the absence of information, Genya’s family must rely on rumors. Her mother, the driving force in the book, adds iodine to the children’s milk and takes Genya and her 3-year-old brother 1,300 kilometers away to Volgograd (formerly Stalingrad), in Russia, to stay with their cousins.
As Genya bikes by the city’s many World War II monuments that depict victorious soldiers, she encounters “war survivors that never quite survived,” begging for bread. In Soviet Russia, it turns out, they play the pretending game, too.
In July, to their hosts’ horror, Genya and her mother return to Kiev for the exam that cannot be missed. The three-part test — two days for composition, two days for painting and two days for drawing — is grueling.
Happily for Genya and her repeated painting of Young Pioneers cheerfully performing selfless deeds, the theme of the composition portion is “In the Morning of Our Country.” Weirdly, this could be her ticket to freedom of expression.
Nayberg’s narrator is resilient, funny and ironic, observing her surroundings with an artist’s probing eye.
Her story gracefully brings to life the Soviet world — torn down in 1991 and recently resurrected by the latest Russian dictator — provoking thorny questions about different approaches to art, the cost of trying to conform and the complexity of family ties.
“Stories let us hold on to people a little longer,” Nayberg writes at the end of this tender memoir dedicated to her artist mother. Genya’s mom, and the rest of the characters in “Chernobyl, Life, and Other Disasters,” will stay with me for years to come.
CHERNOBYL, LIFE, AND OTHER DISASTERS | By Yevgenia Nayberg | (Ages 10 and up) | Neal Porter Books | 200 pp. | Paperback, $15.99
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