‘You’re doing nothing illegal’: How coaches find and use rule loopholes
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Adam Rittenberg, ESPN Senior Writer
During every walk-through before Oregon games, coach Dan Lanning and Ducks players review an important and specific set of plays, broadly and innocuously labeled: “College football situations.” Some plays stay the same and some are added.
Oregon staff members collect examples from around the football universe and watch the film of how the plays unfold. Then, Ducks players and coaches rehearse, hoping preparation will pay off but mindful that the right time might never come.
“The amount of different situations you work week to week that never really show up, whether it’s intentionally taking a safety or whatever that might be, you spend an ungodly amount of time on it,” Lanning told ESPN three days after the Ohio State game. “Then, you hope that you recognize it in the moment where you can have a chance to execute things.”
The recognition came in one of the most important moments of Oregon’s 32-31 win over Ohio State on Oct. 12. Ohio State had driven the ball to Oregon’s 43-yard line with 10 seconds left, but faced third-and-25. Realistically, the Buckeyes had time for two or maybe three plays. After an Oregon timeout, the Ducks came out with 12 defenders.
Despite Ohio State coach Ryan Day and others on the sideline pointing out the extra defender, the Buckeyes threw a pass to Jeremiah Smith that Oregon’s Jabbar Muhammad swatted away. Oregon was flagged for illegal substitution, but four seconds had elapsed. On the ensuing play, Ohio State quarterback Will Howard was forced to scramble and slid too late as the clock expired, giving Oregon a massive win.
“This is one obviously something we had worked on, so you can see the result.” @oregonfootball‘s Dan Lanning confirms that the Duck’s 12 men penalty vs Ohio State was on purpose 🧠 pic.twitter.com/Vs4mDtWs7S
— FOX College Football (@CFBONFOX) October 15, 2024
A Power 4 assistant who saw the play texted Lanning: Be honest, did you do that on purpose?
“He sent me back a wink emoji,” the assistant said.
The Lanning loophole sparked national reaction and, four days later, was closed by a new NCAA rules interpretation on how to handle 12-man penalties at the end of each half. Under the new policy, Ohio State would have had the option to take the penalty and have the clock reset to the time of the snap. But the outcome of the game didn’t change.
The Oregon 12-man situation wasn’t the first time — nor will it be the last — when a team capitalized on a vulnerable part of the rule book. Coaches are always seeking situations where they can gain the upper hand at critical moments in games. Officials also must be on alert for intentional actions that can impact games.
“We all have stuff like that,” a Power 4 coach said. “You’re doing nothing illegal. You’re just taking the rule and saying, ‘OK, if we ever get put in that situation …’ You’ve got to be smart enough to do it. You have to have enough clarity to call it and do it and believe the guys are actually going to get it executed, and know that the referees are going to get it right. It’s the rule’s fault; it’s not the coach’s fault.
“If you tell me the speed limit’s 65 [miles an hour] and you’re not going to ticket me until 65, then I’m going to drive 64.”
Steve Shaw’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing in the hours after Oregon’s win over Ohio State. Everyone wanted to talk to Shaw, the national coordinator of football officials, about the Ducks’ 12-man penalty.
“What seemed apparent by Monday morning, there was a buzz going on in coaching circles,” Shaw told ESPN. “My guess is people were going to say, ‘Hey, great technique. Let’s put it in our arsenal.'”
Shaw had “no qualms” with the way the play was officiated on the field. Illegal substitution penalties happen somewhat regularly and are often a product of sideline chaos. If Oregon had sent out 12 defenders on consecutive plays, Shaw and other officiating sources who spoke to ESPN said an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty would have been called for an “unfair act.” A 15-yard penalty would have put Ohio State comfortably in field goal range.
The concern, one Shaw often hears in his role on the NCAA football rules committee, is that a penalty should never provide an advantage for the offending team. So there was urgency to step in and prevent the loophole from being exploited again.
“People say, ‘Y’all changed the rules,’ and we really didn’t,” Shaw said. “We really are basing it in the rules that we have today, but using it as an interpretation.”
The NCAA also had a precedent with a similar time-killing objective, but a different scheme. In a 2017 game featuring Cal and North Carolina, Cal led 35-24 with 17 seconds left and UNC at the Bears’ 12-yard line. As the Tar Heels looked to the end zone, Cal defenders intentionally pulled down UNC wide receivers after the snap. Penalty flags flew, but six seconds went off the clock.
On the ensuing snap, the Bears’ defenders did the same thing and five more seconds ticked away. UNC ended up scoring but no time remained and Cal had a 35-30 win.
“They didn’t put any more time on the clock, so we eventually ran out of time,” Larry Fedora, North Carolina’s coach at the time, told ESPN. “It was within the rules, because that’s the way the rules were set up at that time.”
Fedora, who had been involved with the football rules committee, immediately began communicating with officials about the sequence. Days later, the NCAA announced a rules interpretation that would allow officials to assess unsportsmanlike conduct penalties and reset the game clock following “intentional fouls.”
“You’re fouling purposely and you’re getting a big advantage,” Shaw said. “And because that’s an observable act, those were blatant holds, then we converted to unsportsmanlike conduct. In this [Oregon-Ohio State] situation, many times, teams put 12 on the field totally by accident. They don’t want to do it, but personnel gets goofed up or whatever. In season, it would be very difficult to create a new rule, but we’re really leveraging off that other [Cal-North Carolina] play, where the defense is creating a foul to give them a clock advantage.”
When Fedora watched the end of the Oregon-Ohio State game, his mind immediately went back to the 2017 game against Cal.
“They played within the rules,” Fedora said of Oregon. “They just took advantage of a loophole that not a lot of people would have been aware of. Some of the opportunities never come up, but when it does, are you going to be prepared? You’ve got to give Dan Lanning and his staff credit.”
As Bowling Green prepared to face Minnesota in the 2023 Quick Lane Bowl, Falcons coach Scot Loeffler heard from a coach at another school about a special teams play that would capitalize on a “legit loophole.”
The play called for the offense to switch from a traditional formation into a scrimmage-kick set — in this case, a punt formation. Rules prohibit defenses from placing a down lineman within the frame of the long snapper, to protect the snapper, who has his head down. A foul would result in a 5-yard penalty.
“This is brilliant,” Loeffler said to himself.
He checked with several “high-end [game] officials,” primarily to ensure that he could legally execute the play.
“They said it’s absolutely legal and the minute that you do it, if it’s executed, we’ll have to make a rule change,” Loeffler told ESPN. “Just listening to the voices of the people that I talked to, they wanted it to occur so they could change the rule, because it’s a loophole.”
Loeffler also informed the game officials, from the American Athletic Conference, of what he planned to do if the situation arose.
“It was dead silent,” Loeffler recalled. “They go, ‘We’ve got to call our supervisor.'”
The AAC officials came back and said if they saw the formation change, they would make a verbal command to Minnesota’s nose guard. Down 30-17 with 5:24 left and facing fourth-and-2 at its own 46-yard line, Bowling Green called a timeout.
The Falcons lined up for a tush-push quarterback sneak, but then shifted quarterback Camden Orth to the side and moved tight end Harold Fannin Jr. back to the punter position. Any snap would have triggered a penalty and a first down. Minnesota nose guard Kyler Baugh would never anticipate a punt formation because it made no sense for Bowling Green, given the game situation. But the official not only shouted toward Baugh but tapped him on the side, as did Gophers linebacker Cody Lindenberg. Only then did Baugh move, averting the penalty and forcing another Bowling Green timeout.
“They physically moved the nose guard into a 3-technique position after a verbal command, which is absolutely preposterous,” Loeffler said. “It’s the only time in college football or pro football that I’ve ever seen an official literally put his hands on the guy. Why are you lining up for a punt on a two-minute situation when you need to score? Why did you burn a timeout? Well, we should have had a free 5 [yards] with no time being used off the clock. It was the right [play] call, and they were just afraid to make the call, plain and simple.”
Despite his frustration, and a loophole that’s still open, Loeffler hopes teams are eventually prevented from shifting into punt formations.
“It’s a bad rule,” he said. “They need to clean that piece up.”
Special teams can provide the platform for loophole-seeking opportunities, as well as key changes. As a first-year head coach at Wisconsin in 2006, Bret Bielema found one, much to the ire of his Penn State counterpart Joe Paterno. Wisconsin scored a touchdown to go ahead 10-3 with 23 seconds left in the first half.
On the ensuing kickoff, Wisconsin intentionally had players run offside, easily thwarting Penn State’s chances for a return. Although the Badgers were penalized, nine seconds ticked off because of a new rule just introduced — and designed to shorten games — that started the clock when a ball is kicked, rather than when it’s touched in the field of play. Penn State accepted the penalty and, rather than taking over deep in its own end, had Wisconsin rekick. But the Badgers once again intentionally ran offside.
By the time Wisconsin lined up for a third kickoff, only four seconds remained. The Badgers executed a squib kick and the clock expired.
“Coach Paterno was beyond furious,” said Bielema, now the coach at Illinois. “I had a kickoff [coverage specialist], James Kamoku ask me, ‘Coach, how far offsides can I be?’ I said, ‘James, I don’t care if you catch the kick.’ So he took off, he was about 20 yards in front of the kick.”
Paterno laid into the officials and was so upset that he refused to do an on-air halftime interview. Wisconsin athletic director Barry Alvarez, the longtime Badgers coach whom Bielema replaced, told ESPN at the time that Bielema capitalized on a “bad rule.”
“If Joe Paterno does that, everyone says, ‘It’s genius,'” Alvarez said. “There are rules. Good coaches take advantage of them.”
When the rules committee met after the season, it reinstated the kickoff timing policy for the clock to start after the kick is touched.
“They didn’t have a choice,” Bielema said.
The NCAA sends out rule interpretation bulletins somewhat regularly, Shaw said, but rarely do they receive widespread attention like after the Oregon-Ohio State game. Early in the 2021 ACC championship game, Pitt quarterback Kenny Pickett had college football buzzing when he faked a slide, only to freeze Wake Forest defenders, and then sprinted for a 58-yard touchdown.
Days later, a rules memo stated that any play where a ball carrier “begins, simulates, or fakes a feet-first slide” should be immediately whistled dead. Wake Forest coach Dave Clawson thought Pickett genuinely noticed Demon Deacons defenders easing up on the play and ended his slide, while the Oregon 12-man penalty seemingly had more intent behind it.
KENNY PICKETT FAKED THE SLIDE AND RAN 58 YARDS FOR THE TD 😱 pic.twitter.com/EypNNJZYHE
— SportsCenter (@SportsCenter) December 5, 2021
“The one is a kid reacting in the moment, the other is a head coach making a strategic move to help his team win,” Clawson said. “But I’m glad they closed the loophole, and they closed the loophole on the fake slide. Any time the defense commits a penalty with the intention of making time go off the clock to hurt the offense, I think they have to look at all those fouls.”
Clawson and others highlighted a distinction between plays that are simply unusual and ones designed to target rule loopholes. When coaches meet with officials before every game, they often alert the crew to specific trick plays or exotic formations and shifts.
“You make sure that they’re going to view that as a legal strategic maneuver before you do it,” Clawson said.
Oregon didn’t have the same incentive to tip off the Big Ten crew before the Ohio State game, as its intent would have been revealed. Coaches who watched the play noted that Oregon players were pointing to the sideline and had a player run off and back on, to simulate confusion. Bielema thought the play likely would only be executed correctly after a timeout.
There also was some inherent risk for Oregon to absorb the penalty, which moved the ball inside its 40-yard line.
“There’s a real fine line there with an ability for a kicker to go out and make that kick,” Vanderbilt coach Clark Lea said.
Behind the scenes, teams will keep practicing nuanced situations, hoping for the right time to call them. A coach said his team regularly practices a field goal timing scenario that capitalizes on the time it takes for officials to position themselves, but has only used the play twice in a decade.
Vanderbilt has “teach the game” portions of its Friday practices where it reviews situations like Oregon-Ohio State and others to do with penalties, timing, substitution patterns and end of halves. Bielema said he’s “always looking for little things.”
“Sometimes they come up, sometimes they don’t,” Lea said, “but you always want to be prepared, because that’s hopefully the difference in the game.”
JIM ABBOTT IS sitting at his kitchen table, with his old friend Tim Mead. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, they were partners in an extraordinary exercise — and now, for the first time in decades, they are looking at a stack of letters and photographs from that period of their lives.
The letters are mostly handwritten, by children, from all over the United States and Canada, and beyond.
“Dear Mr. Abbott …”
“I have one hand too. … I don’t know any one with one hand. How do you feel about having one hand? Sometimes I feel sad and sometimes I feel okay about it. Most of the time I feel happy.”
“I am a seventh grader with a leg that is turned inwards. How do you feel about your arm? I would also like to know how you handle your problem? I would like to know, if you don’t mind, what have you been called?”
“I can’t use my right hand and most of my right side is paralyzed. … I want to become a doctor and seeing you makes me think I can be what I want to be.”
For 40 years, Mead worked in communications for the California Angels, eventually becoming vice president of media relations. His position in this department became a job like no other after the Angels drafted Abbott out of the University of Michigan in 1988.
There was a deluge of media requests. Reporters from around the world descended on Anaheim, most hoping to get one-on-one time with the young left-handed pitcher with the scorching fastball. Every Abbott start was a major event — “like the World Series,” Angels scout Bob Fontaine Jr. remembers. Abbott, with his impressive amateur résumé (he won the James E. Sullivan Award for the nation’s best amateur athlete in 1997 and an Olympic gold medal in 1988) and his boyish good looks, had star power.
That spring, he had become only the 16th player to go straight from the draft to the majors without appearing in a single minor league game. And then there was the factor that made him unique. His limb difference, although no one called it that back then. Abbott was born without a right hand, yet had developed into one of the most promising pitchers of his generation. He would go on to play in the majors for ten years, including a stint in the mid ’90s with the Yankees highlighted by a no-hitter in 1993.
Abbott, and Mead, too, knew the media would swarm. That was no surprise. There had been swarms in college, and at the Olympics, wherever and whenever Abbott pitched. Who could resist such an inspirational story? But what they hadn’t anticipated were the letters.
The steady stream of letters. Thousands of letters. So many from kids who, like Abbott, were different. Letters from their parents and grandparents. The kids hoping to connect with someone who reminded them of themselves, the first celebrity they knew of who could understand and appreciate what it was like to be them, someone who had experienced the bullying and the feelings of otherness. The parents and grandparents searching for hope and direction.
“I know you don’t consider yourself limited in what you can do … but you are still an inspiration to my wife and I as parents. Your success helps us when talking to Andy at those times when he’s a little frustrated. I’m able to point to you and assure him there’s no limit to what he can accomplish.”
In his six seasons with the Angels, Abbott was assisted by Mead in the process of organizing his responses to the letters, mailing them, and arranging face-to-face meetings with the families who had written to him. There were scores of such meetings. It was practically a full-time job for both of them.
“Thinking back on these meetings with families — and that’s the way I’d put it, it’s families, not just kids — there was every challenge imaginable,” Abbott, now 57, says. “Some accidents. Some birth defects. Some mental challenges that aren’t always visible to people when you first come across somebody. … They saw something in playing baseball with one hand that related to their own experience. I think the families coming to the ballparks were looking for hopefulness. I think they were looking for what it had been that my parents had told me, what it had been that my coaches had told me. … [With the kids] it was an interaction. It was catch. It was smiling. It was an autograph. It was a picture. With the parents, it ran deeper. With the parents, it was what had your parents said to you? What coaches made a difference? What can we expect? Most of all, I think, what can we expect?”
“It wasn’t asking for autographs,” Mead says of all those letters. “They weren’t asking for pictures. They were asking for his time. He and I had to have a conversation because this was going to be unique. You know, you could set up another player to come down and sign 15 autographs for this group or whatever. But it was people, parents, that had kids, maybe babies, just newborn babies, almost looking for an assurance that this is going to turn out all right, you know. ‘What did your parents do? How did your parents handle this?'”
One of the letters Abbott received came from an 8-year-old girl in Windsor, Ontario.
She wrote, “Dear Jim, My name is Tracey Holgate. I am age 8. I have one hand too. My grandpa gave me a picture of you today. I saw you on TV. I don’t know anyone with one hand. How do you feel about having one hand? Sometimes I feel sad and sometimes I feel okay about it. Most of the time I feel happy. I hope to see you play in Detroit and maybe meet you. Could you please send me a picture of you in uniform? Could you write back please? Here is a picture of me. Love, Tracey.”
Holgate’s letter is one of those that has remained preserved in a folder — and now Abbott is reading it again, at his kitchen table, half a lifetime after receiving it. Time has not diminished the power of the letter, and Abbott is wiping away tears.
Today, Holgate is 44 and goes by her married name, Dupuis. She is married with four children of her own. She is a teacher. When she thinks about the meaning of Jim Abbott in her life, it is about much more than the letter he wrote back to her. Or the autographed picture he sent her. It was Abbott, all those years ago, who made it possible for Tracey to dream.
“There was such a camaraderie there,” she says, “an ability to connect with somebody so far away doing something totally different than my 8-year-old self was doing, but he really allowed me to just feel that connection, to feel that I’m not alone, there’s other people that have differences and have overcome them and been successful and we all have our own crosses, we all have our own things that we’re carrying and it’s important to continue to focus on the gifts that we have, the beauty of it.
“I think sometimes differences, disabilities, all those things can be a gift in a package we would never have wanted, because they allow us to be people that have an empathetic heart, an understanding heart, and to see the pain in the people around us.”
Now, years after Abbott’s career ended, he continues to inspire.
Among those he influenced, there are professional athletes, such as Shaquem Griffin, who in 2018 became the first NFL player with one hand. Griffin, now 29, played three seasons at linebacker for the Seattle Seahawks.
Growing up in Florida, he would watch videos of Abbott pitching and fielding, over and over, on YouTube.
“The only person I really looked up to was Jim Abbott at the time,” Griffin says, “which is crazy, because I didn’t know anybody else to look up to. I didn’t know anybody else who was kind of like me. And it’s funny, because when I was really little, I used to be like, ‘Why me? Why this happen to me?’ And I used to be in my room thinking about that. And I used to think to myself, ‘I wonder if Jim Abbott had that same thought.'”
Carson Pickett was born on Sept. 15, 1993 — 11 days after Abbott’s no-hitter. Missing most of her left arm below the elbow, she became, in 2022, the first player with a limb difference to appear for the U.S. women’s national soccer team.
She, too, says that Abbott made things that others told her were impossible seem attainable.
“I knew I wanted to be a professional soccer player,” says Pickett, who is currently playing for the NWSL’s Orlando Pride. “To be able to see him compete at the highest level it gave me hope, and I think that that kind of helped me throughout my journey. … I think ‘pioneer’ would be the best word for him.”
Longtime professional MMA fighter Nick Newell is 39, old enough to have seen Abbott pitch for the Yankees. In fact, when Newell was a child he met Abbott twice, first at a fan event at the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan and then on a game day at Yankee Stadium. Newell was one of those kids with a limb difference — like Griffin and Pickett, due to amniotic band syndrome — who idolized Abbott.
“And I didn’t really understand the gravity of what he was doing,” Newell says now, “but for me, I saw someone out there on TV that looked like I did. And I was the only other person I knew that had one hand. And I saw this guy out here playing baseball and it was good to see somebody that looked like me, and I saw him in front of the world.
“He was out there like me and he was just living his life and I think that I owe a lot of my attitude and the success that I have to Jim just going out there and being the example of, ‘Hey, you can do this. Who’s to say you can’t be a professional athlete?’ He’s out there throwing no-hitters against the best baseball players in the world. So, as I got older, ‘Why can’t I wrestle? Why can’t I fight? Why can’t I do this?’ And then it wasn’t until the internet that I heard people tell me I can’t do these things. But by then I had already been doing those things.”
Griffin.
Pickett.
Newell.
Just three of the countless kids who were inspired by Jim Abbott.
When asked if it ever felt like too much, being a role model and a hero, all the letters and face-to-face meetings, Abbott says no — but it wasn’t always easy.
“I had incredible people who helped me send the letters,” he says. “I got a lot more credit sometimes than I deserved for these interactions, to be honest with you. And that happened on every team, particularly with my friend Tim Mead. There was a nice balance to it. There really was. There was a heaviness to it. There’s no denying. There were times I didn’t want to go [to the meetings]. I didn’t want to walk out there. I didn’t want to separate from my teammates. I didn’t want to get up from the card game. I didn’t want to put my book down. I liked where I was at. I was in my environment. I was where I always wanted to be. In a big league clubhouse surrounded by big league teammates. In a big league stadium. And those reminders of being different, I slowly came to realize were never going to go away.”
But being different was the thing that made Abbott more than merely a baseball star. For many people, he has been more than a role model, more than an idol. He is the embodiment of hope and belonging.
“I think more people need to realize and understand the gift of a difference,” Dupuis says. “I think we have to just not box everybody in and allow everybody’s innate light to shine, and for whatever reasons we’ve been created to be here, [let] that light shine in a way that it touches everybody else. Because I think that’s what Jim did. He allowed his light to permeate and that light, in turn, lit all these little children’s lights all over the world, so you have this boom of brightness that’s happening and that’s uncontrollable, that’s beautiful.”
NEW YORK — Chicago Cubs center fielder Pete Crow-Armstrong is projected to receive the largest amount from this season’s $50 million pre-arbitration bonus pool based on his regular-season statistics.
Crow-Armstrong is on track to get $1,091,102, according to WAR calculations through July 8 that Major League Baseball sent to teams, players and agents in a memo Friday that was obtained by The Associated Press.
He earned $342,128 from the pool in 2024.
“I was aware of it after last year, but I have no clue of the numbers,” he said Friday. “I haven’t looked at it one time.”
Pittsburgh pitcher Paul Skenes is second at $961,256, followed by Washington outfielder James Wood ($863,835), Arizona outfielder Corbin Carroll ($798,397), Houston pitcher Hunter Brown ($786,838), Philadelphia pitcher Cristopher Sánchez ($764,854), Cincinnati shortstop Elly De La Cruz ($717,479), Boston catcher Carlos Narváez ($703,007), Red Sox outfielder Ceddanne Rafaela ($685,366) and Detroit outfielder Riley Greene ($665,470).
Crow-Armstrong, Skenes, Wood, Carroll, Brown, De La Cruz and Greene have been picked for Tuesday’s All-Star Game.
A total of 100 players will receive the payments, established as part of the 2022 collective bargaining agreement and aimed to get more money to players without sufficient service time for salary arbitration eligibility. The cutoff for 2025 was 2 years, 132 days of major league service.
Players who signed as foreign professionals are excluded.
Most young players have salaries just above this year’s major league minimum of $760,000. Crow-Armstrong has a $771,000 salary this year, Skenes $875,000, Wood $764,400 and Brown $807,400.
Carroll is in the third season of a $111 million, eight-year contract.
As part of the labor agreement, a management-union committee was established that determined the WAR formula used to allocate the bonuses after awards. (A player may receive only one award bonus per year, the highest one he is eligible for.) The agreement calls for an interim report to be distributed the week before the All-Star Game.
Distribution for awards was $9.85 million last year, down from $11.25 million in 2022 and $9.25 million in 2023.
A player earns $2.5 million for winning an MVP or Cy Young award, $1.75 million for finishing second, $1.5 million for third, $1 million for fourth or fifth or for making the All-MLB first team. A player can get $750,000 for winning Rookie of the Year, $500,000 for second or for making the All-MLB second team, $350,000 for third in the rookie race, $250,000 for fourth or $150,000 for fifth.
Kansas City shortstop Bobby Witt Jr. topped last year’s pre-arbitration bonus pool at $3,077,595, and Skenes was second at $2,152,057 despite not making his big league debut until May 11. Baltimore shortstop Gunnar Henderson was third at $2,007,178.
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