Good athlete. Bad attitude. That was the scouting report. But Don Yannessa wanted to make his own evaluation. It was 1989 and he was settling into his new job as coach of the Baldwin High School football team, a red-faced program with a blue-chip prospect.
Firsthand he wanted to meet the youngster, find out just what this chip on his shoulder was all about. Into the office, one Brian Gelzheiser swaggered, confronting his new coach.
"There was no doubt about him being a good athlete," Yannessa said. "That was true. But I didn't see a player with a bad attitude. I saw a player who didn't like to lose."
Two wins. In three years. 27 losses. "I know what it's like to lose," Gelzheiser said. "And it's horrible."
It weathered him. Made him tougher than yesterday's rump roast. He was the quarterback who moonlighted in the secondary on defense.
"I don't allow my quarterbacks to play defense," Yannessa told him.
Gelzheiser told him perhaps it was time to start.
On defense, he fits comfortably. A tackler by nature. A hitter just for fun. With his cropped hair and cringed scowl, he is a junkyard dog, guarding his turf. And those eyes. Those pupils that pierce like an awl.
He is now far from his losing days at Baldwin, and his quarterback days have disappeared for good. For the Nittany Lions, Gelzheiser is where he belongs. At linebacker.
"He's at the right school, at the right position," Yannessa said.
Gelzheiser had to bulk up, shed his quarterback physique and slip into a something with a bit more leverage. Try 6-foot-1, 235 pounds with triceps the size of melons on for size.
His menacing hits became a bit more ferocious. He thrives on the contact. A talented baseball player, Gelzheiser had a tryout with the Kansas City Royals this summer.
"I got bored playing baseball," he said. "Not enough action."
As the starting strongside inside linebacker for the Nittany Lions this season, Gelzheiser has no problem quenching his thirst for action. Against Iowa he recorded his first career interception. Against Minnesota he forced a key fumble.
Gelzheiser is marked by intensity. He doesn't necessarily show it, but it's there. His victims don't hear him approaching. They feel it.
Take for instance, the Notre Dame game last season, a heartbreaking loss, which overshadowed Gelzheiser's staking claim to prominence. Fifteen tackles. On special teams, he sent one of the Fightin' Irish to the hospital -- jarred the ball loose along with the young man's shoulder.
"One big hit gets the team fired up," he says. "It's an unbelievable feeling. Unbelievable."
Hitting is primally inscribed in Gelzheiser's noggin. Part of his intensity. When Yannessa watches Gelzheiser play, it invokes memories of an old teammate with a similar passion for the game.
"He's a true competitor," Yannessa explains, "like Mike Ditka. They play the game the way it is supposed to be played. Brian loves to hit. If that's not a prerequisite for a football player, I don't know what one is."
In his eyes, Gelzheiser has that look on gameday, the same one Iron Mike once harbored, intense enough to burst a retina.
"I play with emotion," Gelzheiser says, "I just don't show it. I'm quiet -- unless I get really mad."
Unlike defensive cohorts Tyoka Jackson and Lou Benfatti, Gelzheiser is not as vocal. With Jackson capable of out-talking a traveling salesman and Benfatti's ability to muster enough sound waves to broadcast at 50,000 watts, Gelzheiser is the Marcel Marceau of the bunch.
"He won't say much," Benfatti said, "but he'll hustle. He's a hustler. 100 percent each play. And he'll play hurt. He has a positive effect on the whole defense."
His style of warfare is not intricate, "They come across the line, I try to hit them," he says. With Michigan's grinding running game visting Beaver Stadium today, it could evolve into trench warfare. Tyrone Wheatley will be called on often to cross that line. And then . . . "You have to hit 'em to get respect," Gelzheiser says. "Get them wondering how many more times they're going to get hit."
Taking into account Gelzheiser's competitiveness, the importance of a win is almost comprehensible. In his soft, monotone voice, he'll tell you about taking one game at a time. But can you believe that from the man who was reprimanded in his tennis class for throwing tantrums?
He is competitive, still hates to lose. Be it golfing (a five handicap, Yannessa says he could probably go pro) or football, Gelzheiser is going to spend himself trying to beat you. He has lost enough already. Doesn't want to lose anymore.
Especially since he knows what it is like to throw nearly everything away. Two years ago, he did almost just that. He got caught with a credit card that didn't belong to him. He was suspended from the University in the spring of 1992, his career possibly crashing to an end.
"It was sort of scary not knowing if I was ever going to play again," Gelzheiser said, his voice barely audible.
Yannessa called his old player back to his office like the old days. Those doubters, the ones who labeled him an attitude problem, were having a field day. But Yannessa knew better.
"Everybody makes mistakes, I told him," Yannessa explained. "You stubbed your toe. Bottom line is, what did you learn? Are you going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, or are you going to look yourself square in the mirror and say you're a dummy for doing that?"
Gelzheiser opted for the latter.
"You can almost lose everything you have," he says.
But he didn't. The coaches stuck with him. Gave him that second chance. "I'm a lucky person," he says.
Nothing for Brian Gelzheiser is taken for granted anymore. Every moment on the field, every bone-rattling hit cannot be overlooked, not since he almost let it slip away.
Now he has a firm grasp on things. Like a running back he won't let pass through. He has levied hits the way the British levied taxes. He has received his share of blows as well. But if there is one thing Gelzheiser has learned, a lesson he probably will never forget, it is this:
"Being the one making the big hits is more fun," he explains, "than being the one who is being hit big."
