College Football

Football's fourth-quarter ritual traces back to legendary coach Buck Nystrom

Updated Oct. 5, 2021 5:32 p.m. ET

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By Michael Bucklin
FOX Sports

I’ll never forget attending my first college football game as a freshman at the University of Georgia. My heart raced as I walked into Sanford Stadium, alongside 92,000 of my new closest friends, on Aug. 31, 2002.

I witnessed a number of college football traditions for the first time that day. Some I liked, such as how to call the Dawgs. Some I didn’t, such as wearing formal clothes on a 90-degree day. Some made me laugh, like the variety of tried-and-true ways one might sneak a bottle of Jim Beam into the stadium.

But one that struck me as odd occurred as the game headed into the fourth quarter, with Georgia down seven to Clemson. Someone in the band blew a horn, and then my 92,000 friends raised their hands into the air, extending four fingers. The horn picked up momentum, and as the tune began to crescendo, all the hands began to drop, and rise, then drop again. I noticed the players were doing it, too. 

Georgia Bulldogs fans hold up four fingers to start the fourth quarter during a game against Georgia Tech in November 2017. The ritual is played out every weekend at football stadiums throughout the country. (Photo by Todd Kirkland/Icon Sportswire via Getty Images)

It was a perfectly timed and executed ritual, performed in perfect unison by more people than I’d ever seen in one place.

I just went with it. It seemed like the right thing to do. I had no idea what it meant, other than I assumed four fingers probably represented the fourth quarter, which we were heading into, and we were all taking a collective moment to acknowledge that, yes, the fourth quarter is important! 

"Finish the Drill," the T-shirts read. Amen.

The four fingers were lowered. Sanford Stadium got hyped. The game continued. The Dawgs finished the drill, scoring 10 points and holding the Tigers scoreless. UGA 31, Clemson 28.

I’ve lifted my hand and my four fingers many, many times since. And it wouldn’t be long before I traveled to other stadiums and witnessed the same ritual. Over and over and over again — four fingers, rising and falling during the break between the third and fourth quarters.

Like the seventh-inning stretch at a baseball game or singing to "Seven Nation Army" at a soccer match, as fans, we just have fun and go with it. And why not? There’s something about doing something in unison with thousands of other people that just feels right.

LSU receiver Terrence Toliver holds up four fingers during a 2010 game against Florida. LSU is one of several programs for which the fourth-quarter tradition is deeply rooted. (Gary W. Green/Orlando Sentinel/Tribune News Service via Getty Images)

Most of us never know where these traditions originated or who created them. Like most college football lore, it was assumed Bear Bryant created this one. Did he? And if so, did he get it from somewhere else? 

This summer, nearly 19 years after I first held the "four fingers" in Athens, I met a man who claims he had something to do with that tradition. By his account, he started it.

Sadly, that man died last week. He was kind enough to share his story with me. He even told me I should write about it.

Before you raise your four fingers this coming Saturday, it might mean a little bit more if you know about him.

* * * * * *

"Buck Nystrom is a local legend." 

My dad grinned, knowing I was in for a treat. He was driving us to the Huron Mountain Bakery on Front Street in Marquette, Michigan, to meet a mythical character named Buck.

"I really think you’re going to like him."

My dad grew up in Marquette and played hoops at the local college, Northern Michigan University, in the late '70s. He grew up blocks from the Northern gym. He spent so much time there, he taught himself to shoot 3-pointers both left- and right-handed with no noticeable difference. He went to every football game, every hockey game. He played intramural inner-tube water polo. 

Nothing makes my dad happier than catching up with the NMU athletics family he befriended along the way — except, maybe, the opportunity to introduce me to them. 

I picture him with his hands in his pockets, grinning ear to ear, as former teammates share stories about their playing days. My favorite is his former large-nosed teammate whom then-head basketball coach Glenn Brown would tell, during road trips, to stick his nose out the window and smell down a Wendy’s. In an age of no GPS, this was a creative solution that, apparently, was quite effective in keeping the team fed.

Duffy Daugherty, whose Michigan State teams of the 1950s and '60s were very successful, called Buck Nystrom the best guard he ever coached. (Photo by Rich Clarkson/NCAA Photos via Getty Images)

Having introduced me to nearly every coach, player, administrator and janitor, my dad introducing me to Buck Nystrom was, it seemed, a final piece to the puzzle. Dad was unusually giddy, and he said he had been wanting to meet with Buck for some time after learning he regularly joined some other NMU guys for coffee at the bakery.

"Dad, remind me, who is Buck Nystrom?"

Carl "Buck" Nystrom left Marquette in 1951 for East Lansing, where he became a walk-on football player at Michigan State University. Four years later, he was voted captain and MVP of Duffy Daugherty’s 1955 team that won the Rose Bowl and national championship. Individually, he was Michigan State’s first football player to earn both first-team All-American and first-team Academic All-American honors.

Duffy called him the best guard he ever coached — despite Nystrom's being just 5-foot-10 and 190 pounds. Buck was drafted by Washington in the 30th round of the 1956 NFL Draft but passed, saying he thought he was too small to play at that level.

Instead, Buck would go on to coach college football for 40-plus years. During that span, he returned home to Marquette for three different stints with the Northern Michigan football team. His son, Kyle Nystrom, is the current head coach. 

Nystrom's fingerprints are embedded in the program. Buck coached the offensive line on the 1975 team that protected sophomore quarterback Steve Mariucci. That team won the 1975 Division II national championship.

Buck Nystrom, second from right, shared his stories with Michael Bucklin, far right, along with Steve Reed, left, and Dave Bucklin. (Photo courtesy Michael Bucklin)

My dad and I entered the Huron Mountain Bakery to the smell of fresh pastries and strong coffee. One of my father’s best friends, Steve Reed, greeted us with a gigantic smile. Steve has been with Northern Michigan athletics since the '70s, serving in a variety of roles, including senior associate athletic director.

"Buck should be here soon. I think you’re really going to like him!" he said. Steve and Buck had coffee at the bakery nearly every day.

Buck pulled up in what appeared to be a 20-year-old Dodge van with the bumper half ripped off. My dad and Steve got a great laugh out of this. "I tell you what, I wouldn’t let him drive my car!" 

He was wearing an old sweatshirt with shorts, along with a classic grandpa hat — nothing matched, and he clearly didn’t care. He could have been anyone from a small town, just there to grab a coffee. 

Steve Mariucci, who went on to coach the 49ers and Lions, quarterbacked Northern Michigan to the 1975 Division II national championship. (Credit: Otto Greule Jr./Allsport)

Buck approached our table, and my dad introduced me. In addition to my dad, I also have a connection to Buck through my uncle, Tom Izzo, head coach of the Michigan State basketball team, as well as a former player and coach at Northern Michigan. He and Buck have stayed in touch.

"I just called your uncle. I like to tell him what I see on the court," Buck said. "You know what I love? He always calls me back. He hasn’t changed since I first met him."

He went on. "You know, I doubt you know this story, but when I was coaching at Northern, I tried to get Tom to play football! He was always around the program, with [Steve] Mariucci. I thought he’d make a good running back! He was quicker than hell. He was strong. So I asked the basketball coach, Glenn Brown, if he was OK with Tom coming out for the team. Glenn immediately shot down the idea, since Tom was his best player and captain, and he couldn’t afford him to get hurt."

But, as I would learn, Buck is a persuasive guy. "I said, ‘Well, what if he just kicked?’ And that seemed OK, even though it was just a ruse! As soon as I got him out there, I put him at running back." Buck began laughing hysterically. 

Coach Brown, apparently, didn’t find this so funny and pulled Tom off the field. 

My dad asked Buck about that Mariucci-led team and what he remembers. Dad grew up two blocks from the football field and watched every snap. He was already loving Buck’s stories.

"I’ve always said someone should make a movie about the 1975 Northern Michigan football team because the year before, that same team was 0-10! Have you ever heard of a winless team turning around and winning the national title the following year? It has never been done!"

Buck might have been up there in age, but his memory was sharp as a whip, and his humor hadn’t lost a step. For three hours, Buck had Steve, my dad and me on the edges of our seats. He told stories while we guzzled caffeine. 

I politely asked if I could take notes. "Oh yeah, of course. And if you ever want to write about it, please do! Maybe we can get that movie made!"

Buck Nystrom instilled toughness in his offensive lines and placed a premium on conditioning. (Denver Post via Getty Images)

One of my favorite stories was from his time coaching at Colorado in the early '60s. 

Buck said he got a tip about a player — named Bill Symons — who was from a town called Nucla, Colorado. Buck and a fellow coach made the six-plus-hour drive from Boulder through the mountains to find and meet with Bill. The town was small, a couple hundred people. 

When they showed up at the high school, the principal wouldn’t let Bill out of class to meet with the coaches but instead pointed Buck to Bill’s home, where they could meet the mother. The mother welcomed the coaches in and poured them a cup of coffee.

Sitting across from me at the bakery, Buck leaned forward, his chest over the table. He had something important to say. "Let me tell you …" he said, looking deep into my eyes, with a very serious, scary look. "That coffee cup looked like it hadn’t been washed in 50 years! 

"I looked at my other coach, and I looked at the mom, and we knew what we had to do."

Buck paused.

"We forced that coffee down our throats and tried not to throw it up!"

Buck started laughing so hard he cried. It was contagious — we all did. 

"So, did it work? Did Bill sign with Colorado?" I asked.

"Damn right, he did!" 

Buck told a story about meeting Bear Bryant. "Oh, I knew Bear. I went down to Alabama to see him in person. Let me tell you, when that man spoke, people listened. I remember being in a room with him, and he was yelling at his coaching staff. I didn’t even work for him, and I was scared." 

He told the story of "Jimmy" Mackenzie, who played for Bryant at Kentucky, eventually landing the head-coaching job at Oklahoma. 

Buck went out to coach the Sooners' offensive line. Nine days after Buck arrived, Mackenzie died of a heart attack following a recruiting trip in Texas. 

Chuck Fairbanks, the offensive coordinator at the time and Buck’s former teammate at MSU, took over the head-coaching role. Barry Switzer became the new offensive coordinator. Buck worked for Barry. "Oh, I got to know Barry well. He thinks I’m crazy!"

Fairbanks would later tell the media that Buck was the greatest offensive line coach to ever coach in college football.

Chuck Fairbanks' Oklahoma teams ran over opponents behind Nystrom's offensive lines. (Photo by Rich Clarkson/NCAA Photos via Getty Images)

I asked Buck, "Who is the greatest player you ever saw?" He didn’t hesitate to say, "Steve Owens from Oklahoma. Won the Heisman in '69. Best player I ever saw."

"OK. So who is the greatest offensive linemen you ever saw?" Again, he didn’t hesitate, but this time, he had a story. "Bob Kalsu. Best offensive linemen I ever saw and was fortunate enough to coach, also at Oklahoma. Drafted by the Bills in 1968."

Unlike Owens, Kalsu didn't go on to have a lasting career in the NFL because he enlisted in the Army and went to fight in Vietnam. "He was standing on a hill with this other guy. And a shell came in, and it killed ‘em both. He was the only NFL player to get killed in Vietnam. His wife was pregnant at the time, and she was in delivery when they told her the news. She named the boy Bob. Years later, I was back in Norman, Oklahoma, and Steve Owens was hosting this event, and all the alumni were coming back. And I saw this boy. And sure enough, he was a splitting image of Bob Kalsu. It was his son. I told him, ‘Your dad was the best offensive lineman I ever saw.’"

Buck began to get a little misty. I wrote down the name Bob Kalsu to Google it later, then changed the subject. 

I asked Buck what it was about his coaching that he thinks made him successful. Buck thought for a minute, while my dad, Steve and I all leaned in.

"I believe in a style that is unpopular today: Demand and confront. You can’t allow a player to lie to himself. You gotta be tough on a guy. I was always really tough and demanding, but I got the best out of my players."

He told me he believed great teams were made during the offseason. And he said the head coaches liked him because while they were out recruiting during the spring, he’d be responsible for conditioning the players to be tough.

He told me he created a training system, which he called the "Fourth Quarter Program," while he was coaching in Oklahoma under Fairbanks in the late '60s. 

There were eight training stations. Four players in a group, per station. They focused on technique, quickness and conditioning. 

Conditioning was key.

The Fourth Quarter Program stresses finishing strong. (Photo by Doug Benc/Getty Images)

"Look at your average game of football. Four to six seconds per play. Seventy plays per game. That’s between 280 and 420 seconds of hard-nosed football that I need you to win a game. If you can’t do that? Get off the field!"

Buck supplied "puke buckets," not for if but for when they were needed. And he pushed his players. He pushed them hard.

But while he pushed them, he’d remind them: "This year, you’re going to be tired, you’re going to be hot. So is the other team. When you line up and you put your hand down on that line, you’re going to look at the man across from you, and you’re already going to know whether or not you’ve put in more work than the other guy. You’re going to know who put in the work that offseason.

"And when that fourth quarter comes, and everyone is tired, and everyone is hurt, the player who worked the hardest in the offseason is going to win."

To reinforce this with his players, he asked them to establish a simple ritual before rotating stations. 

"Break down. Clap three times. Then hold up the four fingers."

At this point, it still hadn’t dawned on me that the same four fingers I held up in Sanford Stadium for all those years could be rooted in this ritual. 

I wanted to ask, but Buck kept going.

He went on, "When you hold up those fingers, remember what they stand for. One finger is for discipline. Another is for effort. Another for toughness. Another for commitment. And the thumb, the thumb stands for pride. 

"Everyone knows when you put up those fingers, it’s about busting your tail. And everyone does it, you all do it together. You’re going to war together!"

Sure enough, Buck said, the "four fingers" stuck. 

When fans raise four fingers every Saturday, they are harkening back to Nystrom's tradition. (Photo by Mike Comer/Getty Images)

During the 1967 season, the Oklahoma Sooners players began to hold up a four heading into the fourth quarter. 

I made my move. I had to ask. "So, Coach, we see players and fans hold up four fingers all the time today. Are you saying that’s from your program?"

Buck smiled and nodded. "I’ll tell you how that happened."

During the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, Buck successfully instituted his Fourth Quarter Program out west, jumping from school to school, coaching offensive lines and training players in the offseason while the head coach and coordinators went out to recruit. His teams were successful. 

Buck developed a reputation for being a hell of an OL coach, who was tougher than nails and excelled in motivation and conditioning.

Buck told us that in 1983, George Perles recruited him to return to Michigan State to coach the offensive line. Often, Buck explained, when new coaching staffs are created, it happens quickly. The coaches fly out first and get started, then find a permanent home for their families, who soon follow.

During this transition period, Buck told us he temporarily roomed with the new defensive coordinator, a young coach named Nick Saban. 

While George and Nick were out recruiting, they asked Buck to stay home and put the players through physical conditioning. Naturally, Buck installed his patented Fourth Quarter Program. 

"Oh, Nick loved it. He loved it immediately. And he’s taken it with him since!"

After a stint in the pros, Nick returned to East Lansing to become the head coach for the Spartans in 1995. According to Buck, he brought the Fourth Quarter Program back with him. 

Buck's legacy was captured on a napkin during breakfast at Huron Mountain Bakery in Marquette, Michigan. (Photo courtesy Michael Bucklin)

Even after he left, the program remained a part of Michigan State football for another 25 years, with toughness and conditioning core to the program’s identity. According to Buck, Nick brought it with him to LSU. And then, more famously, he brought it with him to Alabama.

"That’s when it started to pick up a little traction," Buck said with a wink.

As Nick kept winning, the legend of the conditioning program grew. So did the four fingers. No longer was it just a Michigan State, LSU and Alabama ritual. It began popping up all over the country. 

"Now, every football player in America holds up the four fingers. Most have no idea what it even means!"

Again, Buck laughed so hard he cried.

I told Buck I was blown away. I had so many notes yet so many questions. He helped me fill in a few gaps and said he’d be happy to follow-up with a phone call sometime down the road.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to have that call. 

But I’m thankful for the time I had with Buck, and I did my best to relay his story as accurately as I could record it on napkins in that bakery.

My conversation with Buck occurred on July 18, 2021. It took me nearly 19 years to learn what the four fingers meant.

Michael Bucklin is vice president for digital content at FOX Sports.

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