Kicking guru Doug Blevins 'shocked' by Hall of Fame nomination

EMORY, Va. — Doug Blevins is late.

The small, wheelchair-confined 49-year old speeds onto the stadium turf at tiny Emory and Henry College, where his two live-in students have grown tired of a back-and-forth placekicking game.

You see, Blevins is having a crazy week. The likes of the Los Angeles Times and ESPN have been ringing his office phone at his modest southwest Virginia home. They want his reaction on being nominated to the 2013 class of the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Blevins has plenty of reaction to spare: "You're shocked, because when you get into this business you don't expect that," he says in his southern drawl. "I don't know how I got nominated. I didn't even fathom that I could be a Hall of Fame nominee, with the names on that list, it's an incredible feeling."

Blevins, once an assistant coach with the Miami Dolphins for six seasons, was born with cerebral palsy and has spent his life in the wheelchair. He obsessed over football at an early age, and as a high school student in Abingdon, Va., wrote to Tom Landry for advice on how to become a coach. Landry wrote back, and Blevins gobbled up the minutia of special teams, specifically, kicking footballs — something he's never been able to do.

Now Doug's an assistant coach at Division III Emory and Henry, a small school tucked into a small town in the Appalachian Mountains. He's also the proud tutor of 26 current and former NFL kickers and punters, which is one reason why the two students in shorts and cut-off t-shirts put their cleats back on for a few more strokes.

Jon Striefsky, 25, and Paul Stoltz, 24, are former University of Delaware kickers who have come here to live with Blevins and learn his trade, working at a local bar to help pay for the privilege. Striefsky has tools to play in the NFL right now, Blevins says. Stoltz is still developing but should play at the highest level of indoor football.

It's Stoltz who goes first, setting up 40-yarders with a tripod holding the football in place, tilted slightly to the right and slightly forward, "to open up the sweet spot," he says.

Blevins buzzes about Stoltz, wanting to see the kick from all angles, but forces himself to settle on one.

Stoltz thuds one. A 'mis-hit' that just clears the bar.

"Keep the head down," says Blevins. "Don't sink the hips as you make contact."

Stoltz boots another. Higher, straighter than before.

"That's a good one," says Blevins.

"Don't let your plant leg buckle.

"Get the torso through."

Stoltz's third kick is a triumph. A high, straight, end-over-end bomb with about 15 yards to spare.

"There it is," Blevins says.

Out of dozens upon dozens of kicks on a sun-soaked afternoon, Stoltz says this is his best. All while a very chatty man in a very fast chair picked apart his game. That's the Blevins touch, says Emory and Henry head coach Don Montgomery.

"He's got a gift that none of us have," Montgomery says. "He's got a kinesthetic awareness that is a gift from God. If you asked me how he developed it, I don't know. But I can tell you that he can see things in person that you can only see on film.

"He's turned all of our kickers and punters into all-conference kickers and punters."

He's schooled the pros just the same.

David Akers came to him in the late 90's after unproductive stints with the Atlanta Falcons, Carolina Panthers and Washington Redskins.

Six pro bowls later, Blevins counts Akers among his success stories. Sav Rocca and Adam Vinatieri sought Blevins' help too. His greatest triumph? It's likely Justin Tucker, who came to Blevins as a sophomore in high school, hoping to learn how to placekick. Today, the NFL rookie is a Baltimore Raven and kicked well enough over the summer for the team to part ways with former Pro Bowler Billy Cundiff.

In his home, Blevins' office boasts a bookcase stuffed with footballs in varying stages of deflation. Almost all of them are signed by his students. Some are Miami Dolphins game balls, presented to him by Olindo Mare after outstanding kicking performances. Blevins pulls out a small medal on a green ribbon. It's a Texas high school state championship token, presented to him by Tucker.

"This means as much to me as a lot of this stuff here," he says.

Blevins is fiercely proud of his kickers, and what they've been able to accomplish. He's proud of himself, too. He likes to refer to himself as handicapped, saying "I'm not politically correct."

He lives with his son and a girlfriend, who drives him to work down a back road that has become his tradition. He wants one day soon to become a college head coach.

"I've achieved practically everything a person in my position can in this business," he says. "That's part of the challenge and I'm going to keep at it.

"I think I'm the best at it," he says of coaching kickers. "That's the only thing in my life I'll brag to you about. I'm very proud of what I've accomplished and what my guys have accomplished. Couldn't do it without them, obviously."

And in some cases, they can't do it without him.

At least not on this day, as Blevins' Delaware projects take cracks at ball after ball, each one flying higher and farther with each instruction. Eventually, Blevins slows his chair to a crawl, and stops comfortably behind the kicker, just out of view, with little more to say.

Translation: Kid, you're doing it right.