“Three yards and a cloud of dust” describes the pattern of offense made famous by the Ohio State football coach Woody Hayes. The run up the middle was the shortest distance between two points and the least risky. Another proponent of the conservative run game was Texas coach Darrell Royal. “Three things can happen when you pass the ball and two of them are bad”. Minimizing risk was the first principle of offense in their successful programs.
The second principle was large, tough linemen who could open up the middle. Without these massive people-movers, simplicity was stupidity. First, big linemen, second powerful running back, then three yards and a cloud a of dust. I always wondered how you gained ten yards (for a first down) with 3 x 3, but . . . no matter.
Writing in five paragraphs is like this. The shortest distance to communication and the one least susceptible to revision is the formulaic five, which opens the path to short, but efficient gains in meaning. Three thrusts into the line gains a first down and three paragraphs into the essay support a thesis. It is an efficient means to an end, as long as you have strong offensive linemen to pave the way.
Who are the writer’s offensive linemen? you should ask. The teacher who opens minds for thinking? The writing prompt that opens creative ideas? The genius of the writer opening his page with truth? Research shows none of these factors to be consequential. Most consequential is the opportunity to generate content at various stages of the writing process. In another words: something to say. It goes too often without saying that writers have to have something to say. This “something to say” is their offensive line. Three paragraphs with something to say makes the core of the essay. Add an introduction and conclusion and voila!
The eternal argument is between efficiency and content: getting it done quickly or getting it done with meaningful content. The opponents argue that their strategy begets the other outcome, i.e. efficiency generates meaningful content or content generates meaningful efficiency. The argument rises and falls with the generations of teachers, each generation trying to make gains against the opponents. Five paragraphs? Fluency! Style? Organization! Rigor? Joy!
The difference between football and writing instruction is that football adapts to its players and rules. When “three yards and a cloud of dust” failed, here came the Spread or the West Coast Offense. When the Spread receivers got jammed by defensive backs, here came the short passing game. Every year brought innovation, especially in the Pro game.
When writing instruction is under fire, here comes the old five paragraphs and a cloud of dust. And meeting it at the line of scrimmage? Writer’s block! The writing novice begins to believe that good writing is good form with some content, if you’re fortunate. I would refer to this retrenchment as “Two yards and a cloud of dust.” If you’re counting at home, that means three downs and a punt. Four paragraphs and a throw-away conclusion. Not much adaptation there.
Writing is tougher than football. Although it is ideally a team sport, the outcome really depends on one player–the writer. Teachers of writing may also be part of a team, but the most consequential relationship is mentor to writer. And teachers of writing do not get paid like football coaches. They burn out before their best schemes can be implemented. So the lack of new ideas can be forgiven.
But there are some lifers in the profession, and they are not professing “five paragraphs and a cloud of dust.” They profess process, fluency, and joy in writing. And we should be listening to them, not the ghost of Woody Hayes.