Hey, Ed.
Remember me? You might not.
I was a beat writer covering your first, shall we say “slightly tumultuous” year as head coach at Ole Miss. In fact, I’m largely credited with practices being closed to the public, after I told a Jackson radio program that Patrick Willis injured his foot in practice one night, in 2005, never mind the fact the indomitable #49 sported a new cast to class the next day for the world to see, I single-handedly caused some enemy team advance knowledge of the Rebel game plan, or at least that’s what I was told for two years by the 40-something Ole Miss fan base on the internet, the kind of men who talk to their wives and children every leap year but dissect the footwork of a third-string guard on some message board, then write a poem about signing day.
Sorry, I got sidetracked. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, the media. I was once part of it, now I’m an expat, a publicist in fact. That’s right, I’ve actually become the enemy of the intrepid journalist. That, along with a newly found aimless feeling in my 20s, has caused a great (although painfully predictable) swell of pride and fond nostalgia for all things college, including my team. I hated the impartial nature of journalism anyway. Really passionate writing is only achieved when you can make masturbation jokes about Alabama fans.
Ed, to put it simply, I need this. I need a winning season. I’m hanging on by a thread here. For three years I’ve gobbled the “rebuilding” talk, the recruiting “boom,” the “new attitude” and the rest of the manufacture lip service like methadone, but it ain’t doing for a fourth year.
I need this Ed. You gotta make this happen.
Consider my attitude less of a newfound supporter and more of your run-of-the-mill crack whore. I need a fix. Will do bad things for it. Gimme. Now.
I’m willing to publicly recant some of my own criticisms of you. Sure, you had the rare DUI two-fer on your coaching staff, but that wasn’t your fault. After all, it must be confusing when the folks who sign your checks, dump money into your program and tout your impending greatness stay so loaded they need Botox for gin blossoms (and before 50, no less).
But that’s not your fault. Coming into a prestige position at Ole Miss is like marrying into the drunkest, meanest family of “Dallas” era WASPS God ever created. It all seems normal to us (“Oh dear, Mummy has mixed Klonopin and Stoli again. Biffy, go check the parking brake on the Jag before she does donuts around the veranda again.”), but to an outsider we’re just an alien race wearing chinos. And besides, if publicity has taught me anything, it’s that everything is circumstantial. Sure, Joe Cullen went straight from one week as a Rebel defensive line coach to a pants-less stay in a Michigan jail… SO?! Plenty of good, God-fearing Americans drink Wild Turkey alone in their homes ALL the time and decide against making a midnight run for a Chicken Whopper whilst exposing their floppy bits. Lord knows I fight the temptation daily.
The point is, Ed, that I don’t care.
I don’t care that you’ve brainwashed our emotionally battered sidewalk alumni with your rabble-rousing speeches. Bravo, in fact, and if you’re a sporting man, see if you can slide in funny subliminal messages. You could create an army of jort-clad, jersey sporting minions.
I don’t care that you seem to let anyone writing a book about college football complete and total access to our program, even if said tome turns out to be blindingly negative. Did America need to hear about Mike Oher beating down Antonio Turner like a prison yard bitch? Probably not, but hey, you da man.
I don’t care that you ran a quarterback evaluation with as much balance as a Florida ballot box last season. UT castaway, Delta State walk-on, pint-sized “Laguna Beach” extra… who cares if they can throw for 200-plus and don’t turn the ball over? Not me. Start an orangutan if it can hit a post pattern while we wait on Snead.
I don’t care that you seem to care more about February than November. That might be a low blow, and it might a necessary diversion during these dire times, but where we rank on signing day never has and never will determine a single win or loss come fall. The ballpark estimates of a sycophant breed lower than sportswriters – internet recruiting analysts – is worth less than the paper it’s printed on (take a moment… ah, ok, you got it. Funny huh?). We live in an age where enough crafty video editing could make my hobbled ass look good “on the hoof” to some web site manager.
I don’t care that you played at LSU, that you have a media stigma because of your accent or that you scare small children and neighborhood pets. I hope you threw an entire bedroom set through the wall of that Ramada – God knows that team needed it. Hell, I’d have you chucking half the Watson’s showroom for distance if I thought it would scare a 19-year-old into playing better.
Just win, Ed. It’s time. Your supporters will craft excuses and your detractors will gossip and maw, but that’s life. Hell, look around the league – half the coaching positions in the SEC look like the third act of Othello on the set of “Hee Haw.” As I speak, the world is ending in South Carolina with Spurrier and Tennessee with Fulmer. Tommy T’s relationship with Auburn is that of an Oliver Stone film, and Houston Nutt might become the first human publicly stoned since the Old Testament.
Just win, Ed. I promise I’ll stand by you. But we need a fix. Now.
Steven Godfrey is a has-been Oxford celebrity and publicist living in Nashville, Tennessee. Get your merchandise signed at sgodjr@gmail.com
