More than once, we were recruiting one of those five-star studs and lost out to Clemson. Why? Generally, they said they loved everything about UGA, its staff, its campus. But it was their greatest dream to go to Clemson and run down the hill.
That was a problem. How could we compete with running down the hill? Sure, Athens had a LOT of hills. It's KNOWN for hills. But there are none you can run down in the stadium. Damn.
Fact is, let's be honest about this. Clemson is a geographical wonderland, second only to Candyland, the board game. And maybe wherever Harry Potter hangs out.
You might have heard Clemson has a lake. Auburn doesn’t have a lake, except that swampy place that still kind of smells like Pat Dye. Athens has a lake, like, an hour away. But at Clemson, you can walk right up to it, spit in it, skip rocks, dip a toe if you're feeling wild. It’s amazing.
The clincher, of course, is the hill. But let’s be geomorphologically accurate. Athens has proper hills. Some of our hills even roll. Clemson’s football hill does not roll. To be exact, it’s a hillock. At best, a semi-knoll or a hefty mound, according to a spokesman from our department of geomorphological sciences. (They can be touchy on this subject.)
But Clemson's is a magical hillock. It must be, because the likes of Brent Musberger was astounded by its pageantry as the young men scampered down it. Frothy adjectives shot from his mouth, geyser-like. Assistants had to wipe exclamation points from his chin. And that hillock won many a young recruit's heart.
So Clemson has a lake. And Clemson has a hill(ock). But there’s more. Clemson has a rock. I told you, the place is insane.
Yes, yes, Athens has rocks. You’ve seen them and I’ve seen them, peeking up at us from the ground here and there. What we don’t have is Howard’s Rock. It sits on the Clemson hillock, from whence it can look upon the Clemson lake. And I just bet you’re clamoring for its backstory. Keep reading.
This superb specimen of stone formerly belonged to Frank Howard, the iconic Clemson coach of yore. In terms of winning and stuff, he wasn’t much of a coach, as iconic head coaches go. But he did get the Tigers to six bowls in some thirty years. And it seems that during these fabled times, he had a rock that he used as a doorstop. This is a matter of true football lore; I’ve done my research, so don't question me.
One of Howard’s buddies had given him the rock as a gift, supposedly because he picked it up in Death Valley, California. Get it? Clemson has a Death Valley, too (a valley! Damn, yet another of Clemson’s geomorphological wonders). The buddy checked, and the stuff in the gift shop was way overpriced. Also, the rock bore an unmistakable resemblance to Howard’s bald, oddly-shaped noggin. See for yourself:
The friend stuffed the rock in his pocket, and for years that rock faithfully and obediently kept Howard’s office door cracked open, allowing a breeze and preventing stuffiness. But when the coach was doing some house-cleaning in 1966, he told another booster, and I quote, “Take this rock and throw it over the fence or out in the ditch . . . Do something with it, but get it out of my office.” Again, I love you too much to make this stuff up.
It wasn’t an iconic coach speech to compare with, say, a Lombardi or a Bryant or a K-Smart. But for the fervent Clemson Tiger, these are hallowed words. Try this. Walk up to any Clemson fan, say, “Take this rock and throw it over the fence,” and he will solemnly take your hand, a small tear will form in his eye, and he will conclude, “Do something with it, but get it out of my office!” Then protocol dictates that he has to buy you a beer or perform an act of servitude. The two of you might even run down a hillock together.
The rest, my friend, is history. A visionary Tiger booster placed the rock on a little pedestal in the end zone, where it could watch the football games up close. During the first few seasons, the Tigers won anywhere from three to six games per season, so it was clear that the deep magic of the rock and the hill were conspiring toward greatness.
But wait, there’s more. It has come time for us to talk about the rubbing. Almost immediately, players began to assemble at the top of the hill, rub the rock—perhaps mistaking it for the top of Coach Howard’s head—then barrel down the hill screeching like little girls. Normally there's no screeching in football, but an exception is made when there’s pageantry.
In 1970, new coach Hootie Ingram (“They’re not saying ‘booty,’ they’re saying Hootie!’”—Brent Musberger) arrived on the scene at Clemson, ushering in futuristic new ideas about the game.
It was his belief that players should run onto the field from the west rather than the east.
Since it didn’t occur to anybody that the rock and its little home could be moved to the west side as well, the rock had to watch the team entrance forlornly, from one hundred yards away. There was no rubbing. The rock found itself yearning for its days as a doorstop, when it performed a useful task. The experiment was a disaster—the Tigers went 6-9 in home games during these years, and a mutinous team demanded a return to the hill, the rubbing, and the gleeful scamper down the slope. In short: Hootie’s booty was relieved of duty.
The team still went 2-9 and 3-8 for a couple of years, but dang it, that wasn’t the point—there was rubbing and running, just as God intended when he made football.
That’s why, decades later, Georgia was still struggling to recruit against Clemson. Prospects would come to Athens to see national trophies, Herschel’s Heisman, luxurious athletic apartments, an elite NFL draft record, and a beloved head coach.
To which Clemson could say, “Son, how would you like to run down that hill?”
Clearly it was a stand-off. If you don’t get this, you’re not up with the times. You need to take off your red and black glasses and think like the Young Men of Today. They like hip hop. They’re into computer games and social media. And they’re crazy about rock-rubbing and running down the hill.
We’ve stepped up our recruiting these days. But still, we must be vigilant. Just last week, a recruiter from Auburn recently approached one of our commits and said, “Son, how would you like to throw toilet paper on a tree?”
That was a problem. How could we compete with running down the hill? Sure, Athens had a LOT of hills. It's KNOWN for hills. But there are none you can run down in the stadium. Damn.
Fact is, let's be honest about this. Clemson is a geographical wonderland, second only to Candyland, the board game. And maybe wherever Harry Potter hangs out.
You might have heard Clemson has a lake. Auburn doesn’t have a lake, except that swampy place that still kind of smells like Pat Dye. Athens has a lake, like, an hour away. But at Clemson, you can walk right up to it, spit in it, skip rocks, dip a toe if you're feeling wild. It’s amazing.
The clincher, of course, is the hill. But let’s be geomorphologically accurate. Athens has proper hills. Some of our hills even roll. Clemson’s football hill does not roll. To be exact, it’s a hillock. At best, a semi-knoll or a hefty mound, according to a spokesman from our department of geomorphological sciences. (They can be touchy on this subject.)
But Clemson's is a magical hillock. It must be, because the likes of Brent Musberger was astounded by its pageantry as the young men scampered down it. Frothy adjectives shot from his mouth, geyser-like. Assistants had to wipe exclamation points from his chin. And that hillock won many a young recruit's heart.
So Clemson has a lake. And Clemson has a hill(ock). But there’s more. Clemson has a rock. I told you, the place is insane.
Yes, yes, Athens has rocks. You’ve seen them and I’ve seen them, peeking up at us from the ground here and there. What we don’t have is Howard’s Rock. It sits on the Clemson hillock, from whence it can look upon the Clemson lake. And I just bet you’re clamoring for its backstory. Keep reading.
This superb specimen of stone formerly belonged to Frank Howard, the iconic Clemson coach of yore. In terms of winning and stuff, he wasn’t much of a coach, as iconic head coaches go. But he did get the Tigers to six bowls in some thirty years. And it seems that during these fabled times, he had a rock that he used as a doorstop. This is a matter of true football lore; I’ve done my research, so don't question me.
One of Howard’s buddies had given him the rock as a gift, supposedly because he picked it up in Death Valley, California. Get it? Clemson has a Death Valley, too (a valley! Damn, yet another of Clemson’s geomorphological wonders). The buddy checked, and the stuff in the gift shop was way overpriced. Also, the rock bore an unmistakable resemblance to Howard’s bald, oddly-shaped noggin. See for yourself:
The friend stuffed the rock in his pocket, and for years that rock faithfully and obediently kept Howard’s office door cracked open, allowing a breeze and preventing stuffiness. But when the coach was doing some house-cleaning in 1966, he told another booster, and I quote, “Take this rock and throw it over the fence or out in the ditch . . . Do something with it, but get it out of my office.” Again, I love you too much to make this stuff up.
It wasn’t an iconic coach speech to compare with, say, a Lombardi or a Bryant or a K-Smart. But for the fervent Clemson Tiger, these are hallowed words. Try this. Walk up to any Clemson fan, say, “Take this rock and throw it over the fence,” and he will solemnly take your hand, a small tear will form in his eye, and he will conclude, “Do something with it, but get it out of my office!” Then protocol dictates that he has to buy you a beer or perform an act of servitude. The two of you might even run down a hillock together.
The rest, my friend, is history. A visionary Tiger booster placed the rock on a little pedestal in the end zone, where it could watch the football games up close. During the first few seasons, the Tigers won anywhere from three to six games per season, so it was clear that the deep magic of the rock and the hill were conspiring toward greatness.
But wait, there’s more. It has come time for us to talk about the rubbing. Almost immediately, players began to assemble at the top of the hill, rub the rock—perhaps mistaking it for the top of Coach Howard’s head—then barrel down the hill screeching like little girls. Normally there's no screeching in football, but an exception is made when there’s pageantry.
In 1970, new coach Hootie Ingram (“They’re not saying ‘booty,’ they’re saying Hootie!’”—Brent Musberger) arrived on the scene at Clemson, ushering in futuristic new ideas about the game.
It was his belief that players should run onto the field from the west rather than the east.
Since it didn’t occur to anybody that the rock and its little home could be moved to the west side as well, the rock had to watch the team entrance forlornly, from one hundred yards away. There was no rubbing. The rock found itself yearning for its days as a doorstop, when it performed a useful task. The experiment was a disaster—the Tigers went 6-9 in home games during these years, and a mutinous team demanded a return to the hill, the rubbing, and the gleeful scamper down the slope. In short: Hootie’s booty was relieved of duty.
The team still went 2-9 and 3-8 for a couple of years, but dang it, that wasn’t the point—there was rubbing and running, just as God intended when he made football.
That’s why, decades later, Georgia was still struggling to recruit against Clemson. Prospects would come to Athens to see national trophies, Herschel’s Heisman, luxurious athletic apartments, an elite NFL draft record, and a beloved head coach.
To which Clemson could say, “Son, how would you like to run down that hill?”
Clearly it was a stand-off. If you don’t get this, you’re not up with the times. You need to take off your red and black glasses and think like the Young Men of Today. They like hip hop. They’re into computer games and social media. And they’re crazy about rock-rubbing and running down the hill.
We’ve stepped up our recruiting these days. But still, we must be vigilant. Just last week, a recruiter from Auburn recently approached one of our commits and said, “Son, how would you like to throw toilet paper on a tree?”
