Before the TV era, we had no idea what our coaches were doing on the sidelines during the game. Generally we just saw photographs of them standing stoically, arms folded, gazing out upon the battlefield like Ol’ Stonewall at Fredericksburg.
Somewhere in the midst of the Vince Dooley era, TV cameras ventured into the hubbub and, to our shock, it turned out Vince wasn’t as rigid and frigid as we thought. We all figured him for the picture of grim inner strength. Not all all. The dude was doing little dances. He was racing his running backs down the sideline, his conservative striped necktie flying and his white Keds (always slacks with Keds) churning up the turf.
The networks began compiling little montages of Vince dancin' and prancin', setting it all to Russian ballet music. I always try to imagine the ovation this must have earned him at the national tough-guy coaching conventions, as he entered the room. Wolf whistles. Somebody might throw a tutu at him. An unworthy fate for an ex-Marine infantry officer. After that, he focused on his composure, but you could see the craziness trying to break out of sturdy shell.
There would be a field goal attempt. (In the Dooley era, a field goal attempt was an offensive explosion.) As toe met leather, Vince’s jaw would begin to work nervously. Then his fists would clinch, the veins would appear on his arms, and for just a second there you'd think he was going to become the Hulk. But he’d give a little dual fist-pump and, as the ball took flight, his right leg would then come off the ground, but only a few inches, as his hips took one last victory wiggle. Then his whole frame would tremble, his ears would whistle like quittin' time, and I fully expected an egg to plop out of his wally butts.
It’s no surprise that Mark Richt, in an era of high-def, widescreen, every-game football, was highly conservative about his image. Richt had to be concerned that a furrowed a brow, or a pouty look for Mr. Referee, would send an evil message to the children of America. Somewhere an angel wouldn’t get his wings. So before each game, grad assistants would spray down Mark’s hair. In those days of the early millennium, he liked his hair parted like his running plays, right up the middle.
Then they sprayed on a special synthetic tan recipe (“autumn chestnut #7”) that held his facial features in a placid expression.
His composure became a legend during the Hobnail Boot game. The rest of us were surfing the freakout zone. Munson was broadcasting slam poetry inspired by The Walking Dead. But Richt? Well, for the first time, the truth can be told. Richt was losing his zagnuts too. You and I just couldn’t see it. On the outside, he seemed to be stifling a yawn, reminding himself of tomorrow morning's Bible reference. On the inside, the tiny, invisible Richster was leaping around, screeching, “BLAM! TAKE THAT, FAT BOY PHIL! HOW YA LIKE ME NOW, KRISPY KREME?”
As for Kirby Smart, he’s strictly next-gen in his sideline demeanor. He and his posse, Muschamp and Bobo, have come of age in the TV era. They’ve come to terms with the fact that ESPN cameras will catch every stray nose-pick, every little spinach leaf caught between the teeth, and nothing they can do about it.
Each man has his own way of dealing with it. Bobo is a work in progress. For years he’s been able to hide in the press box, behind the reflective glass, shouting creative profanities and throwing his clipboard at the grad assistant, no problem. Muschamp prefers what is known as the Werewolf technique. Muschamp coaches with his teeth, just as Dooley’s white keds were his own painter’s palette. You need slo-mo instant replay—and the wonder of the Internet—to truly appreciate the artistry of Muschamp’s full-moon transformation.
Boom! Another tailback neutered.
Our own Kirby Smart, however, is the master of the form. For him it’s a full out-of-body experience, or at least off-the-sideline. He boldly goes where no coach has gone before, full Tasmanian Devil. We now have a special staff position known as the Kirby Wrangler. That’s the really tall guy who stands just behind him, hooks the back of the head coach’s collar, and fishes him back over to the sidelines after every play. Erk Russell may have given you a head-butt—without the helmet—but Kirby is liable to take a good-sized bite out of your nose. Some of his profanity will get on your face and you'll never have to shave that patch again.
Staff is now instructed before the game to keep him away from Starbucks, sugar, and videos of Nicholls State. His heart can only take so much.
Word has it he called Bobo and said, “You seem much calmer on the sidelines now. How do you manage it?”
Bobo replied, “Personal discipline, Kirb. Plus, they got medical remedies here in Colorado like you wouldn’t believe. And they’re now legal!”
Check out plenty more Sax by hitting the book below:
Somewhere in the midst of the Vince Dooley era, TV cameras ventured into the hubbub and, to our shock, it turned out Vince wasn’t as rigid and frigid as we thought. We all figured him for the picture of grim inner strength. Not all all. The dude was doing little dances. He was racing his running backs down the sideline, his conservative striped necktie flying and his white Keds (always slacks with Keds) churning up the turf.
The networks began compiling little montages of Vince dancin' and prancin', setting it all to Russian ballet music. I always try to imagine the ovation this must have earned him at the national tough-guy coaching conventions, as he entered the room. Wolf whistles. Somebody might throw a tutu at him. An unworthy fate for an ex-Marine infantry officer. After that, he focused on his composure, but you could see the craziness trying to break out of sturdy shell.
There would be a field goal attempt. (In the Dooley era, a field goal attempt was an offensive explosion.) As toe met leather, Vince’s jaw would begin to work nervously. Then his fists would clinch, the veins would appear on his arms, and for just a second there you'd think he was going to become the Hulk. But he’d give a little dual fist-pump and, as the ball took flight, his right leg would then come off the ground, but only a few inches, as his hips took one last victory wiggle. Then his whole frame would tremble, his ears would whistle like quittin' time, and I fully expected an egg to plop out of his wally butts.
It’s no surprise that Mark Richt, in an era of high-def, widescreen, every-game football, was highly conservative about his image. Richt had to be concerned that a furrowed a brow, or a pouty look for Mr. Referee, would send an evil message to the children of America. Somewhere an angel wouldn’t get his wings. So before each game, grad assistants would spray down Mark’s hair. In those days of the early millennium, he liked his hair parted like his running plays, right up the middle.
Then they sprayed on a special synthetic tan recipe (“autumn chestnut #7”) that held his facial features in a placid expression.
His composure became a legend during the Hobnail Boot game. The rest of us were surfing the freakout zone. Munson was broadcasting slam poetry inspired by The Walking Dead. But Richt? Well, for the first time, the truth can be told. Richt was losing his zagnuts too. You and I just couldn’t see it. On the outside, he seemed to be stifling a yawn, reminding himself of tomorrow morning's Bible reference. On the inside, the tiny, invisible Richster was leaping around, screeching, “BLAM! TAKE THAT, FAT BOY PHIL! HOW YA LIKE ME NOW, KRISPY KREME?”
As for Kirby Smart, he’s strictly next-gen in his sideline demeanor. He and his posse, Muschamp and Bobo, have come of age in the TV era. They’ve come to terms with the fact that ESPN cameras will catch every stray nose-pick, every little spinach leaf caught between the teeth, and nothing they can do about it.
Each man has his own way of dealing with it. Bobo is a work in progress. For years he’s been able to hide in the press box, behind the reflective glass, shouting creative profanities and throwing his clipboard at the grad assistant, no problem. Muschamp prefers what is known as the Werewolf technique. Muschamp coaches with his teeth, just as Dooley’s white keds were his own painter’s palette. You need slo-mo instant replay—and the wonder of the Internet—to truly appreciate the artistry of Muschamp’s full-moon transformation.
Boom! Another tailback neutered.
Our own Kirby Smart, however, is the master of the form. For him it’s a full out-of-body experience, or at least off-the-sideline. He boldly goes where no coach has gone before, full Tasmanian Devil. We now have a special staff position known as the Kirby Wrangler. That’s the really tall guy who stands just behind him, hooks the back of the head coach’s collar, and fishes him back over to the sidelines after every play. Erk Russell may have given you a head-butt—without the helmet—but Kirby is liable to take a good-sized bite out of your nose. Some of his profanity will get on your face and you'll never have to shave that patch again.
Staff is now instructed before the game to keep him away from Starbucks, sugar, and videos of Nicholls State. His heart can only take so much.
Word has it he called Bobo and said, “You seem much calmer on the sidelines now. How do you manage it?”
Bobo replied, “Personal discipline, Kirb. Plus, they got medical remedies here in Colorado like you wouldn’t believe. And they’re now legal!”
Check out plenty more Sax by hitting the book below:
