|You clearly, don't know who you're talking to...|
If there's anything to learn from that Bookface war of words between Corn and Bobby F-bomb it's that today's college athlete isn't living in the 1980's where many of us are a lot more comfortable. And yet social media brings us all together to mix and mingle. It can get a little too far north of awkward.
Yet I digress.
The main point is that no matter how much some of you enjoy reading players' (and future players') twitters, no matter who we're "friends" with on Bookface, and no matter how often you ask SoCrow "gimme a RT bruh cuz it's my bday!!!"...team chemistry is out of our hands. It's better left to experts.
I mean, do you want Skylar cooking your crystal? Do you want Prez Adams chaperoning your defensive ends on a trip to the Globe for a tall glass of chardonnay? No. I tend to criticize Coach Richt for several items, but team discipline isn't one of them. Did he wait for a conviction on the gun charge? Nope, he was out of hugs. I have no doubt he still loves his roster's second #1, but it was time for some tough love. Adios bruh!
In Albuquerque, Richt is Mike. No more half measures.
After that you need a real hardass. Maybe more. You gotta have someone that just by walking in the room changes the demeanor of the entire audience. Four hunnerd fifty pound weights clank to the floor and treadmills grind to a stop with just the hint of his aura. Someone who's not afraid to make a 300lb lineman wish he was sitting next to his momma in church. Someone who's probably more than a little excited about the idea of getting up at 4am the rest of this month and probably next month too, just so he can chew Blake Tibbs, Sheldon Dawson and Josh Harvey-Clemons' ass a couple hours.
Enter Joe T, aided by a supporting cast of Aaron Murray, CRob, Mrs. Bernie, Jarvis, my 9th grade Biology teacher, Le Sack, Shawn Williams' mouth, Artie Lynch, UGA policemen's wives, ShitMyDadSays, Winston Wolf, the head janitor where I work, DickSamIV, Kosta Vavlas....they kick some ass in shape.
In the heat of the desert, we need Heisenberg.
You see...they don't wait for you to Call Saul. We don't need a bunch of prima donnas that think they're Kevin Costner. We need some freaks that know they're dancing with wolves! They don't have time for a PTA meeting. They're not Mr. Clean. They're ready for any plane with any destination in the SEC. They're ready for whatever lameassshit the old friggin' moobass'd visor can bring. You think we're gator bait? Well, meet these dudes in a dark alley of Jacksonville and (summoning my inner Jesse Pinkman) see Hell first hand bitch. These dudes aren't grading papers. They're not hoping to not get caught. They're one step ahead. Forever. Always. They ARE!!...
...the one who knocks.