Go to about 2:50. Expect an audible "shit." Gawk in awe.

Anger come in layers. When you watch Mike Gundy get mad, there's obvious hurt underneath the anger; you get the feeling Mike Gundy puts on anger like a dusty formal suit, trotting it out for special occasions like funerals. He gets angry on principle, not because there's some underlying rage just seething and waiting to explode. When Dennis Green grows angry, there's obvious frustration and confusion, but no sort of basic low-boil of anger. When Herm Edwards goes nuts...well, he's obviously suffering from the deleterious effects of parasitic worms dining on his brain.

When Nick Saban gets angry, the air in the room grows frosty, all hope evaporates, and metal objects begin to wiggle and slide toward him. We mean this: it is one of the most frightening things we have ever seen, and we have been through an earthquake in an Asian city, a motorcycle accident, and a night out in Phnom Penh. There's just anger there, and more anger, and if you get out the excavator and start digging, still more deep and untapped reserves of anger. If we could turn it into a form of energy, we could tell Saudi Arabia to fuck themselves five minutes after the technology was completed.

Nick Saban is Ahab. He is bottomless in his complexity and terrifying in his anger, and capable of speaking whatever language needs to be spoken to get his point across. In another age, he'd be holding onto the harpoon five hundred feet below the surface of the ocean. His ears would bleed in another hundred feet as the whale with the harpoon embedded in its hide dove deeper and deeper; the rope would bloody his already shredded hands. Soon, he'd turn inside out from the pressure. But he'd die with that fucking rope in his hands.

(HT: Friends of the Program.