Urban Meyer remembers two things in particular from his first road trip to Alabama in his first season at Florida.

But that pregame blast from the past didn’t speak as loudly as the postgame critics. They saw Alabama 31, Florida 3 as a sign that Meyer wasn’t going to change the future of the SEC.

Not a painting by Larry Pitts but an actual, unretouched photo, evidently.

HA HA SUCK IT MEYER RAMMER JAMMER HEY GATORS WE JUST BEAT THE HELL OUTTA YOUUUUU! Yeah, the rest of the story is a lot of stuff about the spread offense and about how it’s changing the SEC and blah blah blah, but no matter how dominating the spread becomes, it’ll never match the booming, beyond-the-grave voice of Paul W. Bryant in terms of sheer pants-crapping, bitchmaking terror.

Orrrr . . . maybe it will. Later on in the article:

“I think Florida has a great offense. I think it’s very difficult to defend. So I’m not being critical. But it is different.”

Alabama surrendered a season-high 31 points to both the Gators and the Utes and lost both games.

Christ, Bryant, where were you for those two games, guy? Perhaps the Bear really is like God: He answers all prayers, but sometimes the answer is no.

F$#@ Sooners, get money. Packing two of the last three national-title trophies and gunning for another one in ‘09, Urban Meyer is getting a raise that will jack his salary up to an even $4 million a year, meaning that not only Urban but entire future generations of Meyers will be makin’ it rain for the indeterminate future. Before you ask, yes, Les Miles has a clause in his contract that entitles him to make at least $1,000 more than any other conference coach, but apparently it only kicks in if Miles wins the national title this year — thereby saving LSU from having to give The Hat a quarter-million-dollar raise for going 3-5 in the SEC last season. (See, if they just gave Les the highest salary in the conference, they’d only be spoiling him; this way, he learns the value of money.)

You know how to start a car, don’t you? You just put your lips together and blow. West Virginia wide receiver Jock Sanders, last seen propping up an unusually weak Fulmer Cup effort by the Mountaineers with a DUI charge, may be able to bring an end to his indefinite suspension from the team if he “handles a series of requirements.” This includes completing an alcohol-awareness course, speaking with high-school groups about the dangers of DUI, and our favorite, having a “test lock” device installed in his car that will basically require him to breathalyze himself and prove he’s sober before he can start his vehicle. This is probably gonna sound weird, but I’ve always wanted to try one of those things — though my gadgetary curiosity here is of the singular ride a Segway/use an ejection seat/get Tasered variety that involves trying it once just to see what it’s like and then never, ever having to do it again.

Cue the “It’s not your fault” scene from “Good Will Hunting.” Louisville running back Bilal Powell is trying to put his fumble in last year’s game against Kentucky behind him and look ahead to 2009. Is it just us, or does it seem like he’s taking it a bit too hard? His fumble accounted for only a fifth of UL’s turnovers in that game. Trust me, Bilal, there’s more than enough blame to go around for the FAILsplosion that was Louisville’s 2008 campaign, and they’ll be coming after Steve Kragthorpe with torches and pitchforks long before they get around to you.

I don’t know the guy, but I’ve got two kidneys and he needs one, so I figured . . . Elsewhere in the Big East, Syracuse head coach Doug Marrone, charged with cleaning up the HAZMAT spill that is the Orange’s football program post-Greg Robinson, says he’s “been hearing good things” about the progress made by former Duke basketball player and not-ever college football player Greg Paulus, who allegedly is still in the running for SU’s starting-QB job, in summer conditioning. Be that as it may, signing Paulus period still strikes us as the kind of decision that will be very much in the running for inclusion in a Bad Idea Jeans commercial by the end of the season.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed GERG is king. Speaking of Robinson, the situation at Michigan is apparently so dire that the addition of Gerg as defensive coordinator is being seen as one of the team’s biggest bright spots heading into 2009. (Yes, we know Robinson was an exemplary D-coordinator with both the Longhorns and the Denver Broncos. But a 3-25 Big East record is the kind of failstank that wouldn’t be quickly forgotten even if he’d only been hired as the night manager at a 7-Eleven.)

What, by playing them within 30 points? Late entry in the race for saddest quote of the offseason: Washington State coach Paul Wulff’s insistence that his Cougars “have the opportunity to surprise some teams” this year. I’d like to believe that, Paul, I really would, but I’d also like to believe that Lacey Stockbauer is going to end up with two tickets to this year’s Texas-Oklahoma game and offer me her extra one. In other words: na ga happen.

We will be celebrating properly, i.e. with wine and explosives, this afternoon. Remember us fondly.

Does the Pope shit in the woods? Quoth the Raven:

[Meyer] turned to me and asked. “Is it OK to make this announcement here?”

I knew what he was going to say because he said something similar when the speculative story surfaced three weeks ago.

Meyer turned back to the golfers and said, “I’m not going to Notre Dame. Ever. I’m going to be the coach at Florida for a long time, as long as they want me.”

OK. So we’re done talking about this now, right? Urban Meyer is coaching Florida. And will continue to coach at Florida. (Finebaum column forthcoming: “Unless he doesn’t!” Tee hee!)

That’s why they make the big bandwidth. There’s scraping by in the offseason content hardscrabble, then there’s getting 700 words out of the hairstyles at West Virginia’s summer strength workouts:

Connolly is no slave to fashion. In his five years here, he has gone completely shorn and shaggy. He is liable to show up with a goatee, a Van Dyke or full beard.

Lazear may be vying with Connolly strand for strand, but Davis’ ‘do, which the DB keeps pinned in with a flourishing pony tail may outlast both of his teammates. Tandy’s hair probably falls a tad shorter than Davis’.

We’re in awe. Truly, madly, deeply.

Still better than I, Robot. This is supposed to look like the Iron Giant or the Tin Man, and other than being made of metal fails completely in both respects. Still, there’s something familiar…ahh, yes. Alabama, the sub-Dreamworks knockoff of football: it ain’t pretty, but does it ever rake in the cash. (Trivia: Terry Bradshaw has a small role in this film as “Broken Arm Bot.” No, no need to thank us.)

The Lord’s work. It’s a buyer’s market for kickoff countdowns this time of year, but the 7th Floor is putting their own…particular spin on an old trick.

This is us, pointing and nodding approvingly at whichever corner of the internet Miami’s staked out. ]]> http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2009/07/14/curious-index-7142009/feed/ 34 http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2008/07/18/separated-at-birth-urban-meyer-is-batman/ http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/2008/07/18/separated-at-birth-urban-meyer-is-batman/#comments Fri, 18 Jul 2008 15:11:53 +0000 Orson Swindle http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/?p=5366 In honor of the release of Dark Knight…we finally cast Urban Meyer in our epic 46 part miniseries about Florida football. Separated at birth:

Urban Meyer…

…and…

…Christian Bale, a.k.a. preppie psycho Batman.

If you can’t see Urban donning a raincoat over a five-thousand dollar suit and killing someone with a stainless steel axe to the tune of “Hip to Be Square”…well, as a Florida fan, all we can say is that we can.

Hey, man. Have a seat. How’s class? Good? Great. Good to hear. That thing in the club the other night? Don’t do that again. I know she slapped you first, but next time? Back of the legs. No bruises, just like the bottom of the heels. Either that or hit them with a phone book. Lou Holtz taught me a lot of things, and the most important one is that if you have to beat someone inconspicuously, let your fingers do the walking with the sledgehammer you keep on your bookshelf.

Anyway, I want to talk to you about your 40 time. You’ve done a lot of work. Sprints. Box jumps. Strengthening your hamstrings. Mickey says your work ethic is beyond any of your peers. But it’s not the top one percent of one percent. It’s just not.

We’ve hit a wall. I have a solution. Don’t freak out when I say this. I’m just going to show you a picture, and give it a thought, okay? Promise? Seriously, I will beat you down with a phonebook if you attack me when I show you this picture. Because I love you. Ready?

I’ve already talked with the medical staff about it, and it’s beyond doable. A simple operation compared to some of the stuff they do. We can set it up however you like. You’ll get ass for the rest of your life with the story we’ll cook up: saving a puppy from getting hit by a semi, fighting off a gang of bikers trying to rape a pair of nuns, something like that.

And he flies in these things. Have you seen him? 4.6, and he’s white. Imagine what you’ll do in these. I want to make the edges serrated on your playing legs. Just for the extra edge. Get it? Edge?

I can see you’re thinking about it. I like that. Just consider this: what have your legs done for you lately? We can make the legs look any way you like, too. Orange and Blue. Little LEDs in them. You’ll never have to worry about an ankle or heel injury ever again. Imagine that.

The recruiting angle will be incredible, too. We get to be heartwarming and on the forefront of football technology.

Just think it over. I know you’ll do it. For the team. You just need time to think this over. I’ll let you have it. Let me just finish with this: you’ll have robot legs. Don’t you want super robot legs? Isn’t that what champions want? Super robot champion legs? We’re offering that to you and a free college education.

Think about it. I’m done here. The rest is up to you…super robot champion.

Second, I’d like to go ahead and announce that I’m totally slacking off for the year 2007. Yup. With a roster full of blue-chip babies, a national championship under the old belt, and a sweet black leather Members’ Only jacket to boot, Urb’s officially announcing the old phone-in for the year. Waitress, this Ohio boy needs some more boat drinks, please.

Urban: needs more boat drinks.

I’ve said differently, sure.

“I wish I could say we’re going to make another run,” Meyer said. “I have no idea. That’s so farfetched, but rebuilding the defense is obviously the key to us having success. Our coaches on defense are going to have to earn their stripes this year.”

Lick it up, poindexters. You really just a bunch of reverse Ron Burgundys, aren’t you? You’ll write anything I say. Like I could walk out there, make a few remarks that I carefully constructed in between texting recruits, and I could read this in the Tampa Trib the next day:

Meyer said: “The reporter writing this is completely gay. Kissing other men ’til he gets beard burn gay. Dancing nancy, Haddaway What-Is-Love, half-tee-wearing, HGH-takin’ circuit boy twirling glo-stick gay. In case you don’t understand: the person writing this sleeps with dudes.

Sometimes, I really believe you’d print that. Especially you, Bianchi.

Like we’re going to do anything anyone remembers this year anyway. You know what’s going to happen: first we’ll be overrated, then we’ll lose some crackass game we should have walked away with, someone will figure out our key weakness, and the rest of the season will be a wash while I scream a lot, threaten to fire coaches, and lose weight like a meth addict to stress. Completely uncool scene that you just know is gonna happen.

Look like I’m having fun? Because I’m totally not.

I know it’s coming, so why not pre-empt and just hoist the slack flag on the S.S. Meyer’s mainsail here? Look…there it goes…yup. Up and flying. ‘Case you can’t see it, it’s my middle finger, people. Urb’s out for the year. If the phone doesn’t ring, it’s me.

If not working on being the slammin’ coach of the Florida Gators…what am I going to be working on? Being the organized person I am, Urb’s got some ports to call on, goal-wise.

1. Drink more margaritas. All species thereof, sir. I’m burning through a few blenders this season, so maybe I’ll get an endorsement deal with Oster or something. Have you had a Texas Margarita? It’s got Cointreau in it. I have no idea what that is but it tastes freakin’ awesome. I’ll rely on the frozen concoction to keep me alive until everyone realizes how much losing sucks again. Then I’ll dry out for a week, hit the treadmill, and resume domination in ‘08.

2. Get my groove on with Shelley. Mrs. Meyer’s been getting the free pass in the lovin’ department, what with all the me winning national titles, recruiting, and watching tape ’till my eyeballs crack and bleed. In case you’re wondering, I’m leaving the jacket on the whole time, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

3. Catch up on my Buffett. There’s just so much to listen to, I have no idea how I’ll catch up. Oh, wait, I do–I’ll listen to it by the pool, with a drink in my hand and wearing nothing but a speedo and the aforementioned champions jacket. The man’s catalog is just so deep. I’m going to focus my studies on his neglected early ’80s work: One Particular Harbor, Coconut Telegraph, Volcano…though I’m stopping short of Somewhere Over China. That shit sucked.

Think I’ll grow a fat walrus ’stache just to get the right vibe, too.

Yeah, dude. Like that.

You can’t run a Ferrari at 150 mph all the time, people–it needs some garage time, and that’s just what 2007’s gonna be people. This machine’s up on blocks, so to speak–get your shots in while you can. If you need me for anything, just call. I won’t answer. I’ll be on the back porch, hitting golf balls into Billy Donovan’s windows with the blender crankin’. This sailor just pressed the fool button, and there’s no telling where I’ll land after this volcano blows.

1. Wideouts with curiously spelled first names. See Jacquez Green, Reidel Anthony, and especially wacky “Travis” McGriff.

2. He’s from Belle Glade, one of the most desperate corners of the Sunshine State and a former Gator stronghold during the Spurrier days. The old wisdom was that in Belle Glade, you had four vocations to choose from: cutting cane, going to jail, catching AIDS, or playing football. (For a while, Belle Glade had the highest HIV prevalence of any town in the U.S.)

We’re glad the 4.28-running Deonte opted for football. So’s Urban, who is frankly beginning to frighten us a little with all the competence and drive busting out all over the place. His ambition seems to be without horizon, and appeasement doesn’t seem to be working with him. Get Ban Ki-Moon on the phone! NOW!

Urban: so good only Microsoft Paint could do him justice. (HT: Reader David.)

Trattou had surprisingly lucid reasons for the switch:

“In a 3-4, they’d want me to play rush end or outside linebacker, and while that’s tempting, that’s not really where I see myself,” Trattou said. “I’ve always been a down lineman and that’s what I prefer. At the end of the day, that makes a big difference.”

A 4-3 defense–now that’s something you won’t see in South Bend.

The Trattou-theft brings Don Meyer’s tally of poached verbals to what we believe is a total of seven thus far. If recruits were flowers–and in some grand metaphorical sense, aren’t they, brothers and sisters?–we’d celebrate like this.

SEVEN!!! SEVEN POACHED VERBALS AH AH AH AH!!!!

You’ll need a steady hand to pass through the recruiting season, and the right tools to guide you through the dank jungle of rubber chicken dinners, strip clubs, illicit late-night drinking sessions, and surreptitious “rental car” usage you’ll find are all common downfalls of the recruiting season.

Our first cheat sheet follows, letting you know what to expect at each school. Enjoy.

A few notes that will no doubt develop into full stories over the holiday weekend.

Making Nick Saban look steadfast: Tim Graham. The Rice coach, who took scraps to scrappy with a 7-5 record this season and a bid in the New Orleans Bowl, leaves for rival Tulsa just three days after signing a contract extension. Let’s review the shitbag factors in total:

1. Leaving for conference rival–si!

2. Leaving after contract extension–ja, ja.

3. Leaving three days after contract extension, forcing us to break out the italics, dammit: hai!

Hmm…we’re feeling an equivalent shitbag score of…

Ricky Bobby’s dad in Talladega Nights.

Don’t worry. I’m a volunteer firefighter.

2. Ryan Perrilloux. The rumor now is that he’s a pigeon (Hey! Who else got the DVD set of Mannix for Christmas from their 60 year old uncle? Anyone?) in a counterfeiting scheme involving Perrilloux exchanging LSU memorabilia for a bag of fake bills. Further rumor has him cooperating fully with federal investigators, LSU handling this with a hazmat suit and mile-long tongs, and the Louisiana media sitting on the story until the uni gets its shot at the spin.

Word of a forfeit in the Sugar Bowl is also flying around, but then again, some people think the blood-type diet is based on actual science and that John Mayer is music to fuck to. (It’s actually music to fuck up people to, since the rage at hearing him rasp and wheeze through another milquetoasty song would make us want to put knuckles to eyesocket any day.) It’s the internet! There’s a trough of crazy in your flavor somewhere out there.

–Major Applewhite to Bama to coach the offense. Again, Saban don’t hire no dumb boys.

–Finally, we leave you with this: we promise that gloat week will end as of midnight tonight. But right now, it’s 6:20 p.m. EST, and it’s fair game. For a rapid-fire collection of a bareknuckle season, watch below. (WARNING: Contains scenes of Tim Tebow running, which may be unsuitable for small children.)

Enjoy your weekend.

–Did Tressel watch a single minute of game film on Florida’s offense? Florida withers under blitz; him big ape, me call blitzes. Instead OSU opens each series with three down lineman, including some sets with a linebacker at the nose tackle position. They begged for the short-passing, highly accurate Leak to undo the sutures of their defense and let it bleed.

Coach Heacock, this space-age device could change your life.

This might not have been a disastrous strategy had Leak not been tossing the ball down hallways. The dbs seemed horrified of giving up anything over seven yards, playing miles off the ball on the snap and allowing Florida receivers to catch the ball in space. If this phrase sounds familiar to you, it’s because it’s in your pablum detector for announcers, who use this verbiage to describe any short passing attack. Like, say, Florida’s. Who’d been called that all year.

A failure of imagination, gameplanning, and execution for Ohio State doomed them on defense. When they held soft zone, it was over. Next time, watch some tape. Or call someone. Or hell, pick up a controller and give NCAA 2007 a whirl. You’d think a team familiar with shattering Michigan’s soft zones would be the last to allow a team to do this, or create a gameplan begging for such treatment. Bear, meet trap.

–On defense Florida needed no coaching accomplices. (Negative superlative coming! Cliche warning issued.) Troy Smith played the worst game of his life and any other Heisman Winner in a big game, dipping below the Toretta line with the damning evidence listed in agate type for all to see:

4-14 completions 35 yards 0 TDs/ 1 INT

We imagined his agent creaming cellphone batteries, bluetooth light in his ear accentuating the panic, wearing out blackberries and reaching for holstered backups in an attempt to counter the ugly reality unfolding in front of him with carefully leaked leads to sympathetic sportswriters.

Cancer. Can we fake cancer? Sure, Lance Armstrong did it, right? That’s plan A, man. Then we go to dead relative–does he have a dead one? A really recently dead one? Or injury. He’s got to have a few. It’s gotta be something severe, like fractured ass, or cerebral ebola. Hell, cerebral ebola might actually up his signing bonus–what linebacker’s gonna want to touch someone with something called cerebral ebola? Phyllis! Get me the number of the CDC…

Earl Everett needs no helmet, and does not fear your cerebral ebola.

Smith should have more attempts on the books, and in reality did–five became sacks, and one became a fumble to set up Tim Tebow’s gotcha TD pass at the goal line. Ohio State’s tackles redefined late on Monday night, with Derrick Harvey and Jarvis Moss blowing tight curves around the edges to pressure Smith every time he had the ball.

Jarvis Moss: walking and talking on Facebook. He likes Heisemens.

If Marcus Thomas had laid off the GHB and stayed with the team, the numbers–horror of horrors–could have been worse. Joe Cohen in the middle did a superb job as malign speed bump, clogging two blockers on the decisive “Gamblin’ Vest” call on the 29.

The rest of the gameplan stayed simple: vary your coverages, let the Heisemens flitter around the backfield. They dared Smith to pull a Mike Vick and make something out of nothing. He didn’t. Who knows what Ohio State’s gameplan was–they met superior athletes bent on annihilation at every turn. We’d love to fall into an old diagnostic rut–no adjustments, no gameplan, hang the offensive coordinator blah blah–but Florida’s defense played with the mania of a suicide cult last night. Ohio State could have had Mike Leach pulling the levers for them on the sidelines in Glendale. Tears were an inevitability.

–Speaking of that call: we’ll own up and say that despite our cool veneer, we’re shitty at gambling. Horrible. Like, Nick-Leeson-bad gambling horrible. We bet out of turn at blackjack tables. We make ill-conceived, suicidal bluffs in Texas Hold-’em. We’ll spare you any details of a late-blooming love affair with roulette (like your uncle, we’ve got a system that can’t be beat!!!) Give us five hundred dollars, and we will perform a magic trick by turning it into eleven watery gin and tonics floating in the belly mixed with our own tears.

Thus, we sympathize with Jim Tressel, another bad gambler. Going for it on your own 29 does not necessarily indicate the presence of a hopelessly inexpert wagerer. Doing it on a straight up announced run into the teeth of an all-negating defense does. Tressel could have faked a punt, or run a trick play, or done something to indicate that if you’re going to go crazy, you might as well get Houston Nutt-crazy with it. Instead: stodgy, wholesome run up the middle. High in vitamins and fiber; low in payoff.

Sweatervest, we await you at the two dollar tables in Tunica. We’ll be the ones weeping.

(Chris…we’re so sorry. We’re so, so sorry.)

And it’s not that Ohio State was bad–they were pathetic. Odious. Null. Reeking. Inert. They had no answer, no adjustments, no nothing. Alex Boone and Kirk Barton spent all night reaching backwards into the void where Derrick Harvey and Jarvis Moss should have been, and instead turning over to look at Troy Smith, eyes wide as dinner plates, turning away from one 270 lb. man attempting to kill him to find another 270 lb. beast running at him with 4.7 speed. His line becomes a paragraph unto itself:

Troy Smith: 4-14, 35 yards. 0 TDs, 1 INT. Sacks: 5

Heisman! UF outplayed them in every single facet of the game. No Ted Ginn excuses, no blown calls, nothing. Florida kicked ass until their toes fell off. It was like watching a small animal get crushed between two glaciers. It was like watching Roy Jones in his prime boxing an Olsen twin. It was like watching Clarence Darrow squaring off against Starr Jones in the courtroom. It was defeat, served rare, with a side of raw loss.

And for us: scoreboard, bitches. Scoreboard. We. Win.

Our weekend schedule will include the following tasks:

1. Purchase live chicken. Sacrifice to Danny Wuerffel shrine while deboning and dropping immediately into Fry Daddy for lunch.

2. Sell all stocks in Columbus real estate in anticipation of Buckeye festivities.

Nothing, officer. Just on a stroll, that’s all. Yes, I would like some pepper spray. It tickles.

3. Get defibrillator charged and ready for the inevitable Chris Leak Gaffe of Astonishing Terror, which we predict will happen in the third quarter. Prep TCOAN and bar staff on proper voltage, placement of paddles, and conductive gel use.

4. Meet business contact Lucifer Beelzebub to complete signover of alleged “soul” in exchange for a Florida victory. Play a quick 18 at East Lake Country Club afterwards to celebrate deal.

5. Buy new in-game crash helmet.

6. Scout local curbsides for toss-away couches for West Virginia-style potential celebration.

7. Reflect that leading up to this game, it’s oh so quiet. Maybe too quiet.

Enjoy the weekend. We begin bleeding from the eyes with anticipation on Sunday. See you then.