I got two words to explain why this isn’t Jim McElwain: Foundational strength.
When you look at the tape, it’s clear that whoever this is has real elite potential along the line. Strong lower body. Good thickness, a great base to work with all around. Great attitude, and a sense of humor that teammates love.
Some people say that the eyes are the window to the soul. I respectfully disagree. It’s the butt. Show me a person’s butt, and I’ll show you their entire life. People get squeamish about that because the butt is the truth. And people, as Colonel Jessup says in the famous film Ironically Written Alpha Males Taken Seriously For Some Reason, sometimes can’t handle the truth about themselves or their butt.
Let’s go to the tape.
First let me tell you something: that is not the ass of a stressed man.
Football coaches work bad hours, eat bad food, and might get a workout on an elliptical in every day, if they’re lucky. That generates a prime case of stress-induced shelf-ass, a duckbutted slide from the top of the erector spinae down to the upper thigh. I call it THE MALIBU LANDSLIDE: it wipes out the foundations of your house, but everyone still laughs and points at it.
THE MALIBU LANDSLIDE looks like a topo map of Kansas turned on its side. It’s flat, hopeless, and bad at football.
This man, though. This ass has no worries! That’s a steakhouse ass. That’s a man who can push some groceries. That’s the ass of a man who drinks a bottle of expensive wine a night. That’s a seat-wobbler, a first class cabin seat-wrecker, a proper khaki-stretcher. That’s a Dockersbuster right there, an advertisement for the American Dairy Association and all the great, creamy butter it injects directly into the veins of our fellow citizens.
That ass is untroubled by life. It’s a cherub’s ass, if a cherub had thirty Long John Silver’s franchises in the tri-state area and a hot tub with a hidden beer fridge in it.
That ass has two ex-wives, and is on speaking terms with one of them. It’s a Charles Barkley-level leisure beacon. If you see it, there has to be a Corvette, trophy animal, or pontoon boat within 800 yards of it. That ass has bad credit, a winning smile, and a pocket full of cash. (That it’s taking to the track, but for now: cash.)
That’s not the ass of a football coach. I’m sorry to disappoint, but it’s just not. This ass isn’t thinking about overload blitzes, or how it’s going to get through the season with eight wins. This ass is thinking about sandwiches. This ass is as carefree as a pony in a spring meadow. It feels none of your sorrows, and never will.
This ass can’t be Jim McElwain’s for three more reasons. One, it’s clearly the ass of a Falstaffian man who has a love of posing nude with animals, and doesn’t take himself very seriously. Two, Jim McElwain is not that guy. Not a bit. Like, not even a little bit like that at all.
Three: That appears to be a five-star grade shark. Unless that’s Martez Ivey or CeCe Jefferson in a shark suit—two players whose recruitment was primarily handled by the Will Muschamp coaching staff—it can’t be Jim McElwain. Jim McElwain doesn’t catch those.