Football Media Daze

On my calendar, it was the 2006 Florida Sportswriters Association Coaches' Media Days, the once-a-year confab that brings together head coaches from all twelve of Florida's football-playing colleges and universities. For my wife and I, it was a free weekend without children. Done and done.

New venue this year, the Marriott Waterside in Tampa. We wandered downstairs after our arrival on Friday night and ran into Rubin Carter, now entering his second year as the head coach at Florida A&M. Carter played 12 years in the NFL with the Broncos, winning the AFC West five times and appearing in two Super Bowls. He was the first black All-American at Miami. At Stranahan High School in Fort Lauderdale, he set a state shot put record that stood for fifteen years.

After chatting with him on Friday night, my wife asked me what he did before he got into coaching.

"Rubin Carter," I said, "was a baaaad man. Professionally."

In 1977, Carter was featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated as the prototypical nose guard in the "new" 3-4 defense. Paul Kennedy and I commented to him at dinner that he must have fifteen framed copies of that cover on display at his house.

"Nah," he said, with perfect comic timing. "Twenty-five."

I made a mental note to repeat that line on Sunday, when I introduced Carter at the podium.

On Saturday morning, Larry Coker looks tired. He always looks tired, of course, but on this particular Saturday, he looks even more tired than usual.

First of all, he arrived alone. One thing you have to understand about the FSWA Media Days: no coach arrives alone. Ever. The head coaches who attend this annual summer media gathering are always escorted by somebody from the sports information department. Jim Leavitt of USF had two SID's with him, but then again, it was a home game for the Bulls.

Steve McClain brought Urban Meyer. Rob Wilson brought Bobby Bowden. The FAU contingent surrounding Howard Schnellenberger was at least five deep. Even Lamont Massie, the youthful-looking head coach at Edward Waters College of Jacksonville, arrived with an assistant, and Edward Waters' annual football budget is about twelve dollars. Nobody shows up alone.

Except, Coker did. He was one of the first coaches to speak on Saturday morning, and he was by himself.

I'm sure there was no news value to this. Most likely, it was just a matter of scheduling for Mark Pray, the Hurricanes' exceptional football SID. But it's just a little weird to see a head coach like Larry Coker arrive sans entourage. It was, I don't know, ominous. Lonely. A coach on an island. I'm just sayin'. Plus, he looked tired.

In three years of hosting the FSWA Media Days with Sun Sports, I've interviewed Coker several times, and this was the first time that I detected strain. Mind you, he went 53-9 in his first five years as the head coach at Miami. But after back-to-back 9-3 seasons, a loss to Florida State last year, and LSU's blowout of the 'Canes at the Peach Bowl, the heat is on, and you can feel it. This never ceases to amaze me. He's turned over his coaching staff - the surest sign imaginable that a head coach is staving off his own execution - and the bluster over Willie Williams and the kid who "returned fire" still simmers on the message boards. Coker looks tired - tired of answering the same questions, tired of assuring the media and the fickle fan base that Miami is still Miami. I think he was happy to go early on Saturday and beat a path back to south Florida.

Fifty freaking three and nine. This is a strange business, this college football.

The real star of Saturday's festivities was George O'Leary, who will soon be featured in an episode of "Under The Lights" on Sun Sports, debuting August 4th and repeating throughout the month. O'Leary is one of those coaches who has flat-out seen and heard everything, and honestly doesn't care what you think. In fact, he said as much, responding to a question from Emily Badger of the Orlando Sentinel - "I care what you (in the media) write, but I really don't." In a nice way. You had to be there. Brought the house down.

The hot topic of O'Leary's media session turned out to be the on again, off again series with Interstate 4 rival USF, a cross-state rivalry that O'Leary unequivocally favors. "I'll sign the contract right now," he offered. UCF plays Florida and USF in consecutive weeks this season, and O'Leary welcomes the idea of routinely squaring off against any of the six other Division I programs in the state. Mike Bianchi addressed USF's position in his Orlando Sentinel column on Sunday, but it boils down to this: USF, playing in a BCS league as a member of the Big East, doesn't seem anxious to extend the series with UCF, which toils in Conference USA. Bianchi calls it "arrogance" on the part of South Florida, as if the Bulls view themselves already on a much higher plane than the Golden Knights; I didn't see that quite as clearly as he did.

When USF's Leavitt was asked about it on Sunday morning - a line of questioning prompted by O'Leary's enthusiastic endorsement the day before - he dodged, muttering something about "not being nearly as involved in scheduling as I used to be." That's pretty sketchy. Leavitt, the only coach USF has ever known, is, according to his own bio at the school's website, the "alpha and omega" of Bulls football. There's no way he's out of the loop when it comes to scheduling. Personally, I think he's got no problem with playing UCF, but somebody above him does, and Leavitt, ever the company man, has no intention of tossing his AD under the media bus. Whatever the conversations behind closed doors, the "I-4 War" is a game that we college football fans in Florida deserve. As Bianchi correctly pointed out, it sells zillions of tickets and builds a tradition of rivalry.

On the topic of rivalries, Meyer managed to get through his entire Saturday session without any reference to "the school out west," but he did introduce a new catch-phrase that quickly hit the message boards: Florida Nonsense. As soon as he said it, he backpedaled off it, extending the analogy to "Ohio State Nonsense" or "Notre Dame Nonsense." Florida Nonsense was vaguely explained as somehow related to Chris Leak getting roped into claiming at the SEC Media Days that 50 touchdown passes was his goal this season.

Here's my take, and I was sitting two feet away from Meyer on the podium when he said it: "Florida Nonsense" refers to the incessant pounding from the Gator media for any scrap of story. Tebow, Leak, Atkins, the SEC, what have you - there are so many radio stations, newspapers, and internet sites competing for scoop on Florida that Meyer feels it necessary to marshall his troops and carefully guard the message, which Florida does a pretty fair job at anyway. The coach's perception of the media manufacturing a story for the sake of copy is, in his words, "Florida Nonsense." In his view, the time and energy required to answer media inquiries on these non-stories takes away from the higher purpose, which is winning.

Once upon a time, another Florida head coach called it "noise in the system." Same thing.

Meyer was late arriving and quick to leave, on his way up to Jacksonville aboard Gator Nation One for another engagement. Isn't this the same coach who said last summer that he was going to get control of the speaking-tour schedule? His dance card still looks pretty full to me.

On Sunday, as predicted, the "twenty-five" line killed during my Rubin Carter intro. I'm sure you were wondering.

The stars of Sunday came back to back: Alvin Wyatt of Bethune-Cookman and Bobby Bowden. Wyatt, resplendent in his trademark beige silk leisure suit and sunglasses, was simply on fire. He riffed on everything from his new friendship with Carter - "the first FAMU head coach who would actually speak to me" - to his paycheck, which he claims is the lowest in the MEAC. Had great comments on Florida transfer Taurean Charles: "I don't know what happened to him at Florida, I don't want to know what happened to him at Florida. All I know is, Bethune-Cookman College is blessed to have such a man in its program." He spoke with an ease befitting the third-longest tenured coach in the state (behind Bowden and Leavitt, go look it up), a man who took a team of freshmen and sophomores to a 7-4 record last year and the 9th-best rushing offense in I-AA football.

Fascinating sidenote about transfers: according to Wyatt, B-CC has a hard time convincing blue-chip transfers at offensive skill positions to come to Daytona Beach because of the "Wyattbone" offense, which compels quarterbacks and wideouts to run and block far more than they'll ever throw and catch. Defense, no problem - witness Charles - but offense, he can't get any kid who hopes to someday play on Sunday. Something to chew on. Anyway, Wyatt was great.

But nobody - NOBODY - can work a room like Bobby Bowden. I don't care what side of the fence you inhabit. The man can flat-out ruminate.

In no particular order, Bowden discussed: how much he hates playing Miami first, and the likelihood of moving them on the schedule; how easy his life would be if he had a team full of Myron Rolles; the Jacksonville Bulls' desire to hire him into the old USFL, which Bowden turned down despite the prospect of tripling his salary; his distaste for calling recruits on the phone unless his staff asks him to; how Howard Schnellenberger could have been right next to him in wins had Howard remained at Miami; the cyclical nature of Florida's Big Three; and the pressures of coaching as it relates to his son Jeff, the offensive coordinator at Florida State. It was a virtuoso performance, an hour that felt like fifteen minutes. Rival fans that "hate" Bobby Bowden have never heard him speak in person, for as Bianchi said later, "you simply cannot hate that man."

Of course, the Prairie Home Companion act won't do anything to help your running game, but it was still fun to watch.

The Tailgate Saturday crew will produce a FSWA Coaches' Media Days special on Sun Sports airing throughout the month of August, so you'll have a chance to see many of these coaches on the microphone. See you on TV.

A Tournament For The Worst

One sunny Saturday in September of 2002, I flat-out skanked an 80-yard lob wedge over the green on the 18th hole at Alling Memorial Golf Course in New Haven, Connecticut. Thus ended my most recent foray into tournament golf.

When I say "tournament golf," I'm not talking about your weekend Nassau with your buddies, or even your club championship. I'm talking about down and dirty, USGA rules, marshalls on the course, an entry fee, the whole nine yards. History will record that your reporter - despite my brain fart on the 36th and final hole of the event - still managed rounds of 75 and 76 to finish 11th in a field of over 90 players in the 2002 Connecticut State Public Links Championship. That was the last time I attempted to play golf at anything resembling a competitive level. Until this week.

The Florida State Public Links Championship, like its Connecticut sibling, is open to any amateur golfer with a handicap lower than six and without a membership at a private club. The 2006 FSGA "Publinx" was to be staged at Grande Pines Golf Club in Orlando, a long, narrow, highly penal track nestled among the timeshares and t-shirt shops of International Drive. Armed with the inflated confidence of a summer full of scores in the 70's, and with my handicap hovering under four - an all-time best for me - I signed up. One week prior to the tournament, I played a practice round at Grande Pines with a few of my buddies and shot 77. Bought a yardage book, filled it with notes on strategy and club selection, spent the next few days sweating buckets on the driving range, and arrived in the parking lot on Friday ready for action. Or so I thought.

FRIDAY, JULY 21 - ROUND 1

I'm already running late. I hate that.

Arrived at the course at 8:30am for my 9:21am tee time, without breakfast. Farted around in the parking lot, found my cart - the FSGA asks that players ride, which I also hate, but I understand it, given the probability of heat stroke in Florida in July - and walked to the range to warm up.

First rule of golf with me: the skill and command I display on the practice tee prior to a round of golf is inversely proportional to my level of success during the round itself. This is an incommutable law, and cannot be argued. Bad news: I'm striping it on the range. Every club responds like I gave birth to it. I've got a bad feeling about this.

Armed with my trusty margin-filled yardage book, I step to the first tee - the tenth at Grande Pines - to chat with my playing partners for the day. Jacob is a 19-year-old behemoth from Melbourne who plays for Brevard Community College. Bruce is an independent businessman from Ocala. Neither of them have any clue who I am, which relieves me. The elderly volunteer from the FSGA announces each of our names as we place peg in ground. Not quite the same charge as the guy from the R&A who belts out players' names at the British Open every year, but cool nonetheless.

Jacob is first, and he nukes a three-wood into downtown Kissimmee. I'm second to play, hitting driver. The hardest shot in tournament golf, for an amateur like me, is the first one. Jangled nerves, tense shoulders, a hop in my step. My immediate goal is to get the damn thing airborne and get out of here.

Which, inexplicably, I do. A little draw, three feet into the rough on the left side. Then, just to make it interesting, I knock a five-iron to ten feet and sink the birdie putt.

So I'm one under par after one hole. The leader on the course. Thoughts of turning pro have crossed my mind. I bogey the next two, but birdie the par-5 13th, my fourth hole of the day. Even par after four. What's so tough about this game?

In every round, there comes a tipping point, and for me, it was the 7th hole of the day, the 16th on the card, a 400-yard dogleg right. My drive hooks over the trouble and into Position "A" in the middle of the fairway. From that point, with a six-iron in hand and a green light, I proceed to rope-hook one into a greenside bunker. No explanation, no excuse. The sound you hear is the wheels coming off.

I honestly cannot say that I was nervous to be playing tournament golf again. Sure, I was tight, but the fact is, I simply did not execute. For that matter, nobody in my threesome did much executing; we recorded two 82's and my scintillating 86, a number that sounds much worse than it felt. More sleep, less sleep, more work on the putting green - who knows what I needed. Once I reached plus-ten, my golf brain shut down in self-defense. It was a race to finish and get the hell out of there.

I should point out that I was far from the bottom of the first-round leaderboard. Two guys turned in scorecards that read triple-digits - and remember, the handicap limit for this tournament is around six. There were dozens of scores in the 80's. Had I actually played to my handicap, I would be in the top-ten right now. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. There's always tomorrow.

SATURDAY, JULY 22 - ROUND 2

I think I set my goals a little too high for this thing.

My target number for the first two days of this three-day event was 150 - as in, two rounds averaging 75. Had I actually accomplished that - and all it required after the first-round 86 was a second-round 64 (chuckle) - I would be sitting pretty in the Championship Flight on Sunday, maybe seven shots off the lead. However, my two-day total of 168 (82 in the second round, highlighted by an aggravating double bogey-bogey-double bogey finish) still had me in the upper two-thirds of the 100-man field. There are only two explanations for this outrageous error in math:

1. I seriously overestimated the relative talent of the field, including me; or
2. I seriously underestimated how tough Grande Pines would play from the way-back tees, firing to pins placed in utterly evil positions.

The good news is, I sucked on the range before I played, so my confidence was high. I also putted better than day one, and ran off a nice string of pars in the middle of the round. But for the third straight day on this particular golf course - two tournament rounds and one practice round a week earlier - I fell apart over the last three holes. I'm starting to understand why Vijay and Tiger spend all that time punishing themselves with personal trainers. It's not how you start; it's how you finish. I think I'm 12 over par on those three holes this week. Perhaps an energy bar would be in order for Sunday's final round.

The FSGA Public Links is flighted after two days, so my 168 total places me in the Second Flight (or, as I call it, the Losers' Bracket), competing against other players who shot similar numbers. I'm three shots off the lead in my particular grouping, a mere 20 shots back overall. I can't hit a 4-iron, 5-iron, fairway wood, or hybrid to save my life, and my short game is a coin toss from hole to hole. Other than that, I really like my chances on Sunday.

Bruce shot 88 on the second day. Jacob rallied for a 78, which included a triple-bogey. Jacob is in the First Flight, one step below the Championship group; Bruce will slog it out with me in the Second Flight. We have agreed that it's probably a good thing that we don't do this for a living.

SUNDAY, JULY 23 - FINAL ROUND

By the time I finish, Tiger Woods is hoisting the Claret Jug as the 2006 British Open champion. He need not look over his shoulder to see if the TV guy from Orlando is coming.

Let's focus on the positive: I sucked on the range again, so I felt good off the first tee. I played holes 2 through 8 in one under par, including a birdie on the 210-yard 7th hole. I parred the 18th. Other than that, well, it was the worst day of golf that I can remember. Really.

Where to start? How about the first hole, which I tripled. Pulled a drive into the rough, got stuck behind a mountainous tuft of sawgrass, took a penalty drop, punched out, knocked the next shot into a greenside bunker, blasted onto the green, two putts. Yep, that adds up to seven. The ensuing seven-hole stretch of sub-par brilliance was quickly ruined on the 9th hole, where I struck a lone pine tree so solidly with my tee shot that nobody in the group had any idea where it landed. It might still be rolling. Re-tee with a penalty shot, into the fairway in three, hit the green, two putts. Yep, six.

The back nine? Hell, I can't even talk about it. It started with another double-bogey - at some point on Sunday, my driver tendered its resignation and excused itself from my bag - and then got worse, if you can imagine. No greens hit in regulation on the back nine until the 18th hole. There was even a rare and mysterious quad on my scorecard. Right side, left side, chunks, blades, you name it. I made every short putt that I looked at, which was nice - the downside being, most of those putts were for some number higher than 5. It was so bad that I couldn't even get angry. "Mystified" is a better word.

Here's the difference between the golf we play and the golf the pros play: in tournament golf, everything is by the book. Hit one into the water? Fine. There's a very specific set of rules that govern where you may drop a ball, and your buddy hollering "just toss one down right there" does not factor into any of them. There are no gimmes, either, no matter how close you came to making that 30-footer, no matter how many strokes it required to get you to that point, and no matter how desperately you wish for your playing partner to mumble, "that's good."

It's not good. Not until you put the damn ball into the hole.

There's a life lesson in there somewhere, I suppose. We can send our kids to schools that do not issue grades, we can reward "almost," we can accept "close enough," but we're doing ourselves a disservice in the process. At some point, the ball has to go into the hole, and every stroke counts. There's no gray area. In that sense, three days of intense competition at a game I adore might serve me well, someday. Right now, I'm just glad it's over.

Jacob rallied for a 76 on Sunday, his best round of the week, to tie for second in the First Flight. John Veneziano of Mount Dora won the state title with rounds of 72, 71, and 71 - those final two scores being the only sub-par rounds among the entire field all three days. And as bad as I felt on Sunday afternoon, I still beat 14 other guys in the Second Flight.

On the bright side, my kids still like me, college football season is coming soon, and I'm not quite ready to take up tennis. If I'm lucky, I might even stink up another driving range later this week.

Three Seconds Vs. Offsides

On Friday, during an otherwise nondescript meeting at the Orlando headquarters of Sun Sports, I came up with something that I thought was mildly brilliant.

It happened to be a planning meeting for the upcoming season of Orlando Magic basketball on Sun Sports, but somehow, the conversation turned to soccer. Context: we were discussing better ways of explaining fouls and violations on the air, and one of the attendees at the meeting - Vitor, a big-time soccer guy - used the World Cup as an analogy.

Vitor pointed out that during the World Cup, the American announcers worked extremely hard to detail the rules of the game, assuming - correctly, as I have discussed in this space before - that many viewers could use the refresher course. Once the meeting was over, I pulled him aside in order to test my own theoretically brilliant analogy.

"Vitor," I said, "do you understand the NBA's three-second violation?"

He said that he did.

I continued: "Don't you think that the offsides rule in soccer is, in fact, a version of basketball's three-second rule?"

Look at it logically. Offsides in soccer, as I understand it, occurs when an offensive player is nearer the opponent's goal than any opposing non-goalie prior to the ball being "served" or kicked towards the goal area. The rule makes sense; without it, a team could stack offensive players close to the opposing goal and wait for the long pass.

Doesn't that sound like a three-second violation? "Three seconds" is called in the NBA when an offensive player camps out in the paint. Same idea. Were either tactic legal, coaches would simply shuttle their best offensive players into an area close to the goal, with instructions to wait for the home run pass. Imagine what Shaq's career scoring average would be if there were no three-second violation.

So my allegedly brilliant theory was this: if World Cup referees were empowered to call "three seconds," or something similar, in place of the phrase "offsides," American fans - and all soccer fans - would easily get it. I nearly sprained my shoulder patting myself on the back with this insight.

Vitor smiled, and agreed with me. Then he added this: "Actually, I think it would be better if the NBA got rid of 'three seconds' and just called it 'offsides.' Because that's basically what it is."

Damn you, Vitor. Damn you.

Wouldn't that be GREAT in basketball? Further, shouldn't NBA refs be required to announce the violation to the crowd, just like the NFL?

"Offsides. Number 32, Heat. Magic ball."

Just trying to make the world a better place for sports fans.

By George

I'm tired, and I'm cranky.

Coming off the long 4th of July holiday weekend, I stuffed myself into a middle seat on a Delta freightcar on Wednesday for the 90-minute flight to Atlanta, a journey that was repeated in reverse - with a window seat this time - about 30 hours later. Two flights in two days, coupled with enough rain in central Florida to blow my golf plans for the foreseeable future, have left me fighting off a cold and desperate for a full night's sleep. Hence, tired and cranky.

One bright spot: I bought a copy of Chuck Klosterman's book, "Killing Yourself To Live," at Hartsfield Airport and finished it by the time we landed in Orlando. If you have ever argued about the relative merits of one rock band versus another, fondly remember your summers in between semesters at college, and chuckled at the writings of the late Hunter S. Thompson, you'll love Klosterman's writing. Plus, he's a basketball guy at heart, and he randomly sprinkles NBA references into his narrative. So there's that.

ANYWAY, I flew to Georgia for a reason (read that book and you'll see why the previous sentence is insightfully clever). After many weeks of planning, the Sun Sports crew caught UCF head coach George O'Leary at his vacation home on Lake Oconee, halfway between Atlanta and Augusta, for a lengthy interview. We'll be producing another episode of "Under The Lights" on O'Leary and UCF football this August. Based on what I heard this week, I'm already looking forward to it.

Background: when O'Leary was the head coach at Georgia Tech, he found a little patch of heaven on Lake Oconee on which to build his summer retreat. The property is attached to the massive Reynolds Plantation development, home to five EXCELLENT golf courses and one Ritz-Carlton hotel, all of which I enjoyed with my wife a couple of summers ago. O'Leary shares lakefront real estate with Virginia Tech coach Frank Beamer and Maryland coach Ralph Friedgen, among others. It's a tight little circle up in the Georgia lake country, a place where a coach can find a little peace and quiet among friends and family.

The cast for this production includes Friedgen, Sharon O'Leary (his wife), Trish O'Leary (daughter), Pete O'Leary (his older brother, a former cop from Long Island), and the coach himself. Your interviewer is, well, me.

Brother Pete and Coach Friedgen mostly told George stories, of which there are plenty. Pete's got a doozy about schoolboy George getting caught playing with matches after being specifically warned against it by Momma O'Leary, who had threatened to send him off to reform school for a second offense. Little George, taking his mother at her word, tearfully packed his bags, put on his hat and coat, and sat on the front steps waiting for the paddy wagon, while suffering the taunts of his sister - there were eight kids in George's house - who said simply, "he's gotta go." Hearing Pete tell the story is enough to make a TV guy fall off his chair laughing.

Friedgen, who worked with O'Leary on the Georgia Tech coaching staff, has a great one about hopping a flight with George to go see a football recruit play a basketball game in New Jersey. It was the dead of winter, and Friedgen didn't want to go. George, in a recurring theme, talked him into it.

So the plane is on final approach, and O'Leary notices that something is wrong. The captain leaves the cockpit and starts poking his head through a hatch in the floor of the cabin - never a good sign. They wave off from Newark and pass over LaGuardia, then Westchester. O'Leary correctly surmises that the landing gear won't lock into position. The plane banks over Long Island Sound and starts dumping fuel. Emergency vehicles are marshalling on the ground below them. There's gonna be a belly landing, no question about it.

Just before the crew asks the passengers to assume the position, George O'Leary turns to Ralph Freidgen - who, as you'll recall, never wanted to be on this damn plane in the first place - offers his hand, and says solemnly, "good luck."

Friedgen's response is completely and totally unprintable, but it involves performing an impossible physical act. Thankfully, both men can laugh about it now. Obviously, the plane landed safely.

Two words that have come up over and over again in the course of these interviews are "loyalty" and "trust." From his family, to his longtime friends, to figures like UCF President John Hitt, former AD Steve Orsini, and NFL coach Mike Tice - who played high school football for O'Leary on Long Island and later hired him at Minnesota - there is no shortage of people who will gladly eat dirt for George O'Leary. I asked his daughter for a reason, and with a shrug, she said, "he gets what he gives." O'Leary himself told us that over the course of his coaching life, he's figured out that helping someone achieve a goal - like, for example, supporting Friedgen when it came time for Ralph to leave George's staff at Tech and take the Maryland job - will often come around. Maybe that's pragmatism, but it's as good a reason for loyalty as any. You get what you give, and what goes around comes around. At the end, we call it loyalty.

The concept of "trust" is a loaded question when discussing the football side of George O'Leary. In truth, we were hesitant about bringing up the Notre Dame situation. Our cameraman offered me five bucks if I even spoke the word "resume'" during the interview. As it turned out, I didn't have to bring it up, because O'Leary did so on his own.

His stance on the Notre Dame "debacle" (his brother's term) is well-documented: it was a long time ago, it was a young man's mistake, it was dumb. What was intriguing was how he responded to the firestorm, which was by returning to this same lake house in Georgia. From all across the country, his forces assembled - Pete from New York, other brothers from other directions. Mike Tice was one of the few phone calls O'Leary would take. Loyalty. In situations like these, you learn quickly who your friends are.

After a day or two of group therapy, however, O'Leary basically kicked everybody out of the house. He had, in his words, "become something I despised," which he explained as a man feeling sorry for himself. O'Leary despises excuses. He has no time for those who consider themselves victims. The Notre Dame deal set him back for all of a week, after which he made the choice to move forward. See, you can't trust people who feel sorry for themselves, and George O'Leary is very, very big on trust. So he quit feeling sorry for himself.

One thing leads to another. His mother, who was quite obviously the soul of his household before she passed, used to tell him that God never closes one door without opening another. The next time Mike Tice called, it was to offer him a job on the Vikings' staff. Couple of years later, UCF - the "sleeping giant" of 45,000 kids in the heart of the most fertile recruiting grounds in America - knocks on the door. 0-11 one year, a bowl game in Hawaii on Christmas Day the next, "a year ahead of schedule," according to O'Leary. Everybody and their brother is picking UCF to win its division in Conference USA this year. Looking ahead, the dirt has already been turned on campus for a new football stadium. Texas will open with the Golden Knights in the fall of 2007, and good luck getting a ticket. So here we are, on the shores of Lake Oconee, with a basement full of Georgia Tech memorabilia, sipping Diet Cokes with Sharon and Trish, shaking our heads at how it all played out.

Sometimes this job is pretty cool.

At around the same time that the O'Leary "Under The Lights" episode debuts, we'll start cranking out our fourth season of "Chevy Tailgate Saturday" college football programming, with Terry Norvelle and Brady Ackerman joining me on the set to preview the upcoming season. On Saturday, September 9th, George O'Leary will take his UCF Golden Knights on the road to face the Florida Gators at the Swamp. The two programs have only met once before. It was 1999, and the Gators rolled the Knights to the tune of 58-27.

Here's my first fearless prediction for the 2006 college football season: this year's game will be closer. A hell of a lot closer than most Gator fans think.

A few months ago, in yet another interview, UCF's John Hitt cited top-25 upstarts like Louisville and Fresno State as programs that UCF can hope to emulate. While in Georgia, Pete O'Leary told me that his brother has an even higher goal, one that he shares with nobody outside his circle. I'm going to respect Pete's confidence in me and keep it to myself. All I can tell you is this: I'm looking forward to seeing how this chapter in George O'Leary's football career plays out.

And as I discovered on the shores of Lake Oconee, I am not alone.