Prolific Georgia blogger and blog friend Paul Wall Westerdawg initiated an impromptu BlogPoll Roundtable when he asked which three college football coaches you'd most want to drink with. As I've told you all again and again, I'm kind of a big deal--and not just among San Diego
itesans(?)--so I didn't have a chance to answer the question before the eff-ing roundup got posted. Undeterred, though, here are my answers:
Even though Thursday is the
new acknowledged Friday, if I'm going out on a typical Thursday night during the work week, I don't always know what to expect. Maybe it's just dinner and a beer or two. Maybe it's karaoke. Maybe (and rarely, sadly) it escalates into a full-on bender. It's tough to say. So if I'm drinking with a college football coach on a Thursday, I need a guy with flexible taste whose personality is engaging enough for a dinner and whose demeanor allows for some wilin' out if that's what pops off.
Who fits the description? Probably Pete Carroll. As anyone who's seen Carroll interviewed on any day but Saturday can attest, he is almost scarily catatonic and nonchalant at times:
Pete: Yeah, sometimes we have practice before our games.
Much like Elaine Benes's fascination with Fred--the guy who couldn't remember her or anything significant about her but could remember inconsequential minutiae--I harbor this odd interest in Carroll. How can such a seemingly enthusiastic and creative guy give such horrible interviews? I'd use a Thursday night dinner to scratch this itch, and Carroll and I would probably have a good time making fun of the Sports Guy and his sadly apparent cognitive shortcomings.
And we all know that Pete is down for whatever if that one girl at whom you've been wanting to hollerate calls and tells you to come out.
Friday is the new Sunday.
In college, Friday was great. Like most people who had their minds right, I didn't have classes on Friday after freshman year. Instead, Fridays were all about, um...finding myself. Yeah, that's it, finding myself. There was laundry, which provided me with an outlet for my OCD and allowed me to indulge my passion for folding clothes; there was television, which provided me with an outlet for my idiocy and allowed me to indulge my passion for mindless pop culture; there was my bed, which provided me with an outlet for my laziness and allowed me to indulge my passion for sleeping; and there was Ann Arbor, which provided me with an outlet for my diverse taste and allowed me to indulge my passion for Panchero's.
But now that I have a job which I respect and requires long hours, that's all done. Friday's are now all about attempting to accomplish stuff while my eyes fall out of my head because limited sleep has effectively broken them. By the time work is over each week, all I want to do is go home, throw on some Oliver Saine, and find some free time to internet, talk on the phone, read, and watch the I Love the 80s episodes that are clogging up the DVR. This doesn't happen, of course, as plans are made and being a person ensues, but still, you get the picture.
Given the typical malaise that characterizes world-weary Friday, I think I'm drinking with a low key coach who could entertain me despite my minimal energy output, such as Steve Spurrier. With some coaches, like Lloyd
Spurrier: Not much. Had a good practice today; installed some wrinkles for the UF game.
Me: Yeah, work was kind of "eh" today. I was talking to one guy during lunch--
Spurrier: Well, the best remedy for these boring days is to coach 'em up and score some points. I remember one time, we were playing Kentucky, and by the third quarter, I had lost total interest in the game. It was against Mumme, so I didn't really have to think too much. Anyway, I grabbed Danny on the sidelines, and I say, "Get back in there and let's run that one play where they can't cover us. So he..."
Saturday night needs to introduction, does it? You go out, you have fun, you do stupid stuff, you recover on Sunday. Sounds a lot like how my drinking buddy of choice spends his Saturdays, no? Really, there's only one coach for a Saturday night: Ron Zook, of Florida and Illinoise. He'd know where the best parties were at.