When you're nearing death, and you know you're nearing death, I assume you will want another chance. The hope for second chances will still be in you as you draw your last breath. Good or bad, rich or poor, I'm convinced this will be so.
Being "of a certain age" means that when I was younger, and my mind wandered and deflected from here to there, I wasn't "diagnosed" with anything. Someone hollering "Calm your ass down!" was my verbal Ritalin.
The NCAA hasn't revealed the news just yet, but I will soon be named as the organization's new Commissioner Of All Things (COAT). As such, I need to go ahead and lay out a few of my first items of business, once the NCAA makes the news official.
Tom Herman is the "new guy" around here, so consequently, he needs a translator. Since I've been occupying this particular space for more than 12 years now, I'm uniquely qualified for the role, and am thus hiring myself. You're welcome.
The video is about 21 minutes long, and probably best viewed in fast forward, without audio. Three very serious men in dark blazers, sitting behind a clean blue table, are reading apologies, looking for all the world like they wish they could strip off their blazers and head to The Grove for a julep.
Guy V. Lewis sat at his desk and crammed his old hand into a cooler of ice, fishing out a frigid can of beer, wiping off the residue and cracking open his post-game elixir with the obligatory "ker-SHUSH."
Your high school son - let's call him Luke - is 6-3, 215 pounds and can throw a football with the violence of John Elway and the touch of Tom Brady. He's good-looking like his momma, who he loves dearly, of course. He's smart, too, a teammate more coveted than ice cream in July.