I’m going to cut right to the chase. I’ve been workshopping this article since Bill Belichick was pulled out of retirement by the siren song of one of the most epic midlife crises in the history of modern
man, and I’m not going to let Dabo and Clemson’s musty football program steal my joy. Trust me, I’ve got plenty to say on that front, but I’ll save it for another day. I don’t think anyone needs to be reminded about the utterly depressing state of the program. All you have to do is watch a game.
Instead, I’m going to go with my original idea and roast North Carolina because I’m not sure there is another team (outside of Clemson?) in the country that deserves to be roasted like the Tar Heels. I can’t pass up this opportunity; I’m confident this will be my only opportunity.
Let’s get after it.
Bill Belichick was so caught up in coaching NFL football that he missed the standard age window when most men realize they may, in fact, not be immortal, and soothe themselves by growing a goatee and buying a sports car, or, in the worst-case scenario, a motorcycle that will eventually precipitate their end-of-life crisis. He could be out on the open road with questionable facial hair, and his pony-tailed skullet trailing behind him in the wind like a flag of coaching freedom. He could be stopping at quaint roadside diners and soaking up the adoration of the stunned patrons as an in-the-flesh football legend sits next to them and enjoys a slice of blueberry pie with a steaming cup of black, but not burnt, coffee. The world, as they say, was Bill’s post-retirement oyster.
The thing is, when Bill pried his oyster open, instead of getting a taste of the briny Atlantic Ocean, he took a big swallow of something that tasted like a ripe porta-potty smells. If you’ve ever had the privilege of attending an oyster roast, you know what I’m talking about. Now and then, you tip back an oyster and have to hit the eject button immediately. Sure, you rinse your mouth out with the nearest available beverage, the higher proof, the better, but the taste sticks in the back of your brain, if not the back of your palate. That’s Bill’s life at the moment. He’s being forced to gulp down rancid oysters every Saturday afternoon this fall.
This, as with most of the ills in society today, is Tom Brady’s fault, and it all ties back to professional wrestling. Hang with me while I lay it out for you. First, you’re going to need some background information:
The Rockers
Marty Jannetty and Shawn Michaels broke into the big leagues of professional wrestling together as a tag team called “The Rockers.” They were the quintessential 80’s face (good guy) tag team. They wore the wrestling gear equivalent of Zubaz, tied streamers around their biceps, and sported immaculately quaffed mullets.
Their matches followed a time-tested formula: The baddies would seize the upper hand, trap one of the fresh-faced heroes in the ring, and then employ all sorts of nefarious tactics to prevent the beating recipient (usually Marty, but occasionally Shawn) from tagging out. After several near misses, the beaten-down good guy gathers whatever strength he has remaining and finally makes the elusive “hot tag”. The wrestler who has been waiting on the outside hits the ring on fire, clears out the baddies. Miraculously, the wrestler, who moments before appeared on the verge of death, recovers, and together they dispatch the bad guys.
Generally speaking, the best part about tag team wrestling is the inevitable breakup, followed by a blood feud. For the Rockers, the breakup happened on an episode of “The Barber Shop.” The Barber shop was a pure 80s fever dream that involved wrestlers being interviewed during a show in a staged barber shop (with obligatory candy cane pole) by fellow grappler Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake (a wrestling barber/talk show host).
Tensions had been running high in the Rockers’ camp, and as one does when things go awry, they turned to the wrestling barber to help them work out their differences and find common ground. It looked like Brutus was about to add “relationship counselor” to his already impressive resume after Marty and Shawn hugged it out. Then, out of nowhere, the dastardly Shawn Michaels, adorned in a black leather jacket and pants and nothing else, super kicked his former best friend through the faux glass window of The Barber Shop.
Eleven-year-old Drew was both shocked and outraged.
To make a long story short, after the split and subsequent feud (which was a giant dud because Marty kept getting in trouble outside the ring), Michaels went on to become one of the most acclaimed wrestlers in the history of the business, main eventing multiple Wrestle Manias before calling it quits and moving over to the production side where he’s still cashing huge checks today as new WWE “chief content officer” Paul Levesque’s (fka Tripple H) right hand man.
At the same time, Marty went on to have the most unhinged “Dark Side of the Ring” episode ever produced. If you know anything about professional wrestling, the fact that Marty stands out as being particularly off-kilter should give you an idea about how things went for him after the dissolution of The Rockers.
All of this is to say, when a tag-team breaks up, someone ends up as the Shawn Michaels, and someone ends up as the Marty Jannetty. When Tom Brady went down to Tampa and won a Super Bowl, while Belichick struggled to cobble together a winner in New England, the roles were firmly established. When it came to the Patriots’ dynasty, Tom Brady is the Shawn Michaels, and Bill is the Marty Jannetty.
That’s why the erstwhile, six-time Super Bowl-winning coach is debasing himself on the North Carolina sideline in a desperate attempt to prove to the world that he, in fact, is not the Marty in this situation. The problem with trying to prove you’re not “the Marty” is that, inevitably, you end up proving the opposite. Tom (sans Gisele, of course, there’s still a price to pay for being Shawn) is sitting in the broadcast booth with his wrinkle and emotion-free steam-pressed face, talking about NFL football. Meanwhile, Bill is suffering through the humiliation of getting trounced by a Scott Frost-led UCF team as his 24-year-old girlfriend watches from the sideline with mild interest, while simultaneously choreographing their next TikTok video.
The man had to explain why his team got boat-raced by TCU while standing under a bedazzled arch, which a local high school later used as a backdrop for their senior prom photos. Imagine having millions of dollars in the bank and being forced to watch, much less coach, a team as dreadful as North Carolina. It truly boggles the mind.
That brings me to the game tomorrow, but first, I need to make an apology.
I’m headed to the beach with my wife’s family next week, and I need to get something off my chest.
My brother-in-law, Brent, and I take turns exchanging college football delusions during the off-season. He tries to convince me that this is the year Tennessee returns to its rightful place on top of the SEC and the college football universe, and I wax poetic about Dabo “sticking to his guns” and “doing it the Clemson way.”
Brent, buddy, I’m sorry. You were right and I was wrong. Not only are you a basketball savant, but your ability to pick out a college football fraud is unparalleled (some exclusions may apply, but this isn’t about the Vols). I hang my head in shame and humbly apologize for making you listen to my “Clemson is going to the Natty!” and “Cade for Heisman!” propaganda this summer. After watching the Tigers quit on the field against Louisville last season, I knew the program was cooked. A miracle win over SMU in the ACC Championship game, followed by a somewhat respectable loss against Texas, shouldn’t have changed my mind, but I bought into the hype.
Taps Chest: My bad, my fault.
I look forward to making my case regarding Purdue going undefeated in the upcoming college basketball season over the next few days because I absolutely refuse to learn my lesson. To be fair, I think that’s what you respect the most about me outside of my rugged good looks and congenial personality.
Now Back to the Game
Tomorrow at noon, two of the mustiest programs in college football will take to the field in Chapel Hill for a Tommy Bowden nooner special. One positive of Clemson being absolute cheeks this season is, in theory, having the rest of the day to pursue more enjoyable hobbies, but I can’t even watch my Tigers lose in a timely manner because of the weather, and I’m extremely bitter about the entire situation.
I assume Clemson is going to win because the Tar Heels look like a team in search of a quiet spot to lie down and die, but I’m far from confident. It’s possible that a half-full stadium of North Carolina fans, who undoubtedly paid way too much for their tickets (trust me, I bought Duke tickets in mid-August; I understand that pain), will push their team to victory. Maybe Bill cut back on his hot yoga classes and his-and-her mani/pedi dates and buckled down in the film room for this one.
I have as much confidence in this Clemson team as I do post-chili-cook-off flatulence, but for reasons I don’t understand (perhaps a deep-seated self-loathing?), I can’t look away.
See y’all next week. Be safe out there and (whispers reflexively) …
