Coach O: Never Forget

Cliff's please

He has grown as a coach. He has a binder now.

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Cliff's please

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Ed O isn't a kiss each player's cheek pussy

Damn ... I would pay good money to see Boom and him go at it.

I think Boom could take him.

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LSU fans, read this again. here, I will say it again: he took a team that had 14 NFL draftees and went 0-8 in the conference

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well he's already won more SEC games at LSU than he did at Ole Miss.

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I think Boom could take him.

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Not a chance in hell

I have not heard this and just read it. I literally laughed for 5 minutes straight reading that shite.

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well he's already won more SEC games at LSU than he did at Ole Miss.

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Here's a little fiction when Coach O attended his 1st SEC media event as the HC of OM.


Wednesdays With Ed

Well, we're all down here at the damn SEC Meetings in Destin and if you think that sounds as fun as a barrel of monkeys, you've never seen Phillip Fulmer in a Speedo.

Now, I am not an easy man to disgust. Sometimes, growing up in hard times on the Hairy Bayou, Mama Orgeron had to put whatever was available in the gumbo pot and ask questions later. And I've BY-GOD seen some things since then. Hell, once we're having Easter dinnrer and I just cough up this finger that I'd bit off a boy who jumped offsides in spring practice a couple of days earlier. Landed right in the yams.

But I got to admit when I heard the Tennessee contingent down by the pool -- they were hollering "what do you mean, you ain't got Jimmy Buffett's version of 'Rocky Top?" -- I was concerned. And, sure enough, there Phil was, lying in these three beach chairs they'd pulled together for him. And then he stands up.

Well, there's a lot of crying and screaming. The weak-arse Starkviller contingent, hell, they just faint dead away. Even my two little boys, Jackie Fargeuax Orgeron and Tojo Yamamoteaux Orgeron, are getting a little puffy-eyed. So !I said to myself "Ed, you are the BY-GOD HEAD COACH at Ole Miss. A great school. The school of ... well, I tried to think of some tough-arse people who went to Ole Miss but could only come up with William Faulkner and that Miss America from 1962, so I just said "Screw it, you're BY-GOD Ed Orgeron!" And I turned and looked square at those cheeks.

Did you ever see one of those big 50-gallon drums of pure lard that they use at the big croaker fryins' they have down in St. Tammany Parish, before they melt that lard down? Well, picture that snow-white lard just sittin' there with an orange shoestring placed squarely down the middle, multiply it by about 30X and you'll get some idea of what I was looking at. Pure white and only one little indentation on it.

"What the hell is that dent?" I asked.

So Mark Richt, who is hiding under a lounge chair, says "That's David Cucliffe's nose print."

Well, we'd been getting a side view but then Fatboy wheels around and we're suddenly facing it STRAIGHT-ON. I turn to Mrs. O and say "Honey, if he had the jalapeno bean dip at the reception last night, we're dead where we stand. So I got to do something!"

"So I yell out that "I am offering FULL FOOTBALL SCHOLARSHIPS TO OLE MISS to the family of any cabana boy who'll find me a beach towel big enough to cover that up with. Hell, I figure any cabana boy who'd even approach it would have to be tough enough to be BY-GOD OLE MISS MATERIAL. But hell, every cabana boy in the place has high-tailed it back to Havana, apparently. SO I go inside to the ballroom and start ripping up the carpet with my bare hands and teeth. I've just about got it pulled up when Mrs. O comes in and yells, "Forget it, Ed! He's headed for the ocean!"

Hell, I ain't a big Destin fan, but it ain't Starkville or Hattiesburg so it doesn't deserve a tsunami. Fortunately, though, Phil didn't go cannon-ballin' into the Gulf, just sort of eases himself in. It did raise the tide pretty considerable -- got a bunch of salt-water in the pool -- but if anybody was killed other than a few LSU fans that were having a dune-side corn-dog roast, I didn't hear about it.

Well, they finally woke ol' retired-arse Roy Kramer up from his nap and he rolled down to the beach and took Phil a pair of coaching shorts to put on over his Speedo. I never did understand why Phil's coaching shorts were in Roy's bedroom, but then, I'm pretty new in this league.

After that, I got in the official Ole Miss speedboat and went down the coast drinkin' a few beers and offerin'a few scholarships. We've had a lot more activities at Destin, but I will have to get to them later, I guess.

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There 7 volumes in all and you can read them here:

LINK

Wednesdays With Ed
More stories from the SEC Meetings...

People are always asking me to play golf. The No. 1 whine among our whiney-arse Ole Miss fans is still "Coach O, are we gonna score a touchdown this year?," But the No. 2 whine is probably "Coach O, when you goin' to come down and play some golf with us Ole Miss boosters down here at the Yazoo Country Club?" or some other god-forsaken place. I usually get the secretary to call back and say "Coach O don't play golf but he will come down to the Yazoo Country Club and By GOD kick the arse of every damn member in the parking lot." That has cut down on the requests somewhat.

But we get down to Destin and Mike Slive stands up and says everybody has to play golf. I say "I ain't playing," and he says "we will fine any coach who does not participate in Media Days or the SEC Meeting Coaches' Scramble a total of $10,000." Well, hell. I read where Mike Shula was making 1.8 million dollars. I read where Tommy Tuberville was making $2 million, which is a BY-GOD improvement over his days as a catfish fry cook if you ask me. But I ain't making that kind of money. Ole Miss is paying me $12.75 an hour, plus 32 cents a mile on the Sedan De Ville. If I wasn't getting a $25 rebate per commitmment from some of the boys over in Batesville, Mrs. O couldn't even afford to get her hair done every Saturday. Hell, I'm still sending little Tojo Yamamoteaux Orgeron to the second grade wearing the left-behind practice shoes from all the LILY-LIVERED WORTHLESS COWARDS who quit Ole Miss football in all camp. So little Tojo has plenty of shoes, although they don't fit unless we stuff some of my old ripped-shirt shreds in there.

"Anyway, point is I can't pay no fine. So I head on out to the golf course.

"Here is one thing I don't like about golf. First, they hand me a bag full of metal sticks, some with big wood knob-heads on 'em. That's fine. Then I get a pair of spiked shoes. I like that, too. But then, instead of doing what any REAL RED-BLOODED FOOTBALL LOVIN' INDIVIDUAL should do, which is take those clubs, beat your opponent into a three-day concussion and then STOMP HIS STARKVILLER arse with those spiked shoes, you can't do that. It is downright frowned upon. Instead, you have to hit some white ball that I don't even like to call a ball because it bears NO RESEMBLENCE to a football which is BY GOD the only ball worth being called a ball.

But I go up to the start and they say I am paired with Steve Spurrier. He says "You proceed, Coach Orgeron." They explain that the main rule is to put this "ball" in a hole. So I step up, take the biggest club (which is still sorta puny) in both hands, pull it back over my head 'til it's touching my ankles, then come all the way over the top and hit that ball just perfect. Drive it straight down into the ground.

"There, it's in a hole," I say, and write a "1" on my scorecard.

"No, no, coach," that sissy-arse Spurrier says. "That's not right. Watch me."

Well, he steps up and whomps that ball and it goes about 250 yards. I don't say nothing, but I'm pretty impressed. Then he goes up and finds it and whomps it again, but only about 80 yards. "Hell, he's losin' steam already," I think. Then, on the third time, he barely whomps it all, only 10 or 15 yards. "Damn quarterbacks," I say. "You're all worthless and weak." But he's got this ball within about five yards of this hole, and he says "You just watch, you big meanie. I'm going to putt this ball right in."

I say "You mean if you knock this ball in that hole, you score and win the game?"

"That's right," he says.

Well, I step up, hand both my beers back to the beer-cart girl, rip off my shirt and say "Well, I will be HOTTY-TODDY-DAMNED if I am going to stand here and let your sorry quarterback arse score on ED BY-GOD ORGERON and the Ole Miss Rebels without playin' a little BY-GOD DEFENSE HERE!" So I get down in the four-point stance in front of the hole and say "TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT!"

Hell, he don't even hit it hard. So I tackle the ball easy, get up, head butt the caddy into unconsciousness, then I turn to Spurrier and say "Hell, boy, I'll give you three more downs. BRING IT AGAIN!"

Instead, he drives off and gets Slive and they sit there and talk about 45 minutes, during which time I remain on my knuckles in four-point stance because it PISSES ME OFF to be fooled by any misdirection! But they finally say "Coach O, we have decided to exempt you from the remainder of the golf tournament and let you go back to the hotel bar."

"Well, it is getting hot out here," I says. "Plus, there are some fine-looking athletes at the baby pool who need to be OFFERED A SCHOLARSHIP to Ole Miss, if they are BY-GOD OLE MISS MATERIAL."

So I walk over, shake hands with Spurrier and tell him "One other thing, son, we're coming to Columbia this year and kick your WORTHLESS GAMECOCK arse!"

"what are you talking about, Ed?" Spurrier says. "Ole Miss isn't even on our schedule this year."

"Who said anything about schedule?" I said. "What I said was WE ARE COMING TO COLUMBIA TO KICK YOUR arse. We got a school plane at Ole Miss and it ain't doin' nothin' on Tuesday nights or Sunday mornings. So you just get your boys ready, 'cause we're coming - and bringin' PURE-D HELL with us."

So that was what things were like in Destin. I'm glad to be back in Oxford. I'm glad it's getting BY-GOD HUNDRED-DEGREE HOT around here. We're starting three-a-day practices next week and if the NCAA doesn't like it, well, they can come tell me to my face.