Finding meaning in cliché: What really happens at SEC Media Days
SEC Media Days have become spectacle unlike any other event in college football
Coaches typically provide dry answers, but crowd of reporters is ready to pounce
George Lapides' experience shows how the event has transformed over the years
HOOVER, Ala. -- A factory in north Alabama, land of iron and steel, machines humming and clattering, workers toiling in silence. The product: words. Words about football, delivered through the air to a large and ravenous audience. Forty-six days until Crimson Tide football. Gators football. Gamecocks football. Two kinds of Bulldogs and three kinds of Tigers. Nothing more popular in America than football and nowhere football more popular than the South and no kind of Southern football more popular than college football, especially now, with six straight national championships and no end in sight. The Southeastern Conference, the SEC, the football machine. Unbeatable. July ticking away to August and the glory of September. Nearly 1,000 reporters and bloggers and commentators and photographers and radio personalities. Nothing else like this anywhere. Free golden-fried Gulf Coast oysters at lunchtime and free Dr Pepper whenever you want.
The workers are very busy, the materials very raw. No, that's the wrong word. Raw would mean fresh, even dangerous, and the materials here are nothing like that. Tired, maybe. Dry or lifeless. One coach fades into another, one phrase into the next. A machine could deliver these lines. He would never misspeak.
The first game is so critical if you want to compete, he would say, in a tone of unwavering resolution, using actual words and phrases spoken by coaches at this year's SEC Media Days. We got to go play the games. Practice hard, play hard. Play every play, every game for 60 minutes. Step up and make those game-winning plays. Impact the game in a positive way. Going to play a tough team every single week. Week in, week out, on a consistent basis. From the beginning of the game 'till the end.
It's going to be a big game, he would continue. Hopefully we can play our best game there. Utilize our personnel. You got to go out and prove yourself. At the end of the day, you have to go out and play and compete at a very high intensity level. Speed level. Comfort level. Talent level. Meet the expectation level that we expect. Depth perspective. Proximity standpoint. Structural and schematic standpoint. Continue to move forward. With dedication, with buy-in, with a proven track record of success. Grow the offense. Grow the program. Build the program. Market the program. Fundamentally and structurally. Sky's the limit, sky's the limit, sky's the limit.
Should the coach take all the blame for this colorless tide of gobbledygook? No. They would rather be anywhere else, but they stand at the elevated lectern, staring at the arsenal of MacBooks and white-hot camera lights. They would rather be almost anywhere else: on the field in the sunshine, in a boat on a lake, in the kitchen with a daughter or son. But no. They must come here, a day or two earlier every year, to feed the hungry fans.
And with what? If one really has some secret plan to make his team better, would it really be smart to tell the whole world? If there's a freshman who just might win the Heisman, would it really be wise to brag about him before the first down is played? No. But they have to say something, anything, and the writers are waiting to pounce. They are not friends. They are strangers, hundreds of strangers, unpredictable in many regards, utterly predictable in this one: If and when a coach stumbles, they will tell everyone. Immediately. Probably via Twitter. This applies whether you're a newcomer, like Gary Pinkel of Missouri, and you fail to hate Joe Paterno enough to suit today's popular sentiment; or you're an old jackal, like Steve Spurrier, and you briefly (but conveniently!) forget Cam Newton's existence.
Look around. Writers may be at the event, but most of them aren't even looking at the speaker. They are staring at their MacBooks, doing Lord knows what. Probably watching each other lampoon coaches on Twitter. In the past, they might have been taking notes, but there's no need for that anymore. A stenographer sits in a chair banging on what looks like a tiny gray piano, giving each word the permanent weight of a court proceeding. These words will be sent to everyone, almost immediately, whether they bothered to sit here or not.
So, is this the writer's fault? Of course not. He is hungry, too. Hungry to do good work, to write a good story, to keep his editor and his legion of readers mollified with some shred of actual news. And here he gets none. Oh, he's working, all right, probably twelve hours a day, sleeping in a strange bed, texting his wife and children between these mind-numbing sessions. He's building clever vehicles for the transmission of these nonstories, but what is he really getting? From a proximity standpoint? From a depth perspective? Is his talent level being properly utilized? Is he impacting the game in a positive way? Well, he does have a certain comfort level. He can commiserate with other writers at the end of the day over a Sweetwater and a filet of Cajun-grilled snapper that is probably paid for by someone else. At least they can sit around and talk about what did not happen.
This thing lasts three days. According to several veteran guests, this year's event is especially uneventful. No tempests, no teapots, no mountains, no molehills. The highlight of Tuesday takes place not in the actual ballroom but on Twitter, of course, when the popular satirist Spencer Hall draws a crude picture of Steve Spurrier floating above the grass on the wings of an angel. This is a fairly appropriate commentary on Spurrier's talk, during which it became abundantly clear that he thought the Gamecocks were nothing before he arrived to save them all. So, in Spencer Hall's Twitter drawing, Steve Spurrier floats, and lightning pours from his staff, and it touches the head of a mindless Gamecocks fan. The fan thanks him for this precious gift.
The second day is Wednesday and it shows some early promise. Everyone knows John L. Smith of Arkansas is coming, and everyone knows that he has the job because Bobby Petrino was fired in the aftermath of that thing with the blonde and the motorcycle. Everyone also knows that John L. Smith will get asked about Bobby Petrino, and that might cause some fireworks.
Now, another thing about these coaches. You'd think that a football coach in the SEC would have to be a good ol' boy, but that is no longer the case. Dan Mullen is not from Mississippi State; he's from New Hampshire. Les Miles is not from Louisiana State; he's from Ohio. John L. Smith of Arkansas could pass for a retired insurance adjuster from rural Pennsylvania and is, in fact, from Idaho. When he speaks the phrase Hog Nation, it sounds foreign on his lips.
The second question posed to Smith mentions "the Bobby Petrino stuff," but Smith gives a convincing non-answer that leaves him in the clear. Then, a few minutes later, it gets interesting. Someone asks, "Would you like to be the Arkansas coach for more than one season?"
"Well, certainly," Smith said. "Do I look stupid? Don't answer that." And he smiles, and the room fills with hearty laughter.
Then it gets more exciting. Some guy near the front starts to ask a question, and Smith promptly cuts him off.
"They still put up with you in Memphis?" he said.
This is highly unusual. So far most of the talk has been crushingly impersonal, like a Turing test in which both sides fail. Eye contact is rare; actual dialogue almost nonexistent. And now John L. Smith is acknowledging a writer's presence!
The man continues with his question. And it's a bold one.
"Was contact between you and Arkansas initiated before Petrino was officially dismissed or after? How was it initiated? Also, had you have any conversation or conversations with him about the football team?"
An open trap.
"Could we move on to the next question?" Smith said. "At least one with intelligence?"
Tension in the ballroom. Then Smith seems to soften, and he actually gives a firm answer. "No, to my knowledge, we did not have any interaction 'till after Bobby was gone."
Case closed. Still, a nonstory is better than nothing at all. Spencer Hall has something to Tweet about.
I wish I had a bear on a leash under this table because I would ask John L. to fight it and he would.
John L. is barking at an Arkansas conspiracy theorist right now. Like, literally barking.
And then the moment is gone, the session over. People begin to forget about the unknown "Arkansas conspiracy theorist" who dared to challenge John L. Smith. Who was this man? Where did he go? Do you know? Do you know? Zack Higbee, the director of football media relations for Arkansas, seems like a good person to ask. But he has no idea.