On the eve of our first Saturday in more than 11 years without Les Miles in the SEC, it seems appropriate to pay tribute to The Mad Hatter in the style of his own unforgettable lines (linked throughout).
You are not the head coach at LSU. You will not be the head coach at LSU. You have interest in talking to somebody else, we hope, and building another damn strong football team we can follow.
It was unfortunate you had to address your team with that information Sunday morning. Spectacular group of men. You found them, you threw your arms around them, and you’d have given them a big kiss on the mouth – if you were a girl.
We know you won’t say who you’re voting for – or even if you’ll vote – but we suspect you’ll choose a candidate who’ll attack, not only vertically, but up the middle and with width. Between your two options, whether the light switch is on in every room or not, I’m not certain, but I can tell you that most of the house is lit.
You’d never boast about being the hammer, but you sure as hell were not the frickin’ nail. (Unless you count Alabama.) You resented that. The fact that you were suddenly nailed.
Honest to Petes, I mean s—, you were a pretty good team last year. I thought you played like a sonofab—- in that stadium. I’m just letting you know, you looked differently than the nail.
Alas, it was still your fifth straight loss to Nick Saban. So maybe a screw to his screwdriver.
But nobody else wanted a piece of you, Les. Certainly not a cheerleader – male, I might add. That male cheerleader kind of clipped you from the side one time, when you were running full speed. Or slower than full speed, but generally in the upper quadrant of speed.
You hit the ground pretty good, but there was a flag waver there that certainly hid your embarrassing tumble. You walked it off. And avoided a baton twirler as you got to the bench. And then you beat the Crimson Frickin’ Tide.
Same as you did the year before, and five of your first seven tries, back when you were the hammer but too polite to say so. During one of those wins over Saban, you ate some grass. What’s the big damn deal, other than CBS blowing your cover?
You had a little tradition that humbled you as a man, that let you know you were part of the field and part of the game. And you know one thing: The grass in Tiger Stadium tastes best. Tasted. Our tastes change over time, and after LSU told you to sod off, we’re sure you’ll learn to love a new turf.
We pray that you’ll spend a little time in a TV studio first. And with that beautiful family of yours. Ah, dammit, Les, don’t cry on us. It never rains in those eyes. But it looks very close to rain, if not a very stiff dew.
You’ll be back watching film soon enough, which is like reading a good book, if you read books. Until then, you will be sincerely missed. You brought the Tigers a national title, sure, but you gave all the rest of us so much more.
You rolled the dice, ignored the rules and mocked the clock in a way that was both magical and maniacal. It worked out far more often than it didn’t – you’d just dial up a monkey-off-our-back play – until it really didn’t. You tried to steal time all the way to the bitter end.
Like a good family vacation, it was at times miserable. You hated it. But it was great fun.
Come back soon, Les, and above all: Have a great day.