(This column originally appeared on Southern Pigskin)
He was the Senator. The Sweater Vest. The Righteous One who did things “the right way.”
In the end, though, he turned out to be a lost soul in an empty vest.
Jim Tressel “resigned” Monday. Walked away. Or maybe he ran. Perhaps he was pushed as more and more details from this sordid affair continue to dribble out of the holes from sources along the Olentangy River in Columbus.
He might hate this characterization, but Tressel was somewhat deified. That is something that is to be expected of a coach’s fanbase to be sure, especially when that coach does what the previous coach never seemed to do—in this case, beat Michigan.
To a certain extent, though, Tressel was also godded up by a complicit coterie of media and analysts eager to find what I would call the “anti-Saban.” A coach who wasn’t unnecessarily bristly with the media, with a certain amount of charm and charisma who could field a national title contender just about every season with something resembling balance in his life. It wasn’t just football 24-7-365.
Wow. Looks like a lot of folks were fooled.
It’s hard not to be cynical in this day and age when covering or following college football. It’s not like scandals are something new that popped up today; one of the most famous cases (the SMU “Death Penalty”) happened 25 years ago. Every few years, there seems to be some kind of tale.
Hell, during last season we had the North Carolina Agent-gate situation, with several overlapping suspensions derailing what should have been an ACC-title for the Tarheels.
Oh, and there was that little situation with the preacher’s son and a transfer of schools and $180,000. I wonder what the resolution of that case was?
But this time it is different. This is Ohio State, members of the illustrious Big Ten Conference—a conference that would never have one of its members stoop so low as to besmirch themselves with even the hint of a scandal. Let alone a scandal of this proportion.
Things like this don’t happen with Big Ten teams, where players are getting tattoos in exchange for trinkets or game-used gear. The Big Ten doesn’t have players and their families getting access to nice cars under questionable circumstances.
Quarterbacks of Big Ten teams don’t get caught driving multiple cars over a three year period because their car is “in the shop” or because they want “to get the opinion of their family” about a car and yet they never seem to commit to a new ride.
Maybe we all should have listened when Maurice Clarett spoke up in 2003.
Turns out that much like Jose Canseco, even whistleblowers with checkered pasts can be right.
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