He spent Saturdays in the early part of his childhood watching his beloved Florida Gators play in a stadium that had yet to be nicknamed “The Swamp.”
Florida Field had turf then, and he remembers vividly when, back in 1982, it expanded to seat 72,000.
So, that’s why Saturday when the Gators made official the hiring of William Larry Muschamp as their 23rd football coach, it made so much sense. This was the job he was born to do.
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When Muschamp was a PE superstar at the former Martha Manson Academy, just off Tower Road, his Friday night joy was being the ballboy with the best moves in Alachua County.
Every 30-yard sprint back to the sideline included his imitation of Tony Dorsett. A juke left here, followed by a reverse spin with a stiff arm as he crossed back off the stage and back into the shadows of the athletes he one day hoped were his teammates.
“Just about every week when we would watch film, we’d almost always have a moment where we would have to hit rewind to watch Will,” then-Oak-Hall-coach John Clifford recounted while unsuccessfully attempting to hold back laughter in an interview with me a few years ago. “It was some of the greatest stuff you ever saw…”
Clifford’s voice trailed off there as he fell back into deep thought on the subject, the smile never leaving his face.
After Muschamp graduated from sideline superstar to seventh grader (yes, seventh grader), he was starting for Clifford’s Eagles.
Once a record-setting defensive back for the Gators, Clifford and I share some of the very same memories.
You see, I was also a seventh grader who tried out for that team. There was no junior varsity. There was The Boy’s Club.
The cloudy morning Wayne Pendle, Omar Ahsanuddin, Alex Wells and I were cut, Clifford politely explained to us that at our age we just weren’t physically ready for his team. He told us to keep working and come back out next year.
And then he added “You guys do understand Will is different, right?”
He didn’t have to say anything else because we knew exactly what he meant. Will had always been different. And it wasn’t just because he was a 6-foot, 185-pound 13-year-old.
Back when we would pick teams in elementary school for 7-on-7 games, Will was the all-time quarterback. Those were the mandatory rules. If it had been any other way, it just wouldn’t have been fair.
But that’s just Will the athlete. Hey, he went on to start for Georgia, despite brutally breaking his leg playing baseball in high school. That same determination you saw on his face when blood was famously streaming down his left cheek as he gave his Texas players instructions was the same determination that made him an SEC safety when some weren’t even sure he’d walk normally again.
Will the kid was also different.
He was cooler than the rest of us; he just didn’t let us think that. When he was a seventh-grader, his best friend was a senior, but none of us his age ever felt like he was unapproachable.
Two quick stories:
One day, a guy in our class – a strong, country boy who loved his dip and was pretty freakin’ tough – mouthed off to Coach Pennick, who was substituting in our chemistry class that day. She let it slide, but Will didn’t.
A few minutes later, Coach Pennick, whose primary role at the school was as our seventh- and eighth-grade basketball team coach, was called to the main office for something – I really don’t remember what.
What I do remember is that seconds after she walked out the door, Will had the mouthy kid by the collar, up against the wall, asking “what did you say to her?” before delivering a short punch to the guy’s stomach.
The kid said he was sorry and was told to apologize to Coach Pennick when she returned, which he did immediately. Later, in private, that bully-no-more told me he had never been hit harder in his life and that he knew he would never upset Will Muschamp again.
The second story came our eighth-grade year.
I made the varsity team that year, but that’s like saying “my name is in the phone book.” Coach Clifford just didn’t want to cut me twice. In his mind, it could have been “who knows? He might end up good someday. I’d hate to crush his confidence, so I’ll keep him. But I know we’re in bad shape if I ever have to put him in.”
That season I served no distinctive role, aside from being a dummy-holder while starters like Will did their best to hit me hard, but not so hard as to damage my body or spirit. I worked my butt off in practice, got a little stronger and made myself a little better. But it’s not like I walked down the hallways with people staring at me in awe when I wore the burgundy and gold No. 21 game jersey on Fridays.
Will was different, though. (There’s that phrase, again)
He was the starting tailback, and was named The Gainesville Sun’s athlete of the week at least once.
But that’s not what I’m talking about.
One day in English class, our teacher – actually one of the most liked in the entire school – made a snide remark to me about not meaning anything to the football team. He was just making a sarcastic comment he probably didn’t mean for me to take the wrong way.
But Will saw immediately it had bugged me and sprang to my defense, reminding the teacher that I was out there every day, while he – a former assistant coach – had elected not to come back that year.
That teacher looked right at me and said “he’s right, and I’m sorry.” And the next day he was back as an assistant coach.
I’m not out here to claim that Will and I are the closest of friends or even tight. Our lives have gone separate directions ever since he moved to Rome, Ga. after our eighth-grade year.
But when we have done phone interviews or when he ran over to me to say hello after LSU beat Florida, 36-7, in Gainesville on Oct. 12, 2002, it’s always been nice to catch up, even if only briefly.
I’m as proud as I can be about Will. But I can’t say I’m surprised.