By Head Coach Jack Kakkowicz

When people look at our record, they see wins and losses on the field. They see bowl games and All-Americans, and championships. But, as a college football coach, I’m not just here to teach you Xs and Os. I’m here to tell you about life, about teamwork, about being a good man. And the first and most important thing I’m going to teach you is so help me if you one of you sumbitches fucks up the snap count one more time I’m going to ride you like a goddamn eight year-old on Space Fucking Mountain.

That’s the difference between college and the pros. Hell, I know y’all think you’re in the pros already. Big man on campus. Hot-doggin’ around the student union with your sideburns and your wheelie shoes. But let me tell you. The things you learn here you ain’t going to learn in your dorm rooms with your X-Box or even from those know-it-all professors. We have a syllabus right here. It says if I don’t see you tomorrow at 7AM sharp and by 7 I mean 6:53 goddammit, I’m going to pack up my office and move into your ass for the season. Go ahead and go out with your dancin’ and carousin’. I’ll have those girls run the stairs with you and we’ll see who’s doing those dirty boogaloos when you’re dry heaving in your dang helmet.

College football is a brotherhood. You bleed together. You lead together. And the things you learn in those trenches when big ol’ State’s in the pile poking around your eyeballs and your testicles is something some pansy slickhair playing flag intramurals can’t take to the boardroom. I know you think ol’ Coach Kak’s a hardass. But I’m your teacher. I work for a school. And my goal is to make sure you leave this place not just knowing about coverage schemes and moving your feet, but also about responsibility, about picking up your teammates, and about Gannagas, the ever-living demon who will return and take us to be reborn in a lava chrysalis as he tears about the heavens with his talons made from goddamn comets.

Gentlemen, I can’t abide the bullshit this season. We’re all in this together. We have what it takes right here in this locker room to be in the mix. You need to attack downhill. You need to get mean and knock ’em on their ass. And you need to trust each other because I don’t see Gannagas himself floating down from Mercury in his shimmering war chariot inflicting State’s linemen with a pestilence horrifying beyond your imagination because you namby-pamby momma’s boys ain’t man enough to run it in from the one fucking yardline. What the hell is that offense, a head-up-your-ass parade? Christ.

I’m sick of the goddamn media questioning our toughness and the might of Gannagas The Scourge who commands the rise of the damn mountains, no sweat. I’m sick of answering questions when the answer to them will arrive soon enough when the clouds open up like the hole from a perfect fullback dive and Gannagas comes through, his hideous shriek itself enough to twist a man’s mind knottier than a French doughnut. I tell you what, you better hope you’ve been picked up by a dang magma vulture to start the Four Stages of Death Sleep or you’ve got an express ticket to to hamburger city.

You can’t punt your way out of that one, fellas. Shit.

I take my job seriously, men. And when I call you a horseshit stonehands stump jumper who couldn’t catch the clap in a goddamn bordello it’s because I want you to be a better man. One who gets up after I knock you down with one of those giant red football pads. One who spits in the face of adversity. That’s what football does. It molds you into a full-grown man and into a warrior worthy of joining the Horde of Gannagas to travel to away planets and knock the ever-loving shit out of Qatarax, the unholy Pretender. All right, bring it in you bastards.