An Essay on Rhetorical Greens: Should the Bohn Salad be Tossed?

You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna pour another glass of wine and finish this god damn script. But you know what I’m gonna do before that? Procrastinate and give you a piece of my uninformed yet shockingly savvy CU Buff mind. How is this strange dichotomy possible you ask? Astute question, my cute little* Buff Fan.

It was bred into me, and no matter how many football games I ignored while shivering next to my dad at Folsom Field, I guess I absorbed something more than hot dogs and BeerSmell™, like this little tidbit: Paul McCartney knows what he’s talking about cause he’s been there, and he was pretty good at his job. Amazingly, same goes Bill McCartney.

Shocking, right? Here’s my two cents:

Seems a few of ya’ll think a bad couple seasons = bad coaching. How about we simplify things for you ladies?

Lets say you’re a chef. Oh la! You’ve been given some under ripe rock hard tomatoes, some wilted lettuce, a few un-sprouted sprouts, 8 solid buttery croutons, and you’ve been asked to make an award winning salad.

Cue vaguely creepy salad song! Rated G for green audiences!

You think ahead, knowing that you can grow some pretty great lettuce and succulent red orbs in the next couple seasons to really take it up a notch. The soil’s tricky, so it’ll take a little cajoling stratergizzing (just go with it,) planning and a little tweeking, but you’re in.

While you figure out how to grow the lettuce and tomatoes of great succulence that you know, and everyone else knows you’re capable of, you’ll whip up the best effing dressing you can. You’ll scrap, you’ll scrounge, hell, you’ll even buy your own damn salad tossing bowl, cause the kitchen won’t give you one, and do whatever it takes to help the sad transitional salad suck as little as possible, but dressing and eight buttery croutons can only do so much. Unless you have turnips for brains, it’s pretty obvious that this disappointing salad isn’t exactly all the chef’s fault. It’s not the lettuce or tomatoes’ fault either. They’re all doing the best they can with what they’ve got to work with. What you can do is take a look at the dressing, the long term garden plan, and at least give our chef a chance to grow the damn garden. And THEN make a call on the salad.

Not convinced, wee-critic* of amateur expertness? Still bitter that tight-ends* and immediate wins don’t grow on trees?** Yes you’re entitled to your 1-dimentional* opinion about players and coaches and scores, and I’m not going to waste time on all the defensive contextual*** stuff, cause the boys (and salad) have already done that justice.

Don’t like salad? It’s a metaphor, you cleat. Take your head out of your jockstrap and look it up. Better yet, ask one of the current CU football players and they can probably tell you about metaphors and similes and assonance and all sorts of goodness, since they’re actually going to class and LEARNING stuff, and getting honest to god kickass grades. Yeah not only was the team just starting to shape up ON the field, but he students, (yes, we’re talking about COLLEGE football) had the highest GPA in the last 3 semesters that the school football program has EVER seen.


Smart boys in Black and Gold tights? I’m intrigued.

You know what else? For the first time in a while I haven’t heard much about sleazy icky boozy whoring shit happening from the team recruitment show. (Maybe I’ve head my head in the sand. It happens.) Sure, winning matters. But integrity and class do too. I don’t care how zig-zaggy-crazy-fast-strategic some barrel can run down a field. (I know, I’m suposed to.) If he can’t manage to pull a C in Intro to Psych and thinks he’s entitled to strippers and hooks cause that’s how they recruited his ass, I’m not okay with that, you shouldn’t be either, and neither was Embree. Dude seems to have integrity. Dude has standards. He was building a team of…dare I hope, decent functioning men, thinking long term for his beloved Buffs. God forbid we end up, a few years from now with a strong, limber, well educated, defensive line with like…manners and heart and standards and a GPA that might be able to get them into grad school. What the fuck would we want that for? I mean, I certainly wouldn’t want to date a CU grad like that. And the NFL wouldn’t want anything to do with that either, right? Could that actually have been on the horizon? Maybe.

Ah, but worry not, little* Buff fan. CU students and college football everywhere has been kindly slapped with the important life lesson that forward thinking, doing the right thing, long term planning* and integrity get punished. Brutally, publicly, tragically slammed like a pigskin in the wrong end zone.* Super.

You know what, I’m revising my metaphor. You know who’s the little limp salad here? Mike Bohn. LIMP. Limp in judgment and integrity and choices. Limp in his knee-jerk short-sighted limpness. I value context***, and in Bohn’s case I don’t know what it is. The politics in that kind of position can be mental. However, from the peanut gallery it looks like Bohn is the lechuga that should be tossed, not this teary eyed teddy bear who was on his way to doing really good things for my dad’s beloved Buffaloes.




The Appendix: aaa-pen-dicks (n.) 1. Inner organ best sautéed with garlic and rosemary. 2. Clarifying notes, not relating to contact solution. Origin: Append. To attach or hang upon. (Best not used to hang unjust criticisms upon perfectly good coaches.)

*Size doesn’t matter. That much. Unless a gold wrapper’s involved. Then it qualifies as a bright shiny object and I’m allowed to bat at it. This public service announcement brought to you by Trojan™. (Unofficially, but we’ll hopefully be looking for some sponsorship action soon. @Trojan. Hi!)

** If these magical winning tight-end* trees are for real, please locate and share. Sharing is caring, and tight-end* hording isn’t sporting.

***Context: It’s the big-picture stuff smart people think about, when they make a call. Here’s an example: You’re on a date with a girl. She orders a steak and eats it. Now add a dash of context. It’s her 4th 1.5lb steak…that night. See? Context. It’s golden.


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