South Carolina’s latest “Here, it’s great to be a Gamecock” video goes inside the weight room
Last May, South Carolina kicked off their brilliant “Here (it’s great to be a Gamecock)” campaign with a series of videos that were equal parts recruiting, motivation and poetry.
The latest addition to that series pays respect to the hard work the guys put in within the walls of the weight room.
“This room? This room is alive. Alive with four walls, 15 tons and a volume searching for a level.”
“Here I grind for my state. Will one more rep be the difference? Will one more sprint be the extra edge you need?”
“Here, we won’t leave those questions unanswered. Here, I become a little bit stronger, and faster, bigger, tougher, because when the game is on the line and my brothers are counting on me, that quit switch is the only obstacle from becoming legendary.”
“Here, the fourth quarter begins now, and we have no choice but to lace them up and finish.
Video of the Day – Guyer HS (TX) off season video
Video of the Day
Tuesday May 5, 2015
Guyer HS (TX) off season video
On Star Wars Day, UNC releases picture of “Tar Wars” featuring Fedora and Chizik
Last week, on National Superhero Day, North Carolina worked their Photoshop magic with an image of Larry Fedora as Wolverine.
So on Star Wars Day (May the fourth be with you) it’s only natural that they do work their magic again right? That’s exactly what they did with “Tar Wars” below.
I’d be lying if I pretended to know who all the characters were, but you can see Gene Chizik and Larry Fedora prominently featured, as well as UNC athletic director Bubba Cunningham.
— Carolina Football (@TarHeelFootball) May 4, 2015
Video: “Success is not an accident. Success is a choice.”
Stephen Curry is the hottest name in basketball. It’s not even worth debating.
So what does that have to do with football you might ask? I’d argue that the formula for success that transformed the unheralded 160 pound high school shooting guard into the MVP of the NBA crosses boundaries of sports, and transcends into business and life.
Trust me, the message in this video is worth sharing, and this profile of how Curry molded himself into player that he is today leaves you with a wealth of knowledge that you can share with your players, or simply use for your own journey in life, or the coaching profession.
“My question to you is are the habits you have today on par with the dreams that you have for tomorrow?” the narrator Alan Stein asks.
“That’s something that you need to ask yourself every single day. Because whatever you do on a regular basis today will determine where you will be tomorrow.”
That by itself has the sound and look of something that would be a great addition to your weight room or locker room, and it goes right along with what Nick Saban said about success back in mid-April: “Young people have the illusion of choices. But if you want to be good, you have no choices”
Confessions of a Football Mom
Former Washington State quarterback Connor Halliday was not drafted over the weekend.
Four seasons as a Cougar – including three seasons logging a career’s worth of stats under Mike Leach – put Halliday on the NFL’s radar, but a skinny frame and a season-ending leg injury delayed his entry into professional football until late Saturday, after the events in Chicago had come and gone, when he signed a contract with the Washington Redskins as an undrafted free agent. The path from there to professional glory is dark and littered with the skeletons of many talented, determined players just like Halliday.
But this story isn’t about him. It’s about his mom.
Jessica Halliday, a writer and professor at Gonzaga, penned a beautiful letter for MMQB.com on her experience watching her son put himself – and put her - through everything it takes for a lanky kid from eastern Washington to reach the NFL. You’ll have to head to the site to read the entire thing (which we strongly encourage you to do) but there’s plenty that our audience can identify with:
I knew from the way his hands came up as he went down that it was bad. Nearly 20 years of watching Connor has schooled me. Hands to the helmet after a hit: bad. I stood up in the stands, watching for him to move. No movement. People kneeling. Idiot in the row across, “Halliday’s f—— useless.” When Coach Leach ran out and Connor reached up—Help me—I bolted, grateful we were playing at home so I knew my way to the locker room. People stared; crowd control parted at my shout, I’m Connor’s mom! Trainers directed me not to the training room but to the driveway below, to the ambulance waiting for my son.
Dads, uncles, grandfathers, coaches, teammates, opponents, broadcasters—one thing they agree on is Connor’s unwavering focus on a W. The media coverage and recognition and hype—these things mean nothing to Connor. The thing that matters to Connor—what is life or death to him, almost literally—is to win. I could tell you a story or two about that. I could tell you about concussions he’s denied, having memorized the “test” used to determine a player’s capacity to endure further impact. I could tell you about the liver laceration he sustained early in a game his redshirt freshman year, passing out on the bench from pain during a timeout, lying to his coaches and the concerned officials so he could remain in the game and get that win. I could tell you about his junior year in high school when he threw up from abdominal pain after a particularly hard-hitting game, warranting another trip to another emergency room where another surprised doctor told me he must be in terrific pain, his spleen in danger of rupture, enlarged by the mononucleosis he was sick with, not that any of us knew it. That day, Connor lay on the E.R. table, furious with the doctor and then me as I tried to make sense of it for him, that he was unable to play in next week’s game. You can’t stop me. I’d rather die in the game than not play.
Football owns Connor in a way that has nothing to do with love of the game. It’s in him; it simply is him. I believe an X-ray of his heart would reveal it to be oblong-shaped and made of pigskin, though it’s my own heart that bears the trademark white threads—scars—across the top, the same ones Connor grips for purchase before he launches the rock, and my heart along with it, through the air.
Connor’s passion (did I say passion? I meant enslavement) has taken (did I say taken? I meant dragged) me across every terrain, geographic and physical and emotional. Along the way I’ve earned real friends, mothers belonging to an elite club whose rite of passage is harsh, a cruel hazing ritual consisting of being forced to watch your son injured, praised, chastised and ridiculed, all in service of what some people call a game. Mothers of pitchers, mothers of point guards, mothers of quarterbacks and middle linebackers—we are a unique strain of women. We sit together at games with ears shut against the yelling men in the stands who believe they have the skills to criticize our sons; plan massive dinners for boys who can’t afford to lose one pound; hold hands, silent, in emergency rooms. Our kids ought to be tough. Look at what their mothers can endure.