Scott Frost’s trajectory from the heights to his firing
reminds one of a Greek tragedy, replete with the chorus chanting his
virtues.
He presents himself as a really nice guy who got sucked up by this
machine we call Major College Football. Lots of money, lots or scrutiny and the
inevitable requirement to win.
Let’s step back a bit. Scott Frost’s parents were athletes,
his dad played at the University and I played softball against him “back in the
day.” I have often told the story about how we had him trapped between second
and third, we were performing the run-down play and all of a sudden, he was on
third. He had that exceptional athletic skill, like his son. His mother was an
Olympic athlete, discus as I recall. Then they returned to small-town Nebraska,
coached football and raised their son.
Another big-time football coach has ties to Nebraska,
specifically Genoa—Lane Kiffin. His mother was a year older than me and lived
with her grandmother in Genoa for a while. When we were in the eighth grade or
so, she threw a birthday party that remains in my memory, vividly. She was so
pretty. Anyway, left Genoa, married Monte Kiffin and their son Lane has made
quite a name for himself. Kevin ran into them in Florida and they were thrilled
to meet someone from Genoa.
I compare the two, Scott and Lane. Both have been through
the meatgrinder. I’m going to predict that Scott will do just fine, maybe return
to the mayhem of football, maybe retire to small-town Nebraska and coach some
football.
Think about how different the world looked this morning when
he awoke and realized he didn’t have a job to go to.
