Account of My own Exhaustive DC Search

Authors Note: The following is 100% true and accurate. If you do not believe this entire piece to be true, you will be sent to Gainesville to be Tim Tebow’s personal mobile Kleenex dispenser.

I couldn’t take the wait anymore. I tried to be patient after the announced retirement of Mickey. But the list of FSU DC candidates only seems to be growing larger with no end in sight. So I decided it was up to me. Up to me to find out anything I could about the man that is to return our D to its true form. Following is the true account of my 96 hour, no sleep, ritalin fueled, adventure into hell.

Three groups of people were questioned/interrogated. First up were the bloggers and writers.  I tried to schedule a meeting with FSUncensored, but his eyes were bleeding from the nonstop information cram for his finals. Of course I remain unconvinced that anyone needs to study for any test at Alabama.

I was, however, able to schedule a meeting with Gene ‘Dot Com’ Williams. He suggested we meet at a seedy motel outside of Thomasville that he said he was "familiar with." The interview started off well at first. But the more we talked the more I grew angry. "People PAY you to be on top of this stuff Gene! Hard earned cash pours into you and your site and you have NOTHING!?!?" By the end of my questions Gene was reduced to a sobbing mess. He had no information on a DC but had admitted to countless atrocities.  He laid, prostrate on the floor, but the burnt orange shag carpet he firmly gripped with both hands offered him no solace for his many sins. I will not share with you his unspeakable acts. They will remain a secret I share with God, Gene, and a large tatted up biker named Hector (Hector if you are reading this, thanks for the help, your package is in the mail).  

The last of the writers/bloggers I tried was ESPN’s Heather Dinich. I was actually able to arrange a phone interview with her. Again everything was going ok until Heather found out I am actually a big FSU fan. She started ranting about how horrible it is that FSU is going to the Gator Bowl. I let her go on for what seemed like an eternity. I then said, "Where were you last year when FSU got passed up for Clemson? And besides that, the Bowl will sell out in RECORD TIME!" Silence. Ten seconds later or so there was some mumbling and then, "I have to go. I’m late for a sexy operation." Or was it "sex change operation?" Either way, I honestly didn’t listen to her very closely. It’s hard for me to take anything a girl says about football seriously.

One group down and I had yet to get any answers. Next up were some coaches that will not be retained by the program after the bowl. I tried to get up with Jody Allen but my timing couldn’t have been worse. I was informed that his jaw had been wired shut. Turns out there are others out there that feel a need to practice their right hook on him.  

Next on the list was THE man himself, Chuck Amato. I arrived at his house at about 9 AM. An English butler wearing a tuxedo by the name of Walter greeted me at the door. The house looked nice but I had a feeling that despite all of the expensive knickknacks and the cleanliness of the place, it all could come crumbling down at anytime. Walter motioned me to follow him without saying a word. In fact the only thing he said to me the whole time I was there, however briefly, was "He calls me Walter." Walter led me down a long spiraling staircase into a dark basement. In the middle of the room on a big grey lazy boy sat Chuck Amato. The only light in the room came from a large LCD TV with a funny episode of MASH playing. Chuck however, did not seem amused. Gone were the sunglasses and red shoes. He was wearing black, Cheetos stained sweat pants, and a way too reveling wife beater. The only thing he was willing to tell me was how easy it is for him to get to the bottom of a bottle of Jack. He repeated this many, many times. A strange panic set in, like a slow death was taking over my body. I turned and rushed up the stairs, the panic dissipating with every step I ascended. I rushed past the silent butler, busting open the front door into daylight…safe, alive.

Last, I tried to glean some information from coaches that will still have a job. First up was Coach Coley. It turns out he does not like the nickname "The Hammer." At all. I asked him if he knew what irony is as he expressed his dislike for the nickname by beating on my knees…with a hammer. After he thoroughly and painfully made his point he explained to me that he was not privy to any DC information. He did however tell me that the only reason he let up on my bloodied legs is that he was late for a flight. He was headed to Estonia. He learned that there, in a secret vault, are Cold War era, cryogenically preserved, genetically engineered embryos. He told me if the Ruskies were as successful as he thinks they were, FSU will sign the best class in the history of College Football in exactly 18 years.

I was fitted with some new state of the art leg braces, followed by meeting up with Coach Trickett at the practice field. After getting no information and doing 400 pushups I gave serious thought to having my arms amputated. While there I ran into Coach Fisher. "Finally," I said out loud, "some answers."

Fisher agreed to meet me in his office. What happened in the next 20 to 30 minutes is still a mystery. I was awake, but unaware of my actual surroundings. I was in a living dream world. Fisher’s steady southern drone put me further and further into my trance. Reality escaped me. There was a constant buzz in my ears. Not annoying at all, but comforting. Reassuring. The first real memory of the meeting I have is when Fisher said, "Ok, great meeting. I hope that I have put all your worries and concerns to rest." After leaving campus, it took two solid hours to gather myself. But I did feel good. My questions were gone. I wasn’t worried anymore. Then I remembered why I went to talk to him in the first place. I still had ZERO information on a DC. What happened to me in his office? I brought a recorder with me to the meeting without Fisher’s knowledge. It was still running when I pulled it from my pocket! I rewound it and pushed play anxiously trying to get some answers. The only thing on the recorder was the sound of birds chirping and a pleasant breeze rustling fall leaves. I have decided there is a strong possibility that Fisher is a football genius wood elf with great magical powers.

I was out of options. There was one person left that I saved for last. The legend Himself, Bobby Bowden. After briefly talking to Bowden on the phone he almost greedily set up a time for us to meet at his Tallahassee home. He is as nice in person as you have heard he is. Great, great man. We sat down in his living room and he offered me some sweet tea. I politely declined and tried to launch into my many questions about the future of FSU, most importantly the new DC. He reassured me we would get to that in due time but first he wanted to show me some slides. We then spent the next 24 hours straight looking at over 4000 pictures on a projector. They were not from FSU football glory days either. They were all vacation pictures. I did not want to say how awful this experience was to him. I tried to stop him but to no avail.

Finally after the 24 hour mark I said, "I’m sorry Bobby, thank you for your hospitality but if you don’t know anything about the DC I need to leave." He told me he was sorry he kept me so long and that he had no info he could give me. In fact he told me the administration stopped including him in important happenings since 2002. I got up and we shook hands. However he didn’t let my hand go. He pulled me close. His expression had changed. He looked frightened. Almost like a hunted animal. He whispered into my ear, "Please…please don’t leave me alone…not with HER…not any longer."

At that moment I heard a spine crunching pterodactyl like screech coming from the kitchen. Bobby looked at me, "She’s Back! RUN!" However he didn’t loosen his grasp on my hand. I wrestled it free and headed to the door. The banshee whales started getting louder. I ran as fast as I could, jumped in my truck and peeled out. The only thing I could hear was screaming…echoing in my ears.

Exhausted and at my wits end I went home with nothing to show for my work. As I was about to fall asleep my blackberry made that familiar sound when an email arrives. I decided to check it out. It was from an anonymous source. Apparently someone took notice of my efforts. The email said that I should head to Rio. It had an address and told me, "12 nole fans died retrieving this information." I hopped a red eye headed to South America. The address was on the outskirts of the city among the millions of destitute living in nothing more than shacks. I knocked. No answer. No lights, no sound. The door was open. I walked in saw someone sitting in a large swivel chair at a table overlooking a small monitor. "Are you the new DC at FSU?" My voice was trembling. The chair began to turn towards me and then….darkness. I woke up in an ally covered in goat crap and chicken feathers. I had been beaten and bruised, left for dead. I was able to make it out of that awful place back to the states. Below you will find a link to a blurry picture I was able to take with my cell phone before being knocked out. If anyone has any info on this guy let me know. I didn’t get his face but I’m sure there are some features here that someone will recognize. Obviously he’s a cat guy. As for me, I have given up. I’m going back to the much more passive fan that I used to be. In the end, the search was completely not worth it.


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