Mark Richt is Pure Evil, Part II: Where Art Thou, Evil Richt?
You red and black fiend of great devilry, wrapped in the wholesome image of an FCA Chaplain whose doesn’t even know what ‘Netflix and chill’ means, where have you gone?
To what dark place have you slunk to hatch your machinations?
Have you been wounded or, dare I say, have you given in to fear? Surely you have never tasted fear, you hateful ghoul. Surely not.
But where are you if you are not hiding?
I hailed the day that saw you rise, where you tugged the strings of the marionette that was the UGA coaching situation. You moved Third and Todd to Louisville and somehow swept away the golden child of Tallhassee in the night, right from the arms of Jimbo Wormtongue. You sent your team into the endzone to risk ejections, suspensions, and even your job just to turn the tide of a rivalry whose tide seemed a tsunami not to be turned aside. You dressed a team obsessed with their own moral superiority in black.
And it all worked.
But now those days seem lost to an age where none now live to remember them. Who will sing your noxious glory in the halls of Williams-Brice, Jordan-Hare, Neyland, or The-NFL-Stadium-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named when step on their faces with your fabled boot of hobnails? Who will tell their children of your conniving deeds? Your sinister tricks? Your swindling heart?
None remember to sing these songs, and that silence is deafening.
Yet, there are rumors you might be on the move again.
Travelers from the hills beyond the Tanyard tell of whispers. Whispers of QB change, of onside kicks, of fake punts, and even made field goals.
All of this are probably hearsay and idle gossip, but their falsehood only confirms that something might at last be afoot.
If Bauta is not the Quarterback come this Saturday’s battle then at last we know that you have returned, returned to spread the scuttlebutt and subterfuge that once made you fearsome. If the change does happen then we know that you have returned to torment even your own into submission, to crack the ebony whip at the back of your stallions.
I pray the tales are true, but I fear the worst.
No matter the truth of these things, in the end we are faced with a single, haunting truth: you are not the coach we deserve.
Not really. Not when we use the Good One to prop up our delusions of moral superiority, as though our bloodlust and greed were atoned simply by the fact that the Good One is our coach.
But you are the coach we need now, despite the pettiness of our need.
We need you, especially now when we lack the tools to get the job done and lack the favor of the gods to steal wins from the aeries of better-prepared, better-skilled teams.
We need the trickster of old.
Where art thou, Evil Richt?
You are our only hope.