Six scant years ago, the UCF Knights hit rock bottom.
Orlando’s one true football team went from Division III to Division I in just 17 years – an unheard-of pace. But after climbing their way into the big leagues, the program hung out in the mid-to-lower tier of small-conference college football.
Then in 2003, they hired George O’Leary, a big-name coach with experience at Georgia Tech, Notre Dame, and even in the NFL. O’Leary took UCF from perennial disappointment to championship contender – but their road was rocky. Just take a look at this eleven-year-long cacophony of nonsense:
2004: 0-11
2005: 8-5 (lost conference title, lost bowl game)
2006: 4-8
2007: 10-4 (won conference title, lost bowl game)
2008: 4-8
2009: 8-5 (lost bowl game)
2010: 11-3 (won bowl game)
2011: 5-7
2012: 10-4 (lost conference title, won bowl game)
2013: 12-1 (won conference title and bowl game)
2014: 9-4 (won conference title, lost bowl game)
What in the world was going on in Orlando?
During O’Leary’s time at UCF, the Knights experienced the lowest of lows and the highest of highs, led by their guiding star at head coach.
But by 2014, after so much recent success, O’Leary probably felt he had things under control.
He didn’t.
About two thousand years ago, a carpenter-turned-traveling-preacher stood on the Mount of Olives, just outside of Jerusalem.
He’d talked to the gathered crowd for a while now, holding forth on daily living, urging them to adopt a worldview less concerned with their own selfish wants and more oriented toward lasting truths and rewards.
“Don’t store up treasures on earth,” he said, voice booming loud enough for the people sitting down the hillside. “Instead, store up your treasures in heaven, where moths and rust cannot destroy them, and thieves won’t ever break in and steal them.”
Pithy statements, small points, all pointing toward a broader conclusion.
Jesus then spoke plainly. “I’m telling you not to worry about your life.”
You have to imagine more than a few people scoffed at that. Look, telling me to shuffle my moral priorities around is one thing. I’m a good religious person. I’m open to that. But if I don’t worry about myself, who will? How will I climb the ladder, seize the day, let alone survive?
The mountaintop preacher went on. “Isn’t there more to life than what you eat?” He glanced into the sky, pointed at a flock of seabirds passing by. “Look at the birds! They don’t plant or harvest. But God takes care of them. Aren’t you worth more than birds?”
Well, sure, I guess. But since when does God plant crops? Someone has to put the seeds in the ground or they don’t grow! This guy’s talking crazy.
“Can worry make you live longer? How about worrying about what you wear?” Jesus gestured at the ground around him. “Look at all the wildflowers. They don’t work hard to make their clothes. But they look better than rich King Solomon did! If God clothes the flowers, which are alive for so short a time, don’t you think he’ll do even more than that for you?”
But what’s God ever done for me? My life is hard. Every day’s full of ups and downs. The struggle, the tension, the stress. No Heavenly Father’s ever helped me get through it. If he’s there, he doesn’t care about little old me. I can’t just let go of my plans and problems. I can’t.
Then Jesus paused. And for those still doubting, he made his point clear. “Don’t worry about tomorrow. It will take care of itself. You have enough to worry about today.”
The Knights weren’t worried about tomorrow. They were ready, raring to go.
And then they hit the mother of all brick walls.
The kicker? The brick wall rose from within. George O’Leary took over as interim athletic director for the whole school. That must have caused some distraction. The Knights lost to lowly Furman out of the gate. After the team started 0-8, blowing game after game, O’Leary resigned as head coach. Knights players came out afterwards, blaming their coach for the fallout. O’Leary, they said, was a strict, no-nonsense, old-school disciplinarian. And worse.
During workouts, O’Leary verbally abused his players until they collapsed, and, in some cases, died. According to some, O’Leary deprived them of water during conditioning drills.
The team united against their coach, finishing the season 0-12. An absolute collapse.
And by the end of all that, UCF’s athletic staff, administrators, and fans had to be asking themselves how things could have gone so wrong. How could they have let this happen?
No one knows what they’re doing.
We’re all just overgrown kids doing our best. Book learning only goes so far. Experience can only be gained with time, time that saps your strength and will.
No one can see the future.
Soothsayers don’t exist, however much you may trust the neon lights of your neighborhood palm reader or the animated maps of your nightly local weatherman.
No one can know everything.
Uncertainty is an old friend. Ignorance is older. Prediction is the only way forward, and given enough time, reality has a way of resisting the expected.
There was a sixth-century philosopher named Boethius who wrote one of my favorite books, The Consolation of Philosophy. He was a Roman nobleman accused of treason, falsely imprisoned. In prison, he despairs that Fortune’s wheel unpredictably raises people up and throws them down, consoled by the personification of Philosophy. It takes him a full five books of logical reasoning to emerge from his funk.
Not knowing is scary. Fear of misfortune cripples and paralyzes. The constant question haunts all our minds: WHAT IF? The thing with worst case scenarios is that they can happen. Best to retreat inward, shun the world, fear everything, and control whatever’s left.
Right?
After O’Leary, UCF hired Scott Frost, a WR coach from Oregon. The team got behind him, improving to a modest 6-7 season in 2016. Most pundits thought UCF would finish around the same level, predicting a 6-6 year in 2017.
They were all wrong.
In 2017, UCF just kept beating expectations. Game after game, the Knights stepped up, with improbable finishes and dominant wins, not close losses. UCF went 13-0. They beat Auburn in their bowl game. The NCAA recognized their championship claim. And they hung a title banner in the rafters of their stadium.
Two years before? 0-12.
What in the world was going on in Orlando?!?
Scott Frost left for Nebraska, and the Knights kept on winning, going 12-0 in 2018. They continue to defy all odds, all expectations, all preconceived notions to this very day, competing in the American for championships every year. They serve as a lesson for every fan.
From rock bottom to Everest. It happens every year.
College football, more than any other sport, varies in the middle. Talk all you want about the same three teams making the Playoff. If that’s all you focus on, you’re missing all the drama.
Hundreds of teams in the middle wait for their shot, watch recruits, pray for that one year, that one game, that one shot at glory.
Part of watching college football is making peace with the unpredictable nature of reality. The lows must become highs, given enough time. Faith is a funny thing, the assurance that darkness will become light. Any success is an invitation to believe.
And that’s the wonderful beautiful reality of being a college football fan. No matter the team, no matter the week, you ask yourself:
Will you rise? Will you fall? Is this your year? Is it not?
Regardless, it could be. And that’s all you need.
Right now we’re on the threshold. Endless possibility. Even once things start, every week is a new season, a clean slate, a chance for incredible glory. College football’s scheduling format creates liminal space that freshens the palate for new adventures.
The chainlift on the lift hill revs into action, your car is pulled toward the peak, and the rollercoaster begins. Revel in the highs, the lows, the in-between.
Such is life. Such is college football.
Welcome back.