In Part 1, I showed up for an interview and stumbled into a power play disguised as a golf round.
By the time we reached Hole #3 at Oxmoor Valley’s Ridge Course, the temperature—emotional, not atmospheric—was already heating up.
The agenda? Dissecting and fixing Alabama football—because in their minds, if Bama’s broken, then the whole sport must be broken.
And the only way to save college football… is to restore the one program that defines it.
Hammered Dog
We approached the course’s signature par-5 Hole #3, a sprawling, judgmental beast that stretches past 500 yards from the tips, uphill, doglegging like it’s actively trying to get out of Alabama. It’s also the kind’ve hole Nick Saban plays without blinking, like it rented and broke a house rule at one of his VRBO properties.
Here was the opening salvo. It started with this seemingly offhand comment.
As Coach Saban prepared to step up to the tee box the Booster said, “Nick, you probably already know this, but we lost an in-state running back to Illinois,” he said, shaking his head. “Can you imagine? Illinois??? I don’t think I can ever recall losing a kid we really wanted to a Big Ten school. Not even a good Big Ten school either. This one was an Enterprise kid. Boll Weevil Monument. Coffee County. That fat-ass Bieliema came in and flipped him. Our Program looks like soft hammered dog-shit.”
That absurdity hung in the air.
Then he pivoted, his voice rising. “And Wake Forest—Wake Forest—their idiot fans chanting ‘SEC! SEC! SEC!’ while they blew the damn doors off Mississippi State? In my lifetime, I never thought I’d see an SEC team get humiliated like that. Not by some weak-ass ACC team.”
Coach shot him a hard glance, grimaced, exhaled then stepped up to a Martini Tee, without taking a practice swing he striped a driver shot at least 250 yards to the right of the 250 stake, just as prescribed for this hole. For good measure as he tracked the flight of the ball he added, “it’s leaking a little… but it’s definitely playable, and nobody gives a rats ass about those corn-cobs in Starkville”.
He had destroyed that ball. No doubt about it—Coach could play.
Curious, I took a peek at his driver. His clubs were pristine, top-of-the-line Callaways, but the driver stood out. It was a 2026 flagship Quantum Ai10x Elyte model—the kind not yet available to the public.
Of course, it wasn’t available to mortals yet. Coach doesn’t test equipment. Coach gets equipment.
My Goodness
My goodness.
Nick’s second shot on was a laser—a hybrid, the club head sweeping the grass, dead straight, 190 yards and devoid of humor. The man doesn’t shape shots; the ball conforms to him. The ball came to rest just short of the green, lying up in the fairway like it knew it was safe in church clothes.
Finebaum, to his credit, had managed to find the fairway too—short and slightly left, but in play. His second shot was a chunky fairway wood that barely cleared the dogleg. He grinned like a man who knew better than to care about scorecards.
The Booster and I were further up, both having outdriven Coach by a few steps. He gave us each a glance—not surprised, but he was definitely keeping track.
I caught my Calloway 4-iron flush and watched it sail high and land soft, just off the front edge. The Booster followed with a low draw that trundled onto the right apron, twenty feet from the pin. He gave me a subtle fist pump.
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