Pin Hunting: The Bama Way
“Listen, Nick,” the Booster said, voice smoothing out, measured now. “We don’t need you to come back and coach—not unless you want to of course. But this, whatever it is… this isn’t sustainable. The program’s drifting. Getting softer every damn day around the edges as we speak.”
“We don’t need a rebuild. We need a reload. Maybe get someone from your coaching tree, not a sapling that we planted last week.”
Then he leaned in slightly, like he was about to say something classified.
“You know as well as I do: Bama made the SEC. Built it. Funded it. Propped it some of these weak sister programs up during the lean years. The league office? It’s in Birmingham for a reason. We don’t take orders from the SEC—we give ‘em.”
“There are guys out there who still speak “Saban”. Guys who can will speak Bama. Guys you trained. You brought them in as analysts, dusted them off, rewired ’em, sent them back into the wild—Sark at Texas, Kiffin, even Lanning. They know and understand the Process. They would jump at the chance to come home.”
He let that hang in the air before adding, like it was just a stray thought:
“Worst case? We create something new. Make you College Football Czar. Merge it with the NCAA presidency. That option could be on the table with some help from my friends in DC and Bristol.”
“Political backing from the Hill. Senators from Auburn to Dothan still owe me favors they can’t pay back. ESPN’s tied to us through that billion-dollar SEC deal—don’t think for a second they don’t want stability.
And the NCAA? Please. They’d fall in line if the checks cleared and the optics were right.”
There was a glint in his eye now. The Booster straightened, voice low and even, like he wasn’t pitching anymore—just stating facts.
“Think about it—all the possibilities. Bama can be untouchable again. The SEC, and by that I mean Bama, is running the whole damn sport from right here in Tuscaloosa. We can bring back the old ways, Nick. We just need the right face at the front—and a steady hand on the wheel.”
Saban didn’t say or do anything right away. His mind was on his next shot. He was pin hunting.
Mr. Short Game
Coach pulled a wooden tee from his pocket and scraped it along the already spotless face of his 56 wedge. Maybe it was habit. Maybe he just needed something to do with his hands while he weighed the offer.
The elevated green sat guarded by a shale wall, daunting in front of Coach’s medium-launch, high-spinning pitch shot. It bounced once and stopped on a dime, just feet from the pin. I think the ball might have backed up to the flag with that spin
I took notes—because of course I did—for my book, and for my golf game. I can’t master that kind of control of wedge shot. Not yet anyway.
The lob shot didn’t seem to register with Coach. He was a machine on the course—no fist pump, no reaction. Just reset, reload, move on to birdie putt. No big deal. It certainly explains his low handicap.
That’s when the gravity of all of this struck me:
This wasn’t just an ordinary round of golf. How could it be ordinary? Is this how Bama conducted its business and now was making its move to reinstate itself as the King of the game? College football was changing and I had a front row seat.
The caddie handed Coach his putter. He nodded—just once—thoughtfully, as if acknowledging the weight of the offer still hanging in the air.
He walked to his ball and studied the green. Maybe two feet, but with a sharp left-to-right break. One of those putts that looks easy until you overthink it. The kind that slides under pressure.
But Coach wasn’t overthinking. He never did.
He set his feet, gave it a smooth stroke, and let the slope do the work. The ball caught the edge, curled in slow and true, and dropped center cup. Birdie.
Beth Mowins
In the time it took to clean up a par-5, Nick Saban had just been offered the keys to the entire college football kingdom.
The rest of the round unfolded without drama.
Saban played steady—1-2 bogeys, a couple more birdies. The Booster took calls between shots, quiet coordination within his vast network, a senator, ESPN executives, and someone from the Athletic Department. Finebaum had several double and triple bogeys but he stayed grinning, like a man who already knew how the story ended.
At 18, we removed our hats and shook hands—the way you’re supposed to. Tradition in all. As I reached for Paul’s hand, I remembered he’d wandered off into the treeline several times to relieve himself—more than once—and I hadn’t seen soap or sanitizer in between.
Then Coach said something so odd. Both nonsensical and unhinged, “If I take this job and I don’t know if I will,” he said with conviction, “God as my witness—I’ll make it my life mission to make sure Beth Mowins never calls another college football game again. We don’t need social engineering experiments that makes people mute their TVs.”
And then, like it was just an afterthought:
“These sideline reporters—blonde, mic’d up, asking middle-school questions to coaches in the middle of a football game. That shit has gotta stop too.”
The Booster, who was equally stunned as I was, nodded slowly. “Of course, Nick. Of course.”
Saban didn’t say yes. Then again, He didn’t say no.
He said he’d sleep on it. Talk it over with Miss Terry. Maybe take the boat out. Maybe walk nine in the morning.
Then he said, “Let’s play Shoal Creek after the National Championship…all of us”, looking at me. “I will give you my decision then.”
And that was going to have to be enough of an answer.
As for me? I wasn’t famous. I didn’t have a platform or a verified X checkmark. But I was there. I saw it. And somewhere between tee shots and lob shots, I was handed something better than a quote: access.
I’d been invited to take a peek behind the curtain, and I had Saban’s blessing to tell the story — not the polished one, not the one for press releases — but how it really happened.
Next: Saban decides. Something big is coming. Behind the scenes, the Booster’s alternate plans begin to unfold. The gears of Bama football are grinding. If Coach says no, someone else will say yes.
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