They won't get over the hump!

He has been coaching there for 3 years if I read correctly... not sure that argument really fits here.

Dawhip--I think you picked a pretty accurate topic heading. Sometimes it REALLY IS just a matter of "getting over the hump", and some factors are just beyond your control. Timing is a big one. One of the best coaches I know here in Louisiana (Wing T guru) had a very solid public school program. Top 8 in the state yearly.. but sadly for him, the two best teams he ever had coincided with Evangel Christian's "rise" to national power with the best athletes from a 3 parish (County) area....

Regarding those 6..anyway you could schedule your way out of 1 or 2 of them? Anything in common in all 6?

Don't follow your statements here. I am saying that the fact that the class of 2013 (seniors) played only one year under a different coach is pretty irrelevant. You seem to disagree, but then say 3 years is an adequate amount of time to see efforts.

1 of them was non-conference the others we got to man up with, we are in the SEC of our classification. Our county has produced usually produces 3 of the final 8 teams left. I'm just a little disappointed by the effort last night

When you take a walk in the park, and you find a drinking fountain, you are pleased.



When you are drug out of your house in the middle of the night, a burlap sack is thrown over your head and someone knocks you out. Then you awake in the middle of the desert with the only thing to dull your thirst is the consistent pain you find with every step. You set your sights on the horizon and start to marching. The sun beats down, the buzzards circle, you stagger, but onward you go. You crest that first hill, and your heart sinks as all you see is an endless expanse of desert valleys. Still, onward you go. You crest that next hill, which seemed a hundred miles away, and find the same.

The idea of curling up and waiting for death crosses your mind, with a seriousness you never thought it would.

Then, you resolve to move on. The next hill, then the next, then the next....at the top of each hill that decision-to lay down and die or to go to the next hill-faces you. You spend the night in the desert, sun burnt, throat as stratchy as your sand pillow, body broke and exhausted. You awake back in hell, and again, the choice is there. A litany of hills, then finally, you crest one and see a town. A town!

You run/roll down the dune, feeling like your sprinting, though actually you are hobbling at a high rate. You can taste water. Precious, life giving water....the cool drops that will restore your sandpaper tongue.

When you get to the town, you heart sinks. If there were any excess liquids in your body, tears would stream down your face. It's a ghost town. No plumbing, no people, no relief.

You move on. Another night in the desert. You arise, and it's hill, hill, hill, hill, hill, hill........choice, choice, choice, choice, choice.

At this point, your resolve, your refusal to voluntarily yield to the elements is all that propels you.

Then, at the top of one hill, when you expect to see more desert, you see a road. A little two lane highway running through the middle of nowhere. With your last ounce of strength, you limp toward the road. You stumble and fall......your legs have failed. Gasping, you pull yourself to the shoulder of the road, collaspe, and pass out.

You awake to the sound of a car door closing. You look up and see a man, or what you think is a man, because all of your focus is on the ice cold water bottle in his hand. He gives it to you, the cap comes off, and you put the bottle to your lips.




Whatever the hell that level of appreciation is---------for all the stuggles and set backs you experienced----------THAT surpasses a 1,000 walks in the park.


That sweetness is enhanced by the stuggle. Hell, the stuggle MAKES the sweetness.