Superstar coaches keep on rockin' in the SEC world

At this moment I'm sitting at my desk wearing a "Spurrier Country" T-shirt. It looked cool at the time in a South Carolina bookstore, and I'm a sucker for gear. This one features a palmetto "wearing" the OBC's signature visor.

Somewhere in the house is a picture of a former Football Writers Association of America president (OK, me) presenting the 2005 national championship trophy to Mack Brown the morning after the 2006 Rose Bowl.

I have seen 007's remote-control secret lair, complete with enough gadgets to bring down T-Mobile's Midwest network. Some folks at Kansas call it Mark Mangino's new office, but I have my doubts. No coach rolls like that.

Police escorts add to the rock-star persona of Nick Saban and Les Miles ... (Getty Images)

I have ridden in the front seat of Nick Saban's Mercedes (with his driver) while the coach himself sat in the back.

But as Saban once said -- oh yeah, it was last week -- this is not about me.

This is about a world where gear, gadgets and glitz rule. This about entourages and autograph hounds. This is about insulation and security details. This is about "availability" and "access." This is why the shirt I'm wearing was on the rack in the first place. Some folks figured out they could cash in on the loveable, wise-cracking Coach Superior's image.

This is about the rock star coach.

It is a phenomenon of the 21st century that hits another high point this week when Alice Cooper meets Jack White. That translates to old-school rocker (Spurrier) meeting present-day front man (Florida's Urban Meyer). Same school. Same attitude. Different histrionics.

In both cases, the coaches can't spell "run it up" without UT.

Without admitting it, one coach has inspired the other. While Spurrier has mellowed a bit, Meyer has taken up the cause of the over-the-top, overwrought, super-rich, highly successful coach of a top five program. Maybe it's a Gator thing. Maybe it's the football world we live in.

The world of rock and jock are merging as we speak. In both cases it is paying more and more to be ostentatious and outrageous.

Cooper used to wear a snake around his neck on stage. The college rock star phenomenon has as its epicenter the lobby of the Wynfrey Hotel in Hoover, Ala. Each year the 12 SEC coaches elbow their way through varying numbers of adoring fans during the conference's media days.

The rock star has never been more prevalent in the sport. Coaches dress better, talk better, maybe even smell better. Some of them are khakied, poloed mini-corporations.

The Wynfrey perp walk has become as traditional as that first tailgate. Four months ago, the Florida entourage that included Meyer and Tim Tebow needed security and a hastily erected velvet rope -- I kid you not -- to walk 50 feet through the lobby. That was to get out of the hotel.

Saban needed a phalanx of police and security to get from the Alabama bus into LSU's Tiger Stadium last week. Maybe it's the money, the exposure, the egos, but it was long ago that rumpled coaches ceased to be play callers and game planners.

"The coach of Alabama has always been a rock star," said Mike Brown, who represents Michigan's Rich Rodriguez. "Even when Coach Bryant died, there was Ray Perkins and Billy Curry.

"If you go back to Frank Broyles at Arkansas, Darrell Royal at Texas, in their region, they were bigger than the president of the university, bigger than the governor."

Those coaches were local, state-wide legends. The NCAA itself limited their national exposure with its antiquated television restrictions. That ended in 1984 when the Supreme Court basically opened the gates for unlimited televising of college football. You're watching the result -- constantly -- with cable television, YouTube and the rest of the Internet making gods out of mere mortals.

For the insomniac, only Sominex works better than a coach's weekly news conference. Now there are hours devoted to them across the cable landscape. Apparently, we can't get enough of our rock stars in their native habitat.

"I sit there and scratch my head all the time, 'Why do these coaches need policemen on and off the field?'" Brown said. "When's the last time somebody jumped over a fence and slugged a coach?"

It's coming. When they reach a certain level of fame, college coaches are painted as either good guys or villains. Pete Carroll, good guy. Nick Satan -- well, there you go.

It's the simple WWF model, complete with heroes and heels.

If you're a good guy, you charm the media, do every interview, maybe write a book. If you're a bad guy, you have loads of handlers to tell the media what a good guy you are.

It takes something special to do the job these days. By special, I don't necessarily mean coaching. Dennis Franchione couldn't handle "it" at Alabama. The Sabans love "it." Nick's wife, Terry, was breathless when she appeared on the Tiger Stadium floor Saturday during warmups with her own entourage.

When I was in his Mercedes, Saban multitasked, tying his tie, speaking on the phone to his agent, answering my questions for 75 minutes.

The man looked like the perfect CEO.

Compare that to Bill Snyder, the antithesis. Kansas State's former coach could usually be spotted in a windbreaker and appeared once a week at his news conference. After that it was back into his coaching cave, where he proceeded to drag K-State to national prominence.

No hype. No fluff.

So how to do define a rock star coach? Big money helps. It fuels the ego. Visibility, certainly. A rock star almost always emerges out of a BCS conference. Big wins, of course.

A rock star has to test the boundaries of humility. Who can forget Charlie Weis' famous proclamation that Notre Dame would have a "tactical advantage" with him at the controls? Spurrier did it with a wink, constantly tweaking the nose of Phil Fulmer at Tennessee. Meyer is a bit more of an assassin. The two timeouts he called in the last minute against Georgia were an obvious "screw you" aimed at Mark Richt.

Before that, Meyer seemingly had made an enemy for life of Miami coach Randy Shannon. A late field goal attempt called by Meyer in a 26-3 victory over the 'Canes still ticks off Shannon.

"Sometimes when you do things and people see what kind of person you really are, you turn a lot of people off," Shannon told the South Florida Sun-Sentinel. "Take from that what you want."

Sometimes a rock star just has to be himself. When Oklahoma State's Mike Gundy melted down last season, he became a YouTube parody. When Kirk Herbstreit claimed LSU's Les Miles was headed to Michigan last December, "The Hat" became a rock star.

That's the difference between cool and Khomeini.

In the old days, there wasn't IMG to shape your image or a website to generate revenue. It was telling that Weis was preceded onto Heinz Field in Pittsburgh for his first game 3½ years ago by a camera aimed right at his face.

Being Notre Dame's coach is one of the most high-profile jobs in the world, but it got a little ridiculous this week. The head coach announced he was taking over play-calling duties. Seemed logical. Weis' offensive coordinator missed some practices because of a family funeral.

Then the story grew like an untreated wart. Panic mode was setting in. All the sudden Weis needed to beat Navy this week to save his job. Huh? Notre Dame is 3½ games better this season than last (5-4 vs. 3-9). The Irish are better on the field, if only a little bit, and on the cusp of bowl eligibility.

That's the rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Heroes can quickly turn into heels.