"Evil Richt," the alter ego of Georgia Bulldogs head coach Mark Richt, granted an exclusive interview to Team Speed Kills. It was more like a soliloquy, though; before we had asked a queastion, Evil Richt began speaking, and didn't stop long enough for us to ask much.
The room was dark, and Evil Richt held a smoldering cigar in his hand as we entered. He was, of course, dressed in all back, the dark shades wrapped around his eyes.
"You might have wondered why I called a blogger like yourself here," he said, pausing only long enough for your humble correspondent to begin to nod. "The fact of the matter is, I'm sick of all the credit going to that wimp." With that, he waved dimissively toward an angelic Richt family photo, the coach dressed in all white.
"It's not bad enough he hauls me all the way to Honduras," he said. "Which is awful, because first of all they've got cheap-a** sunglasses down there. And I personally favor Cuban cigars. But I guess that's besides the point.
"Anyway, everybody seems to think it's all Good Richt, and I just show up to lead dance celebrations, like some sort of dark Richard Simmons." Here, he seemed to grow even angrier. "Well, it's not! I've played a major role in the success of Mr. Squeaky-Clean. He doesn't even know the half of it.
"Example: That 1982 injury to Jim Kelly, the one he suffered against Virginia Tech? Well, that story is best described by Rich Brooks' favorite words. Sorry, there are some words mamby-pamby won't let me use. Anyway, Kelly got a little shoulder strain. It was only separated after a --" and here he paused for dramatic effect, interlocking his fingers and flexing his hands "--little conversation I had with Mr. Kelly. Too bad Little Boy Goody Two-Shoes didn't take advantage of the opportunity. ...
"Then came the time in Florida State, back before Monk Richt took the job with Georgia, that I hired some guys to take care of Bobby Bowden. Weren't going to hurt him or anything. Just grab him and take him off to Honduras or some other forsaken country where he'd never be heard from again. I mean, this wasn't exactly a guy who was going to be able to find his way back home. Then, Choirboy would take over the program.
"Anyway, they had his daily schedule down pat. But the old fart's Metamucil kicked in a half-hour early the day they were supposed to kidnap him, and they all got busted on a speeding ticket. But they didn't give me up. That might be because the police car blew up on the way to the jail. Not that I necessarily had anything to do with that. ...
"Even today, I'm still helping him out. Who do you think it was who got inside Al Davis' head, persuaded him to can Lane Kiffin. I had that guy seeing everyone from Notre Dame to the freaking New England Patriots offering a job to ol' Kitten. I mean, can't you just see it?" he said, lauging hysterically. "The Patriots? Hiring Lane Kiffin? Robert Kraft probably still wonders who sent him that dead hamster in the mail. Not sure I completely understand it myself, but Davis was insistent.
"All it took after that was letting nature take its course. I knew Crompton was going to struggle that year, and sure enough, Fulmer's out and Kiffin's in."
Shortly after relating to us how he had gotten Kiffin into Tennessee, he walked your humble correspondent to the door.
"Time for you to go. It's almost time for St. Richt to take over again. It's date night tonight. Man, I hope they don't go Italian again. That always gives me indigestion."