Mike Lantry, 1972
Jack Kennedy, son, listen here. I'm sick and tired of you fu*%ing up my program. Learn how to play football, son. Maybe then you will have my respect. But I declare here and now that I will withhold said respect until such time as you learn how to play football and stop fu*%ing up my program. Son. You have produced zero touchdown drives in your entire damn career at Michigan and are single-handedly responsible for me losing a bet with my mother that Michigan would put up 70 points. You, son, cost me a can of Coke.
And, Rich Rodriguez, you, sir, simply stood and watched -- STOOD AND WATCHED -- as Kennedy turned my mother into a winner and me into a loser. It's the same thing, sir, as if you'd taken the Coke directly from my refrigerator with your own hands and guzzled it yourself. The SAME THING, sir. However, though my respect for you has dropped by approximately 39 percent, I will not fight you. I will allow the season to play out and provide you the opportunity to earn my respect back. Should you squander this opportunity by failing to win each game by a margin of my satisfaction, you, sir, can expect an invitation from yours truly to a robust bout of prison-style fisticuffs.
Jack Kennedy, you will not be spared. Son, I will teach you about football by fighting you and, in doing so, assert myself as the world's foremost Michigan fan.
Ok, is that tattoo on his forearm real? holy shit that thing is ridiculous.