A few days ago, I reached out to D-Money to express interest in writing an article for Miami’s upcoming College Football Playoff Debut game. Nonetheless, upon so doing, I was immediately hit with writer’s block as I attempted to adapt a piece I had been working on before Miami’s two disastrous mid-season losses, to Louisville and SMU, that occurred in a span of three weeks. Sitting at a paltry 6-2, I had the sinking feeling that Miami’s season was once again over early: as yet again, these dastardly Miami Hurricanes had broken my heart via annual collapse.
In the past, I wrote for “State of the U,” including a reactive, two-part series entitled “RIP Miami Football,” which was written in 2019, after—what may remain the worst defeat in Miami’s tumultuous history—the uninspired loss to FIU at the site of the former Orange Bowl; I grew tired of the gig, because the dilapidated state of my beloved Miami Hurricanes was so putrid, that I could simply write nothing positive without being disingenuous or delusional. At that time, Manny Diaz’s “New Miami” was nothing but a joke—a complete and utter laughing stock.
I became a Miami Hurricanes fan in 2000—at the ripe age of six. My first home game was, in fact, one of the greatest moments in Miami’s history: the 2000 “return to glory” game against arch-rival and consensus #1,—who also so happened to be the defending national champion—Florida State; it was an epic clash of titans, beset within the hallowed confines of the old Orange Bowl. It was a battle Miami mercifully—after so many years of coming up short through the twofold travails of probation and Butch Davis’s gamey coaching—eked-out, victorious to the sound of a 27-24 margin, in a game of titanic proportions which would become known as, “Wide Right III.”
During my first three years of watching and attending games with my family, Miami never lost a game—winning thirty-four straight from 2000-02, which has yet to be bested in the modern age. I was fortunate enough to eat beignets on Bourbon Street as a six year-old (while attending the Sugar Bowl vs. Florida), before running up and down the field of the Rose Bowl after Miami’s resounding victory over Nebraska in the 2002 BCS National Championship (at the Rose Bowl) the subsequent year. Such memories remain defining moments and monumental memories: I could continue on, but this piece would then become about me—which it is not.
And yet, such idyllic musings all came to a screeching and sudden halt in January of 2003, though I did not know it at the time. Of course, the game to which I am referring is the controversial 2003 BCS National Title Game versus an insurgent Ohio State in Tempe; it remains a day which I distinctly remember: e.g. walking into the stadium and seeing the freshly mowed and beautifully-painted grass—in fact, I vividly remember how beautiful and bright Miami’s endzone was at Sun Devil Stadium; I also distinctly remember entering at field-level before climbing to our seats—there was almost a preternatural air that signified a great clash was about to occur within the confines of said stadium; sometime soon after, we also ran into the family of Orion Harris in the concourses whilst transmitting to the bathroom, which my dad pointed out to me—in subsequent seasons, we would later meet and befriend the families of one or two other players in the West Endzone of the Orange Bowl as well, but those are stories for another time.
The actual game versus OSU—at least the in-person experience of it—is a bit of a blur, but I do remember the moment when we thought we had won, and I can confirm that helmets went up and confetti rained down, but this is not a lament—it is actually much deeper than that. What pains me about the 2003 BCS National Championship is that I did not know what I did not know—that I did not appreciate the sheer fact that the team I loved was playing for the ultimate prize one final time: for the last time in twenty-three years, in fact!
Leaving the stadium and walking towards our rental car, the mood was indeed somber. I, however, was more upbeat, telling my family that “it’s okay, we’ll be back next year,” while my parents tried to explain to my 8-year-old self that championships in competitive sports are, in actuality, exceedingly rare—and are, therefore, incredibly special. I didn’t know then, what I know now; and the years between 2003 and 2023 were a full-on reckoning for ’Canes fans: while many programs wallow in the mires of mediocrity, few suffer continual and humiliating, identity crises like Miami has.
As a result, for Miami it has not been so much about the peaks and valleys of wins and losses, but rather the cataclysmic (and embarrassing) pitfalls. To name a few, I would mention: the 2005 40-3 drubbing at the hands of LSU in the Peach Bowl—which was exacerbated by an embarrassing post-game fight; the infamous 2006 brawl, which I happened to witness firsthand in shock—completely aghast at what the **** had just happened; the final game at the Orange Bowl, which was non-hyperbolically Miami’s worst home defeat in its seventy-year history; the Nevin Shapiro scandal and its ubiquitous “cloud” of uncertainity; the collapse of the once-promising 2013 Season, which was precipitated by Duke Johnson’s broken leg that occurred versus arch-rival FSU—such collapse, eventuated in a humiliating 36-9 beatdown by Teddy Bridgewater an Louisville in the Orlando Bowl; the 58-0 humiliation by Clemson in 2015, which mercifully ended Al Golden’s tenure at Miami; the 2016 heartbreaking loss (on a blocked PAT) in the revamped HRS against FSU, which was Miami’s seventh consecutive to its arch-rival—which had the deflating effect of beginning a chain of four-consecutive losses in Mark Richt’s inaugural season; and again in 2017, when Miami collapsed on the road versus Pittsburgh, fully taking the wind out of its sails—causing a very promising season, which included a vintage 41-8 beatdown of #3 Notre Dame in Miami, to crawl to a whimper.
I could continue to write narratives for the years 2018-2023, but I think the reader gets the point: Miami’s falls “back down the mountain,” after brief climbs, haven’t just been heartbreaking, they have been often been far more humiliating than what is commonplace for other programs. This is because, I think, Miami is fundamentally different than other programs: Miami is the quintessential David among a bevy of would-be Goliaths. Or, more aptly, Miami is the David who himself became a sport Goliath. And now, the stage is set for Miami to do what Miami has always done best: to stubbornly and persistently climb over those who would attempt to hold it down—who would (and have) relish in the fall and decadent indulgence of the former Cinderella champion. But this time, David is built—from the foundation in the vital trenches—like a Goliath.
Under the full weight and pressure of a season on the brink of going fully awry, this Miami team—led by an insurgent Carson Beck, powerful Rueben Bain, towering Francis Mauigoa, and the do-anything wide receiver, Malachi Toney—proved itself different, special. With its backs against the wall, it reeled-off four-consecutive dominant wins—best typified by two classic performances: the first at home against a solid NC State, and the latter a wintry, “2003 style,” late-November beatdown of the Pitt Panthers up north in the American heartland. This Miami team—i.e. the way they rebounded and finished the season playing their best ball yet—therefore, is cause enough for celebration; while the 2024 Iteration ignobly fumbled away its chances of a CFP berth when it needed a win most up at the Carrier Dome, the 2025 version was good enough in all phases,—both mentally and physically, as well as in terms of coaching and schematic adjustments mid-stream—to do so in resounding fashion, leaving nothing to Fortune. If the latter isn't a harbinger of a program making steady progress, I don't know what is.
And so, almost twenty-three years have passed since that fateful day that Miami began to wander in the desert; and now Miami will finally again compete—in a new, slogging landscape that’s littered with pitfalls and a no-mans-land consisting of four leviathanic hurdles to climb through—for the national championship; as fate would have it, “next year” (alluded to above) took over two decades to come to pass. Therefore, my message to ’Canes fans far and wide is to simply appreciate the moment—the opportunity—before Miami; soak it in and relish that at least for the next forty-eight hours, when one so happens to turn on SportsCenter whilst working out (as I just so happened to do the other night to fill the silence), Miami’s logo is once again relevant—front and center, for all college football fans and critics to see.
Before Miami lies Texas A&M: a good team and solid program—who will be greatly aided on the 20th by one of college football’s greatest home environments; but with Miami—its essence, identity, and history—would you want anything other than the most difficult path (to its sixth national championship) for the sport’s greatest underdog of all time? Miami can indeed win, Saturday and beyond, but the truth of the moment is that being simply here again is, quite frankly, enough for the time being. Boasting back-to-back ten-win seasons, unofficial but meaningful “State Championships,” and its inaugural College Football Playoff berth, ought to be enough to keep the critics at bay—at least for now, at least for a while.
Miami has one of the most neurotic fan bases I have ever been a part of or witnessed, so I realize this message may fall on deaf ears—and after experiencing firsthand what the Miami faithful has been through since 2003, I realize how much it can hurt to hope that this time it will be different. But in 2025—with parity being an endemic feature of the landscape of the sport—having such successes, as those he has accrued to date, has, in my view, validated the vision of Miami as a national power in the twenty-first century—that Mario Cristobal and co. first envisioned, and have thereafter instituted, tirelessly since December of 2021. And if one cannot even appreciate the tangible progress made along the way,—enjoying the rise and ascendant journey of such endeavors—whosoever can say the summit will even taste sweet? For the absolute critic is impossible to please—unsatisfied with perfection itself.
Win or lose, the Miami Hurricanes are headed in a promising direction—and this time, it is not fool’s gold: as Mario’s ’Canes have been (re)built the right way—inside out, and from the ground up: 2022 was the razing of nebulous and shaky foundations, while 2023 began to build the core principles and human capital that would be leveraged going forward; 2024 was a premature arrival due to—the sensational—one Cam Ward—but 2025, for all of its hiccups and tension, has been the arrival. Miami is, in fact, “nationally-prominent” and relevant once more. As a result, Miami figures to be in the mix—for the ACC crown and CFBP—for the foreseeable future. For ’Canes fans all about, what more can we really ask for this holiday season?
In the past, I wrote for “State of the U,” including a reactive, two-part series entitled “RIP Miami Football,” which was written in 2019, after—what may remain the worst defeat in Miami’s tumultuous history—the uninspired loss to FIU at the site of the former Orange Bowl; I grew tired of the gig, because the dilapidated state of my beloved Miami Hurricanes was so putrid, that I could simply write nothing positive without being disingenuous or delusional. At that time, Manny Diaz’s “New Miami” was nothing but a joke—a complete and utter laughing stock.
I became a Miami Hurricanes fan in 2000—at the ripe age of six. My first home game was, in fact, one of the greatest moments in Miami’s history: the 2000 “return to glory” game against arch-rival and consensus #1,—who also so happened to be the defending national champion—Florida State; it was an epic clash of titans, beset within the hallowed confines of the old Orange Bowl. It was a battle Miami mercifully—after so many years of coming up short through the twofold travails of probation and Butch Davis’s gamey coaching—eked-out, victorious to the sound of a 27-24 margin, in a game of titanic proportions which would become known as, “Wide Right III.”
During my first three years of watching and attending games with my family, Miami never lost a game—winning thirty-four straight from 2000-02, which has yet to be bested in the modern age. I was fortunate enough to eat beignets on Bourbon Street as a six year-old (while attending the Sugar Bowl vs. Florida), before running up and down the field of the Rose Bowl after Miami’s resounding victory over Nebraska in the 2002 BCS National Championship (at the Rose Bowl) the subsequent year. Such memories remain defining moments and monumental memories: I could continue on, but this piece would then become about me—which it is not.
And yet, such idyllic musings all came to a screeching and sudden halt in January of 2003, though I did not know it at the time. Of course, the game to which I am referring is the controversial 2003 BCS National Title Game versus an insurgent Ohio State in Tempe; it remains a day which I distinctly remember: e.g. walking into the stadium and seeing the freshly mowed and beautifully-painted grass—in fact, I vividly remember how beautiful and bright Miami’s endzone was at Sun Devil Stadium; I also distinctly remember entering at field-level before climbing to our seats—there was almost a preternatural air that signified a great clash was about to occur within the confines of said stadium; sometime soon after, we also ran into the family of Orion Harris in the concourses whilst transmitting to the bathroom, which my dad pointed out to me—in subsequent seasons, we would later meet and befriend the families of one or two other players in the West Endzone of the Orange Bowl as well, but those are stories for another time.
The actual game versus OSU—at least the in-person experience of it—is a bit of a blur, but I do remember the moment when we thought we had won, and I can confirm that helmets went up and confetti rained down, but this is not a lament—it is actually much deeper than that. What pains me about the 2003 BCS National Championship is that I did not know what I did not know—that I did not appreciate the sheer fact that the team I loved was playing for the ultimate prize one final time: for the last time in twenty-three years, in fact!
Leaving the stadium and walking towards our rental car, the mood was indeed somber. I, however, was more upbeat, telling my family that “it’s okay, we’ll be back next year,” while my parents tried to explain to my 8-year-old self that championships in competitive sports are, in actuality, exceedingly rare—and are, therefore, incredibly special. I didn’t know then, what I know now; and the years between 2003 and 2023 were a full-on reckoning for ’Canes fans: while many programs wallow in the mires of mediocrity, few suffer continual and humiliating, identity crises like Miami has.
As a result, for Miami it has not been so much about the peaks and valleys of wins and losses, but rather the cataclysmic (and embarrassing) pitfalls. To name a few, I would mention: the 2005 40-3 drubbing at the hands of LSU in the Peach Bowl—which was exacerbated by an embarrassing post-game fight; the infamous 2006 brawl, which I happened to witness firsthand in shock—completely aghast at what the **** had just happened; the final game at the Orange Bowl, which was non-hyperbolically Miami’s worst home defeat in its seventy-year history; the Nevin Shapiro scandal and its ubiquitous “cloud” of uncertainity; the collapse of the once-promising 2013 Season, which was precipitated by Duke Johnson’s broken leg that occurred versus arch-rival FSU—such collapse, eventuated in a humiliating 36-9 beatdown by Teddy Bridgewater an Louisville in the Orlando Bowl; the 58-0 humiliation by Clemson in 2015, which mercifully ended Al Golden’s tenure at Miami; the 2016 heartbreaking loss (on a blocked PAT) in the revamped HRS against FSU, which was Miami’s seventh consecutive to its arch-rival—which had the deflating effect of beginning a chain of four-consecutive losses in Mark Richt’s inaugural season; and again in 2017, when Miami collapsed on the road versus Pittsburgh, fully taking the wind out of its sails—causing a very promising season, which included a vintage 41-8 beatdown of #3 Notre Dame in Miami, to crawl to a whimper.
I could continue to write narratives for the years 2018-2023, but I think the reader gets the point: Miami’s falls “back down the mountain,” after brief climbs, haven’t just been heartbreaking, they have been often been far more humiliating than what is commonplace for other programs. This is because, I think, Miami is fundamentally different than other programs: Miami is the quintessential David among a bevy of would-be Goliaths. Or, more aptly, Miami is the David who himself became a sport Goliath. And now, the stage is set for Miami to do what Miami has always done best: to stubbornly and persistently climb over those who would attempt to hold it down—who would (and have) relish in the fall and decadent indulgence of the former Cinderella champion. But this time, David is built—from the foundation in the vital trenches—like a Goliath.
Under the full weight and pressure of a season on the brink of going fully awry, this Miami team—led by an insurgent Carson Beck, powerful Rueben Bain, towering Francis Mauigoa, and the do-anything wide receiver, Malachi Toney—proved itself different, special. With its backs against the wall, it reeled-off four-consecutive dominant wins—best typified by two classic performances: the first at home against a solid NC State, and the latter a wintry, “2003 style,” late-November beatdown of the Pitt Panthers up north in the American heartland. This Miami team—i.e. the way they rebounded and finished the season playing their best ball yet—therefore, is cause enough for celebration; while the 2024 Iteration ignobly fumbled away its chances of a CFP berth when it needed a win most up at the Carrier Dome, the 2025 version was good enough in all phases,—both mentally and physically, as well as in terms of coaching and schematic adjustments mid-stream—to do so in resounding fashion, leaving nothing to Fortune. If the latter isn't a harbinger of a program making steady progress, I don't know what is.
The Stage is Set
And so, almost twenty-three years have passed since that fateful day that Miami began to wander in the desert; and now Miami will finally again compete—in a new, slogging landscape that’s littered with pitfalls and a no-mans-land consisting of four leviathanic hurdles to climb through—for the national championship; as fate would have it, “next year” (alluded to above) took over two decades to come to pass. Therefore, my message to ’Canes fans far and wide is to simply appreciate the moment—the opportunity—before Miami; soak it in and relish that at least for the next forty-eight hours, when one so happens to turn on SportsCenter whilst working out (as I just so happened to do the other night to fill the silence), Miami’s logo is once again relevant—front and center, for all college football fans and critics to see.
Before Miami lies Texas A&M: a good team and solid program—who will be greatly aided on the 20th by one of college football’s greatest home environments; but with Miami—its essence, identity, and history—would you want anything other than the most difficult path (to its sixth national championship) for the sport’s greatest underdog of all time? Miami can indeed win, Saturday and beyond, but the truth of the moment is that being simply here again is, quite frankly, enough for the time being. Boasting back-to-back ten-win seasons, unofficial but meaningful “State Championships,” and its inaugural College Football Playoff berth, ought to be enough to keep the critics at bay—at least for now, at least for a while.
Miami has one of the most neurotic fan bases I have ever been a part of or witnessed, so I realize this message may fall on deaf ears—and after experiencing firsthand what the Miami faithful has been through since 2003, I realize how much it can hurt to hope that this time it will be different. But in 2025—with parity being an endemic feature of the landscape of the sport—having such successes, as those he has accrued to date, has, in my view, validated the vision of Miami as a national power in the twenty-first century—that Mario Cristobal and co. first envisioned, and have thereafter instituted, tirelessly since December of 2021. And if one cannot even appreciate the tangible progress made along the way,—enjoying the rise and ascendant journey of such endeavors—whosoever can say the summit will even taste sweet? For the absolute critic is impossible to please—unsatisfied with perfection itself.
Win or lose, the Miami Hurricanes are headed in a promising direction—and this time, it is not fool’s gold: as Mario’s ’Canes have been (re)built the right way—inside out, and from the ground up: 2022 was the razing of nebulous and shaky foundations, while 2023 began to build the core principles and human capital that would be leveraged going forward; 2024 was a premature arrival due to—the sensational—one Cam Ward—but 2025, for all of its hiccups and tension, has been the arrival. Miami is, in fact, “nationally-prominent” and relevant once more. As a result, Miami figures to be in the mix—for the ACC crown and CFBP—for the foreseeable future. For ’Canes fans all about, what more can we really ask for this holiday season?
