Ike any man who destroys himself running for a finish line that doesn't exist, Meyer often longed for the time and place where that race began: Columbus, 1986. They turned and he said, "A psych nurse," which is true. During one of his many recent visits to a children's hospital in Columbus, he told a group of nurses on an elevator, "My wife's a nurse." Behind, there's his old dream job in Florida, which he quit twice in a year, and the $20 million he left on the table, unable to answer the simplest of questions: Why am I doing this? During the break, he studied himself for the first time in his life, looking for a new him or maybe trying to get the old him back - the person he was before a need for perfection nearly killed him. Today he's driving to Cleveland to take Nate to an Indians game. Tomorrow he will meet with the 2012 Buckeyes for the first time, beginning the countdown to the first practice, the first game, the first loss. The radio in the car, as always, is tuned to 93.3, the oldies station. "All right, fun time today," he says, amped and smiling at his son.įun? Smiling? Urban? There's gray in his brush cut, weight back on his hips. Andrew Hetherington for ESPN The Magazine Road trip! Though Urban Meyer hasn't won a game in Columbus, he still has lots of fans who want his autograph. There's vital business at hand, which requires him to leave the football bunker on a summer afternoon. In the car, he turns right out of his new office, heading some two hours north. On one side, the past 18 months of searching, and on the other, the test of that search. Years from now, when Urban either succeeds or fails in remaking himself, he will look back on these two days in June as a dividing line. He doesn't like himself, which is why he wants to change.Įyer strolls through the Ohio State football parking lot with his 13-year-old son, Nate. Both of these people are in him - are him: the guilty father who feels regret, the obsessed coach who ignores it. His daughter's words ran through his mind, troubling him, and yet he returned to the shifting pixels on his television, studying for a game he'd either win or lose.
Then - and this arrives at the guts of his conflict - Urban Meyer went back to work, pulled by some biological imperative. Moments later, Gigi high-fived her dad without making eye contact, then hugged her coach. Her heart broke for Urban, who sat with a thin smile, crushed. She'd been nervous all day, and with a room of eyes on her, she thanked her mother for being there season after season, year after year. Urban and his wife, Shelley, joined their daughter at the front table, watching as Gigi stood and spoke. Meyer's secretary, a mother of four, insisted: "You're going."Įighty or so people filed into the school cafeteria. His beautiful, athletic, earnest daughter would have to sign her letter of intent without him. Some now-forgotten problem consumed Meyer, and he told his secretary he didn't have time. As the hour approached, she waited at her high school, wanting much, expecting little.
It was football season, so she checked her dad's calendar, scheduling her big day around his job. A few years ago in Gainesville, his middle child, Gigi, planned a celebration to formally accept a college volleyball scholarship to Florida Gulf Coast University. Subscribe today!Įfore you join Urban Meyer, who is walking toward the exit of the Ohio State football office, there's a scar you need to see.
This story appears in ESPN The Magazine's Aug.
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