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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