Mike Bianchi, Orlando Sentinel
ORLANDO, Fla. -- For nearly four decades, every college football Saturday in America began with a smile. A real genuine smile. Not the forced grin we put on for a company Zoom call or the polite nod when the neighbor waves across the street. I'm talking about the kind of smile that slips out naturally, like sunshine through a kitchen window, and suddenly your whole day feels better.
That smile.
The smile that our Orlando neighbor Lee Corso always gave to us.
And Saturday, for the last time, we turned on the TV at 9 a.m. to see him do what only he could do: remind us that college football -- and life -- should be fun. Before the first whistle, before the pageantry and the passion gave way to the brutal business of blocking and blitzes, there was Corso. There he was at the end of ESPN's College GameDay, standing behind the desk with that mischievous glint in his 90-year-old eyes, reaching for a giant mascot head like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
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"He used to always say, 'Sweetheart, we're in the entertainment business,' " his longtime GameDay partner and close friend Kirk Herbstreit said on the air Saturday. "... He was the greatest entertainer in the history of sports television."
At Ohio Stadium, where the whole mascot headgear tradition began all those years ago, Corso capped a career that has become as woven into college football as marching bands, rivalry trophies and seven-figure NIL deals. Millions watched. Some from home, some from their favorite tailgate, and, in a sign of how singularly beloved this man is, even a rival network -- Fox -- broke from its coverage to simulcast Corso's goodbye.
Imagine that: in the cut-throat ratings-obsessed world of college football television, the competition hit pause. Because when Lee Corso puts on the headgear for the last time, you don't look away. You honor the moment and the man.
Thousands of fans packed around the GameDay set, hoisting signs and banners in Corso's honor and chanting, "We love Lee! We love Lee!" At one point, his GameDay colleagues upped the tribute -- slipping on custom mascot heads crafted in Corso's likeness.
Here in Orlando, where Lee Corso planted his roots four decades ago, the day felt personal. This wasn't just a national broadcast farewell; it was a community saying goodbye to one of its most famous friends.
Lake Mary has been Corso's home since the mid-1980s. Back then, he arrived to coach the Orlando Renegades of the old USFL, a gig that lasted just one season before the league folded like a cheap pup tent in a Florida thunderstorm. For Corso, that job was supposed to be a coaching detour. Instead, it became his destiny.
"When the Renegades disappeared, I got a couple of coaching job offers," Corso recalled. "I told [wife] Betsy on the back porch, 'We can go to Kansas.' She said, 'You'll love it over there. I'm not going anyplace.' "
So they stayed. And thank goodness they did. Because when ESPN came calling -- impressed by Corso's quick wit and colorful quotes during those USFL broadcasts -- Lake Mary became the launchpad for one of the most remarkable second acts in sports history.
Earlier this week, Seminole County made it official, proclaiming a "Lee Corso Day" to honor the man who helped put their hometown on the map.
"Throughout his nearly 40-year broadcasting career, Mr. Corso has inspired countless fans, uplifted his community, and represented Seminole County with humor, passion, and pride," the proclamation read.
Corso stood at the county commission podium, his voice slower now, the lingering effects of that stroke a decade ago still evident. But the heart was all there.
"I want the people to know I've been all over the place," he said, "but there's no place like Lake Mary. There's no place like home."
Lee Corso was 52 when ESPN launched GameDay in 1987. The show was a gamble; college football was still mostly a regional obsession then. Today, it's a phenomenon, and Corso was the face of it. Not the stats, not the strategy, not the sober talk of playoff implications. The face. The animated, expressive, larger-than-life face.
And the headgear? That started right there in Columbus, too. One day, almost on a whim, Corso decided to cap his pick by putting on the Brutus Buckeye head.
"Instantaneously, I got this great feeling," he said, "and I became the only guy in America who made a living putting something on his head."
From there, it became the most anticipated two minutes in sports television. Ducks and Gators. Leprechauns and Longhorns. Remember the time he dressed up as Ben Franklin? Or the Stanford tree? Or when GameDay came to UCF in 2018, and he wore the full Knightro costume?
No matter what headgear he put on, the audience behind him would roar, either in ecstatic approval or feigned outrage, and Corso soaked up every decibel like a flower leaning toward the sun.
"I have tried when I'm on television to bring a smile to people's faces," he said. "If I can make them smile, then I did my job."
By that measure, he didn't just do his job. He gave us joy at a time when joy feels in short supply. In the middle of political brawls, culture wars and the relentless churn of cable news angertainment, we could turn on our TV before noon on a Saturday and find something pure: an old coach acting silly, surrounded by laughter and signs and marching bands.
Thank God we had Lee Corso.
It almost ended before it should have. Back in 2020, when COVID shut down stadiums and silenced Saturdays, Corso stayed home. For an 85-year-old stroke survivor, traveling was too risky. ESPN could have quietly moved on. Instead, they built a set in his backyard.
"ESPN sent an eight-member crew to my house every week," Corso told me then, his voice thick with gratitude. "They didn't have to do that. I can't tell you how much it means to me."
It meant a lot to us, too. In those long, anxious months when human connection felt like a luxury, there was Corso on our screens, standing by his pool in Seminole County, defiantly barking out his catch phrase -- "Not so fast, my friend!" -- and grinning as he put on Alabama's elephant mascot head and pretended to ride a life-sized elephant statue ESPN had delivered to his yard. Herbstreit laughed like a giddy kid. As we all did.
"It never gets old," GameDay producer Drew Gallagher told me at the time.
But what made Corso more than just a TV personality was the way he made the set feel like a family living room. For Herbstreit, Rece Davis, Desmond Howard, Chris Fowler and others, he wasn't just a colleague; he was a mentor, a father figure.
"He's been so much more than the guy sitting next to me on a desk," Herbstreit said. "He's been a guy I've relied on in my life as a dad, as a husband and in my career."
Think about that for a second. In a business obsessed with being right, Corso cared about being real. He wasn't afraid to look silly or be wrong -- in fact, half the fun was when the headgear curse struck again and his pick went up in flames. He wasn't there to impress you; he was there to entertain you, to love the game out loud and invite you to love it with him.
That's what made this Saturday so bittersweet; not just because Corso is leaving, but because of what the sport's media landscape looks like now. While ESPN was saying goodbye to its beloved icon, another network was hyping the debut of Dave Portnoy on its pregame set. Portnoy -- loud, polarizing, perpetually marinated in controversy -- is the new face of Fox's Big Noon Kickoff.
Already, Portnoy is in the headlines. Because he's such a shameless Michigan homer who trolls Ohio State on social media, the Buckeyes purportedly barred Portnoy from entering the stadium for Saturday's mega-game against Texas. Ohio State denies Portnoy's claim that he was banned, but it doesn't matter what the truth is. And that's the point: it's all provocation and polarization. It's all noise.
Contrast that with Corso, who was surrounded by a sellout crowd of Ohio State fans who chanted and cheered his name on Saturday. The Ohio State marching band spelled "Corso" as he prepared to make his final pick. No agenda. No culture war. Just college football.
And so, as the clock wound down on his final show, Corso reached for the headgear one more time. His hands shook a little. His smile did not.
When the Brutus Buckeye headgear went onto his head one last time, the crowd behind him exclaimed. So did millions of fans in living rooms. For a fleeting moment, everything felt like it used to feel -- joyful, silly, simple. GameDay colleague Pat McAfee put it best on Saturday when discussing Corso's legacy.
"It wasn't officially kickoff until we saw that sweet coach put something on his head and let us know that it was time for another week of the greatest sport in the world," McAfee said.
As the season marches on, the debates will rage: Playoff spots, NIL deals, coaches on hot seats, all the things that make college football feel like big business instead of big fun. But for one last Saturday morning, Lee Corso reminded us why we fell in love with this sport in the first place.
Because of the characters. Because of the pageantry. Because of the magic.
And because of a 90-year-old man from Lake Mary who made us all smile.
Thank you, Coach.
Thank you.
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