“It’s Gator Country,” Corey Smith’s mother, Sandra, says, when asked about the climate in Gainesville and her own sense that, in Corey’s case, justice has never been served. “When they say, ‘Gator Country,’ they mean it.”
“We were national champions,” a teammate of Aaron’s recalls. “We were walking around with rings on. They had lists of our names at the clubs. If we wanted to get in, they just looked down the roster: ‘There he is. Let him in.’ It was very accommodating. We could do whatever we wanted to. Everyone knew us. We were celebrities. We ran the city.”
No one could argue that, in Gainesville, the University of Florida, and its 50,000-person student body, played an outsized role. The university’s 88,000-seat football stadium—which was often filled above capacity for Gators games—could fit two-thirds of the city’s entire population. Around town, you’d see stores, shops, and companies with names like Gator Fever, Gator Mania, Gator Cuts, Gator Nails, Gator Cross Fit, and Gator Hydroponics. But, popular as the Gators were, there were those who bristled at the suggestion that UF’s football players were given free rein in the city.
Bill Cervone, a University of Florida alumnus who is currently serving his fifth term as a State Attorney in Gainesville, says that, over the years, “way too many” Gators have gotten themselves into trouble—usually for “insignificant college kid stuff.” But to him, “the idea that the university runs this town is way overblown.”
“It’s true to say that economically it’s the engine that drives Gainesville,” Cervone says. “We would be a much different community if the university wasn’t here. Obviously. But it’s way overblown to say that anyone around here, certainly law enforcement, kowtows to the university.”
“The coaching staff you have asked about are no longer here at the University of Florida, and the incidents involving Mr. Hernandez did not occur on campus,” university representatives say.
They continue: “UF has always and remains willing to cooperate fully with the Gainesville Police Department, which led all investigations regarding Mr. Hernandez while he was a student. We are not aware of any information—then or now—that requires action by the university.
“There was a time when the number of football player arrests was unacceptable and we are mindful of that. Our highest priority is to help these young men succeed in collegiate football and academics while growing them as leaders along the way, and many of them do.
“But we don’t always succeed. Some of our students—including student athletes—come from difficult backgrounds and bring with them lifelong problems. Sometimes it is not possible to overcome those challenges in the relatively short period of time these students are at the university.”
To his credit, Urban Meyer did his best to mentor Hernandez, making himself available to Aaron day and night. It was an extraordinary investment of the coach’s time—although, of course, Aaron was an extraordinary player.
“Aaron was unique,” Meyer says. “In a thirty-one-year career, I’ve never seen one like him. His route-running and athleticism. I don’t know if I will see another one. And I didn’t see it at first. I was disappointed in the guy that recruited him. I was disappointed in the player. I didn’t see the competitive spirit. But in the second year, in 2008 and 2009, we used him as much as we’ve ever used any player. He was the guy you would go into the game saying, ‘He’s one of the best players in America. Get him the ball.’
“He loved the game. He was extremely smart—a truly intelligent player. We’re a very complicated offense. We did a lot of things with him. He was a shovel runner. He was a corner-out runner. He could run all the routes. We isolated him to run the wide receiver screens. We could do everything with him.”
Meyer had a daily routine: in the mornings, he’d study the Bible. Aaron asked the coach if they could do that together. “Absolutely,” Meyer told him.
“So we’d sit there. That was every morning for quite a while. Then it started to be once a week. We’d usually take a scripture verse, or he’d read a part. I’d have him read it, and we’d talk about it: ‘What’s it mean?’ Then we’d pray together and he’d go about his day. He was asking for help. It was very obvious. He was over at my house quite often. He was very close with my kids, with my wife. He would come over by himself. He just wanted to experience family. That was almost his catharsis, his time, his release. Once in a while, I would hear about his tough side. I’d confront it. But I didn’t feel it until later on in his career. And then, you know—he just seemed to change. We didn’t have the Bible studies later on. The deep conversations stopped—and I would try to have them. He had his own way of dealing with it. And that concerned a lot of us.”
Chapter 23
It was August 30, 2008, the first game of Aaron’s sophomore season at the University of Florida. UF was playing Hawaii, but Aaron was on the sidelines, dressed in the #81 jersey that marked his position as a tight end but wearing the kind of walking boot used by injured athletes. Among Gator fans, rumor had it that the walking boot was worn by players who had gotten themselves into trouble. Other players had worn it previously, and the word in those cases had usually been that the players had failed drug tests and been made to wear the boot as punishment.
Aaron had spent his freshman year protecting the kickoff returner on special teams (as units who are only on field when the ball is kicked off, punted, or returned, are known). “He’d be part of the wedge and just block,” a teammate remembers.
As a sophomore, Aaron was determined to show Urban Meyer what he could do.
“Only so many can play, especially for Coach Meyer,” the teammate explains. “Aaron was on special teams to start, but he just took off from there. He was an animal out there. A force to be reckoned with. He could block. He was strong. He was fast for his size, he could catch, and that package of awesomeness—they just exploited it.”
And yet, despite all he had done to prove himself, here Aaron was, on the sidelines, wearing the boot, watching his team trounce Hawaii 56-10.
Luckily for Hernandez, Meyer believed in second chances. The following week, in a game against Miami, the coach finally put Aaron in. In the Gators’ first possession, Hernandez caught a fourteen-yard touchdown pass from Tebow.
The roar that went up in the stadium set the tone for the rest of the game. The Gators went on to crush Miami, 26-3.
For their third game of the season—their first away from home—the Gators faced Tennessee. Hernandez read the Bible with his coach in the morning. Once again, Meyer had picked him to start in the game.
Football was big in Tennessee—Knoxville’s Neyland Stadium could hold 100,000 people. The teams were evenly matched. In 2007, the Volunteers had won the SEC East title—whereas the Gators had come up empty, finishing the season at 9–4. But, the Gators had beaten the Volunteers in their last two meetings, the last time by a margin of just one point.
There was no part of this game that Urban Meyer was taking for granted.
The Gators’ first possession against the Volunteers resulted in a forty-four-yard drive. Just over three minutes into the game, the Gators were positioned at 1st and goal. In the huddle, Tim Tebow—who had won the Heisman the previous year—gave out instructions: Fake pass to Percy Harvin, run right, touchdown. But Tennessee’s defensive line was jumpy after letting the Gators’ offense get so deep into their territory on the first drive. When Harvin broke right, he found himself up against a wall of orange jerseys.
Tebow faked the pass, but the Volunteer tackles rushed through cracks in the Gator line. The quarterback’s options were running out fast. Dodging a tackle, Tebow spun and drove left to run the ball in himself.
Somehow, he saw, Hernandez had managed to get himself into the open.