There, I said it. I've been holding this one in all summer.

First things first: I understand exactly why there are a lot of people in the world who cannot stand Beano Cook, and chances are their rationale is dead on. Yes, he comes off as a Notre Dame homer (though he's a Pitt guy). Yes, he's irascible and fiery and occasionally frustrating. Yes, he can be obnoxious. Et cetera. All valid points. But I love him anyway, and here's why:

1. He is unique. We live in an era of cookie cutter analysts. It doesn't necessarily matter whether your analysis is totally canned and less than insightful, as long as it sounds good, and as long as you look good saying it. And if you are a former player, then that puts you at the front of the line. Beano Cook is not pretty, and chances are, he's not going to say what you want him to say. He is going to say what he believes, and if that matches conventional wisdom, so be it. But it might not.

2. He is genuine. If you search for Beano Cook on YouTube, you are going to get nothing but bloopers, of him getting annoyed and snapping. "TELL FOWLER I CAN HEAR HIM." Those (mostly fantastic) bloopers happened because he is not a natural-born television personality, he is not a "smooth delivery" kind of guy. He is a smart guy with knowledge and opinions and a temper, and he was good enough at his job to get on television, warts and all.

I used to think a lot of the fiery aspects of Beano's personality were a bit of an act, but then I talked to him on the phone. I wanted to get his opinion about the Top 100 list I created last summer, and the reaction he gave me was exactly what I could have hoped for: he was pissed. First of all, any list that didn't include 1947 Notre Dame at or near the top is completely worthless, as they are, without question, the greatest team of all-time. How can 1959 Ole Miss be No. 1? They lost! And 1957 Auburn at No. 7? They were fine, but please. There were five Notre Dame teams better than that one. The entire list was un-buh-LEEV-able.

It was fantastic. It became a rant about numbers, about "typical ESPN" (Football Outsiders has a connection to ESPN Insider, but really, I probably didn't explain who I was very well), et cetera. I think he assumed I was going to hang up or something, but when I kept asking questions (I'm nothing if not passively persistent) and proved that I was looking for discussion and was open to disagreement, he started talking. Over the course of three phone calls, he talked about why those late-1940s Notre Dame teams -- 1947 in particular -- had such an advantage over everybody else (he rattled off the number of future pros on those teams and how some post-war teams became all-star teams of sorts because of all the players coming back from the war with eligibility left), why Frank Leahy is probably the most underrated coach of all-time (he was un-buh-LEEV-able), etc. We veered briefly into politics and Missouri (he asked where I was from) and conference realignment. It didn't take long for me to realize that the Beano Cook you see on television is the Beano Cook that exists in real-life, 24 hours a day. And that quickly made him very endearing. And very, very funny.

3. He is a college football encyclopedia. In the podcast recorded in the above link, and in a couple hours of other phone calls, he gave me an immediate tidbit for every single team I threw at him, from 1952 Georgia Tech to 2004 USC. When we talked more about 1957 Auburn, he was able to immediately recall their 40-0 whipping of Alabama that got Jennings B. Whitworth fired in Tuscaloosa and Bear Bryant hired. On the podcast, he was a little more passive about 1959 Ole Miss, saying they were obviously great, but since they lost, he couldn't really take them seriously as No. 1 ... but that, hey, it was my list. It was very enjoyable. I said I would need to come up with an excuse to call him again, and he said to call whenever, but "If I don't answer, I'm either not home or dead." One gets the feeling he ends every call with that, which, like Beano himself, is both unique, endearing and odd.

As cold as my ratings may have been toward last year's Oregon team, they were equally warm to that 2007 team. Dixon and the Ducks were so good that, even when they fell apart after Dixon's injury, they still finished the season ranked seventh in S&P+. And it's not hard to remember why.

And yes, that was Chip Kelly's first season in charge of the offense. More fake Statue Of Liberty plays, please.

I feel bad for springing the Alamo Bowl on unsuspecting K-State fans, so here's my peace offering. And this should mean a lot considering how much this dude absolutely torched Mizzou through the years.

Because the college football season begins in less than a month, I'm doubling down on the What I Love's...

First the nickname, one that grew to be fearfully "fowl" to the opposition from the first game in September to the bowl game on New Year's Day.

The legend of the Thunderchickens -- the nickname given to the Stanford defensive line -- had been hatched prior to the start of the season.

Junior defensive end Pete Lazetich had been talking during the preseason about a motorcycle gang in Montana called the Thunderchickens. He also thought senior defensive lineman Dave Tipton ran like a chicken. Lazetich thought the nickname fit Tipton and the rest of the Indians' D-Line.

Following the victory over USC on October 10, the reputation of Stanford and the Thunderchickens took off. Four consecutive Pac-8 wins followed, in which the defense allowed an average of fewer than 14 points per game.

First came a 63-16 win at Washington State on October 17. Then came a 9-7 victory over UCLA in Los Angeles on October 24. Next was a 48-10 Halloween home win over Oregon State. And, finally, a 29-22 November 7th home triumph over the Sonny Sixkiller-quarterbacked Washington Huskies. Stanford was rolling, with a record of 7-1 and a No. 6 ranking.

That four-game win streak was enough for the Indians to clinch, by the middle of November, the Pac-8 Conference championship and the coveted Rose Bowl berth -- Stanford's first in 19 years! […]

With Ohio State going uncharacteristically to the air, Stanford senior defensive back Jack Schultz picked off a Kern pass and returned it to the Buckeye 25-yard line. Four plays later, Plunkett hit Randy Vataha on a 10-yard touchdown pass play, making the score 27-17 Indians with 8:18 left.

And the Thunderchickens made sure those final eight minutes were "Ohio Scoreless University". The Buckeyes would not score again. The last seconds ticked off the clock in the Arroyo Seco gloaming.

The final score, Stanford 27, Ohio State 17.

A Rose Bowl win for Stanford.

A Rose Bowl MVP for Plunkett.

Twelve tackles for Thunderchicken Tipton.

The winning formula for Stanford: Heisman + Thunderchickens = Rose Bowl win.

Why is Stanford's nickname the Cardinal?

The short answer is because the 1972 Trustees and president decided that would be the team's nickname.

For many years, the teams had gone by the nickname "Indians." In 1972, North American indigenous people particularly those in the San Francisco Bay Area were protesting their treatment by the majority culture. Some, but not all of these indigenous people felt that that nicknaming athletic teams "Indians" was demeaning. One such person led a successful campaign to remove the "Indian" as Stanford's mascot. It should be noted that this graduate student received his undergraduate degree from the University of California at Berkeley.

After the trustees agreed to change the athletic moniker, the student body held an election to decide on a new name. The name that won was "Robber Barons," however, then president Donald Kennedy said he felt that name was disrespectful to the University's founder, railroad magnate Leland Stanford. Other names that garnered votes in the election included Sequoias and Thunderchickens.

Kennedy discovered an old Stanford Daily article that referred to the team as "Cardinals" or "Cardinal," after the color of their uniforms. Since he also happens to be a Harvard alumnus and Harvard uses a color – Crimson – as its team name liked the idea, and made it the official moniker.

A total missed opportunity.

I actually feel a bit hypocritical putting Moss on this list. About three separate times since I began doing these pieces, I have almost written something about the 1995 Nebraska Cornhuskers. They were the epitome of what I thought a college football team was supposed to be: bigger than you, stronger than you, faster than you, more well-conditioned than you, and full of I-formation perfection. But every time I think about writing about them, I remember Lawrence Phillips and the Peter brothers (and all the other shady characters). And I remember how Tom Osborne consciously went after players of shaky character and morality because he knew his late-1980s and early-1990s teams weren't fast enough to compete with the Miami's and Florida State's of the world. He welcomed people like Phillips into the program and punished them minimally when they were accused of wrongdoings (mostly against women, it seemed), and ... ugh, it just ruins the whole thing for me. And unlike Tim Layden, I cannot rationalize it away by telling myself "Yeah, but there were a lot of good guys on those teams too." That was never the point.

(UPDATE: Since it appears this is getting some hits from Husker sites, let me be very clear: in the way that someone from a rival school can love an opposing team, I loved that 1995 Nebraska team. As should be evident by the "epitome of what I thought a college football team was supposed to be" line above. But every time I want to heap praise on them -- and since I, completely umprompted, mentioned them in a post about Randy Moss, the urge is clearly there -- Phillips ruins it for me, as does Osborne's treatment of him. Never mind everybody else, really; this is all about Phillips. There is probably some hindsight involved, of course; if he had never been arrested again, then Osborne's "I don't want to abandon him and cause more harm than good" approach might be praised. But it turned out that he was just scum. And whether Osborne should have kicked him off the team or not, the fact remains that I can't watch the 1995 Orange Bowl or the 1996 Fiesta Bowl without going through this exact thought process: "DAMN, that team was awesome. I should write about them. Oh. Right. Phillips. Oh. Right. Peter brothers." Start your own site and profess all of the love you want for them. You probably already have. I just can't make myself do it here.)

And yet ... I'm including Randy Moss on here. Well, not Moss the Person so much as Moss the Highlight Reel, but it still makes me a bit hypocritical. But here's the difference: Moss was just a damn jerk. An asshole. He didn't drag his girlfriend around or throw her downstairs or do anything worse than get into a fight and smoke pot. In my head, that makes it okay. Or at least okay enough. And then I watch the highlights below, and it makes it really okay. Against 1-AA and mid-major competition at Marshall, Randy Moss was Tecmo Bo Jackson. He was Charlie Kelly versus grade schoolers. He was Usain Bolt. It was simultaneously unfair, beautiful and hilarious. It made me happy enough to ignore flaws that I cannot ignore with others.

Moss caught 174 passes for 3,529 yards and 54 touchdowns ... IN TWO SEASONS. His case makes for one of the most incredible what-ifs in college football history. He signed with Notre Dame but was never admitted after getting into a racially-tinged fight in high school. He ended up at Florida State but was kicked off the team after testing positive for marijuana. If Moss had joined Derrick Mayes in the Notre Dame receiving corps, Ron Powlus may have actually won the multiple Heismans Beano Cook predicted. At Florida State, he could have ended up playing alongside Peter Warrick. It is fascinating to think what may have happened ... but what did happen was pretty fascinating too, wasn't it?

I don't actually remember which year it was. Sometime in the 1980s is all I know. And it was intense.

I've said many times that college football is an incredibly regionalized sport. If you were born before the 1990s and are reading this site, you probably grew up a) obsessed with college football, and b) obsessed with your college football. If you're a Florida State fan, you grew up obsessed with Florida schools and the southeast. If you're a Michigan fan, you grew up with Michigan, Ohio State, Woody, Bo and Big Ten Big Ten Big Ten Big Ten Big Ten Big Ten. Me, I grew up a Missouri fan in Western Oklahoma. I could tell you everything you want to know about the Big 8 and the Oklahoma-Nebraska games that defined each season (1985 and 1987 were my favorites), but even though I knew I loved the sport, I was woefully uninformed about how the rest of the country felt about college football.

Then one night, on ESPN, i saw a Pittsburgh-West Virginia game in Morgantown. Maybe it was 1989, when No. 9 West Virginia tied No. 10 Pittsburgh, 31-31. Maybe it was 1987, when the Mountaineers fell to the Panthers, 6-3, to fall to an uncharacteristic 1-3. Maybe it was 1985, when the teams tied yet again, this time 10-10. I'm not sure. It was probably 1989* because I think I remember both teams being ranked pretty high (and I'm pretty sure we didn't get cable until about 1987-88 at the earliest), but the only thing I remember for sure is ... man, was it intense, both on the field and in the stands. This was before HD, before a lot of the production value and endless shots of camera whores fans in the stands, before College Football Gameday was around to tell me about how important a game was or how crazy certain teams' fans were. But you could tell. The crazy, the hate, and most importantly, the energy just radiated through my parents' small television. I was hooked. And I was enthralled enough by the product itself that I really didn't even notice the score.

And this was a couple of decades before 2007, when an underachieving Pitt team derailed West Virginia's dream season in the rivalry's 100th edition. Nothing stokes a bitter rivalry more than a devastating upset or two.

If it WAS 1989, and this game was on ESPN as my faulty memory suggests, then I have no idea why a Backyard Brawl that included a 22-point, fourth-quarter comeback by the road team hasn't made it into heavy rotation on ESPN Classic.

So Jim Weber completely and totally stole my thunder this week by not only deciding to talk about Keith Jackson, but actually interviewing him.

But he recalls his college football experiences fondly, especially right before kickoff when he’d sit in the press box and watch the bands perform while people filed into the stadium. He mentions Michigan Stadium – which he coined "The Big House" – and the Rose Bowl among the most special venues he’s visited. Jackson also mentions his affinity for Nebraska fans because of the way they even cheer their opponents.

"I enjoyed college football because every week was a festival," Jackson said.

But he doesn’t miss everything about college game days: "I have a history of having trouble with parking attendants. I don’t know why, but I do."

Jackson actually still has one broadcasting gig on the side. From a Los Angeles studio, he will be voicing over the Big Ten Network’s "Icons" series on the most legendary coach from all 12 schools. You can expect a spot on that list to go to Penn State head coach Joe Paterno, who is still coaching despite being two years older than Jackson.

"I love Joe and Sue Paterno," Jackson said. "They’re as nice of people as I ever want to know."

Regardless, I'm moving forward with this one. Because Keith Jackson is, or at least was, college football. The regional charm and amazing moments we associate with this sport are also traits we associate with Jackson, and if you think of any amazing football moment in the last 40 years, the odds are good that either Jackson or Brent Musberger was on the call. Musberger's a bit more polarizing, but Jackson is virtually universally loved.

At the end of his career, Jackson's reflexes slowed down a bit; he was more likely to get a play wrong or mess up a name. But around this time, I came to realize something: when it comes to football (or basketball), I don't need someone to tell me what's going on -- I know what's going on. I just want a friend in the booth, someone who I will enjoy listening to while I tell myself what's going on. And for that reason alone, I was disappointed that he called it quits. I didn't care that his performance during the 2006 BCS Championship Game was a bit poor ... it sounded great to me.

Two specific incidents that made me realize just how much I love Keith Jackson:

1) Before the 1998 Ohio State-Missouri football game, he called my Tigers "the burly bunch from Boone County," a moniker that still makes me giggle.

2) When I bought the 1979 World Series DVD set (because I'm a Pirates fan, and the only great thing that's happened to Pirates in my lifetime happened when I was one year old), I was a little overwhelmed by the thought of actually having to watch seven baseball games (I'm an infinitely bigger Pirates fan than I am a baseball fan) ... until I found that Keith Jackson and Howard Cosell called the games. I bought it because it was my team doing well, but I enjoyed it because of Jackson (and Cosell).

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Ken Dorsey, Clinton Portis, Najeh Davenport, Andre Johnson, Jeremy Shockey, Bryant McKinnie and Joaquin Gonzalez on offense. Ed Reed, Phillip Buchanon, Jonathan Vilma, D.J. Williams, Jerome McDougle, William Joseph and Mike Rumph on defense. And the best kicker in the country as well.

Six All-Americans. Thirteen All-ACC'ers (D'oh!) All-Big Easters. Six first-round draft picks.

No. 1 Miami 59, No. 14 Syracuse 0.

No. 1 Miami 65, No. 12 Washington 7.

No. 1 Miami 37, No. 2 Nebraska 14.

When I unveiled last summer's Top 100 of the Last 100 Years list, there was a bit of outrage about the lack of recent teams. Teams like 1994 Penn State, 1995 Nebraska, 2005 Texas, 2009 Alabama, etc., did not grade out nearly as highly as we would have placed them with anecdotal evidence. And yet ... there was 2001 Miami, sitting at No. 6 overall.

This team was great in all the ways that you can be great. They allowed more than 14 points just three times. They scored fewer than 33 points just twice. They racked up 109 tackles for loss, picked off 27 passes and forced 26 fumbles. They played two games decided by less than 22 points. They were just about perfect.

The most amazing thing about this team? Look at the backups. Peruse the stats closely and check out who didn't see the field much. Frank Gore and Willis McGahee combined for barely 10 carries per game. Kellen Winslow, Jr., caught two passes. Sean Taylor had 23.0 tackles. Hell, Ed Reed didn't even return punts because Phillip Buchanon was so damn good at them (15.0 per return, two touchdowns).

Watching this team play, it was impossible not to see two, or three, or four national titles coming from this program at this time. And obviously they all but won a second the next season. But within five years, with no major sanctions, they were going 7-6, then 5-7, then 7-6 again. This team is why you appreciate perfection for simply being perfect and don't assume that perfection will last forever.

(By the way, the entire 2002 Rose Bowl is available on YouTube. Just start here and follow the path through all 14 parts.)