In the pantheon of college football legends, there are players, coaches, and programs etched into the annals of history—but perhaps no single individual has embodied the soul of the sport quite like Lee Corso. He never won a Heisman Trophy or coached a national champion, but for nearly four decades, he became something arguably more enduring: the beloved, unpredictable, and irreplaceable heartbeat of ESPN’s “College GameDay.”
On the morning of the 2025 season opener, the sports world learned that Lee Corso will be retiring from “College GameDay” after the show’s first broadcast of the season. In an emotional moment, his fellow hosts fought back tears, fans held up signs thanking him for the memories, and a generation of college football faithful paused to reflect on just how much one man has meant to a sport rooted in tradition, pageantry, and passion.
Lee Corso’s retirement marks the end of an era. Not just for ESPN, but for college football itself.
Long before he became the headgear-wearing showman we all know and love, Corso was a coach. He served as the head coach at Louisville, Indiana, and Northern Illinois, leading Indiana to a bowl game victory in 1979—its first in over a decade. But Corso’s coaching record, which stands at a modest 73-85-6, doesn’t come close to telling the story of his significance to college football. It was what came after that defined him.
In 1987, ESPN took a risk. They brought Corso onto a new college football preview show—one with no guarantee of success and few expectations. He joined host Tim Brando and analyst Beano Cook in a small studio for what would become the pilot version of “College GameDay.” Over time, as the show grew from a studio segment to a Saturday morning spectacle broadcasting live from campuses around the country, so did Corso’s legend.
At first, he was simply an analyst. He brought insight, a coach’s perspective, and a sharp eye for X’s and O’s. But it didn’t take long for his charisma to take center stage. His spontaneous quips, irreverent humor, and unique ability to connect with both fans and players turned him into more than just a pundit—he became a personality.
And then came the headgear.
The exact origin of Corso’s famous mascot headgear tradition is a story passed around like campus folklore. During the 1996 season, ahead of a matchup between Ohio State and Penn State, Corso decided to spice up his final pick of the day by donning a Brutus Buckeye head. The crowd went wild. A tradition was born.
From that moment on, every Saturday morning became a guessing game. Would he pick the home team? Would he fake out the crowd first? Would he pull a last-second swerve and shout his signature phrase: “Not so fast, my friend!”? Fans waited with bated breath for the final moments of the show, when Corso would emerge—sometimes on horseback, sometimes with live animals, sometimes with celebrity guests—and reveal his pick by throwing on the mascot head of his chosen team.
It was more than just showmanship. It was theater. And it was uniquely Corso.
There is something about college football that lends itself to personality. It’s a sport built on emotion, where traditions stretch back over a century and rivalries divide households. Corso understood that better than anyone. He tapped into the heart of the fanbase, and in doing so, became a mirror for its soul—joyful, passionate, sometimes absurd, but always sincere.
There were times over the years when Corso’s health made headlines. He suffered a stroke in 2009 that left him temporarily unable to speak. It would have been easy, even expected, for him to quietly step away from the spotlight. But Corso fought back. With grit, therapy, and the support of his GameDay family, he returned to the set later that year—slower, perhaps, but still as determined as ever.
Since then, ESPN gradually reduced his workload, sometimes pre-taping his picks or broadcasting them remotely from his home in Florida. And yet, every time he appeared on camera, the moment felt special. Every headgear reveal carried a little more weight. Every smile reminded fans of the journey he’d been on.
For longtime viewers, Corso wasn’t just part of the show. He was the show. His presence brought levity, warmth, and a sense of history. When Desmond Howard made a bold prediction or Kirk Herbstreit broke down film, Corso was always there to lighten the mood or add a surprise twist. The chemistry between the crew—especially Corso and Herbstreit—was authentic and endearing, a testament to the mutual respect and love they shared.
Corso’s legacy is also deeply tied to the growth of “College GameDay” itself. What began as a humble show in a studio turned into a traveling roadshow, drawing tens of thousands of fans in some of the most electric atmospheres in sports. And at every stop, fans lined up not just to see the latest top-10 matchup previewed, but to see what Corso would do.
His impact is felt in the culture of college football Saturdays. In the signs waved by students at sunrise, the chants of “Lee! Lee! Lee!” echoing through the crowd, and the audible roar when he finally makes his pick. In a world where sports coverage is often driven by hot takes and controversy, Corso offered something different—joy.
Over the years, Corso became a national treasure not because he was perfect, but because he was genuine. He made mistakes on air. He flubbed lines. He occasionally said things that made his co-hosts do a double take. But it was never contrived. It was real. That was his magic.
His retirement is not just the closing of a chapter—it’s the end of a book. The golden age of “College GameDay,” shaped by Corso’s humor and heart, will never be replicated. Others will step into his chair, but there will never be another like him.
As tributes pour in from across the sports world, it’s clear how deep Corso’s influence runs. Coaches who were once players remember his picks. Fans who grew up watching him now watch with their own children. Mascots line up to take photos with him. Everyone, it seems, has a Lee Corso story.
And that might be the greatest testament of all: that in a sport defined by fierce rivalries and bitter losses, Lee Corso was universally loved.
He leaves behind a legacy not of wins and losses, but of laughter and loyalty. Of making Saturday mornings feel like something more than just the start of a football game. He made them feel like a celebration. A carnival. A tradition.
There’s a certain sadness in seeing him go, especially for those who grew up with him as a staple of their fall routines. But there’s also gratitude. Gratitude for the decades of memories, the countless headgear reveals, the heartfelt moments, and the sheer joy he brought to millions.
In his farewell message, Corso kept it simple. He thanked the fans. He thanked his colleagues. He smiled that same mischievous smile and waved to the camera like he always has. It was humble. It was heartfelt. It was pure Corso.
So, what now?
“College GameDay” will go on. The show is bigger than any one person—but it was never better than when Corso was at its center. His final broadcast will undoubtedly be emotional, a fitting send-off for a man who gave so much to the sport he loved.
And somewhere down the line, maybe ten or twenty years from now, a new fan will stumble upon a clip—maybe it’s Corso dressing up as a duck, or swinging a sword, or yelling “Not so fast, my friend!”—and they’ll ask, “Who was that guy?”
And someone will smile and say, “That? That was Lee Corso. The heart of College GameDay.”
Not just a mascot picker. Not just a coach turned analyst. But a living, breathing embodiment of what makes college football special.
So here’s to Lee Corso—thank you for the laughs, the memories, and the Saturdays we’ll never forget.
And as you ride off into the sunset, one last time:
Not so fast, my friend. You’ll always be with us.