Longhorn Nation, I want you to hear me out. When I took over as head coach, it was never just about the X’s and the O’s. The easy part is drawing up plays, training, and preparing physically. The hard part—and the part I believe defines greatness—is the culture you build. It’s the spirit you foster. It’s the trust you earn. It’s the standard you refuse to lower even when the weight of expectation, history, and criticism presses in from all sides.
I came here for championships. I came here for excellence. I didn’t just accept a job; I embraced a legacy. Because “Texas Fight,” Burnt Orange, the 40 Acres—these aren’t slogans. They’re responsibilities. They carry memory and burden. The flag you see isn’t just cloth; it’s what generations before us worked to earn, what opponents respect, what recruits dream of. And what I want—what I demand—is that when you put on that uniform, walk into that stadium, or just wear that burnt orange around town, you carry that legacy with pride, respect, and hunger.
There will be days when everyone believes in us. There will be games when confidence is high, momentum is ours, the crowd is loud, and things feel easy. But there will also be days where the margin for error is razor-thin, where words hurt, expectations sting, and darkness seems closer than light. On those days, what separates good programs from great ones is not the result we get—but how we respond. Do we hide from adversity or use it to sharpen our will? Do we blame outside forces, or do we look in the mirror, fix what’s broken, fight harder, hold each other accountable?
Longhorn Nation, I want you with me in both. In the victories and in the hard truths. Because I need more than applause after a win—I need belief before dawn and persistence through doubt. I need the parents, the students, the alumni, the neighborhood kids, the ex-players, the boosters, the donors, the staff—all of you. I need your support, your criticism when warranted, and your patience without surrender. Together, that’s how we build not just seasons of wins but a culture that withstands time.
I’ve said from day one, this work is all gas, no brakes. That’s not empty talk. It’s a commitment. It’s us saying: we will attack every practice, every meeting, every film study as though the standard is being reset. Because it is. The bar for Texas football is always higher. Not because it’s arrogant, but because the history commands it, the ambition demands it, and a fanbase of millions deserves it.
When I look at our roster, I see talent—but more importantly, I see potential. I see guys who believe. Guys who want more. Guys who don’t just want the easy throwaway game or hollow recognition, but the moments you remember—the snap, the whistle, the noise, the final seconds. I see men who know that character isn’t what you show when you’re winning but what you hold onto when everything feels against you.
I want to talk about respect—respect for the program, respect for opponents, respect for yourself. Too often people confuse toughness with recklessness, or passion with chaos. That’s not what we are. Our toughness is discipline. Our passion is rooted in purpose. When we win, we do so with class. When we lose, we do not make excuses. We own it. And when people doubt us, when they write off our chances, that’s our fuel. Not because we harbor bitterness, but because we know what we’re building. And it’s worth defending.
We are entering a new era. The SEC, tougher schedules, more eyes on us than ever before. Recruiting battles that used to be regional are now national wars. Every game is a test, every snap a chance to prove we belong not just in the conversation but at the front of it. And to win in that environment, we must be bigger—mentally and physically. More resilient, more prepared, more relentless. We must demand excellence of ourselves—not in moments of glory—but in every rep, every drill, every meeting, every gesture. Because the difference between good and elite is made in the unseen, the uncelebrated, the early morning film sessions, the hours in the weight room, the corrections made in private.
Longhorn Nation, I see what we’ve done. I’m proud of the progress. I see the recruits choosing Texas. I see the players buying in. I see the fans showing up. But I also see what we haven’t done yet. We haven’t won it all. We haven’t silenced every doubter. We haven’t left no doubt in some moments. We must. And we will. But to do that, I need you not just when times are good but when they are hard. I need your voice in the stands, your patience in the process, your shared belief when the scoreboard hurts.
Because make no mistake: this journey is not individual. It’s collective. It’s every player, every coach, every fan, every hundredth ticket sold, every name on the wall of history that whispers: be worthy.
So here’s my promise: I will bring my best every day. I will demand more than I think you deserve because you deserve more than I think most people believe. I will respect the history, protect the brand, build the character, and chase the trophy. All of them. Not for me—but for you. For every Longhorn who has ever believed, for every one who doubts, for every one who watches, hopes, and dreams.
To Longhorn Nation: stand up. Stay loud. Be proud. Wear that burnt orange like armor. Let us show the world what Texas football looks like when it’s more than just a game. Let it be identity. Let it be excellence. Let it be ours—for now. Hook ’em.
