“I’m gonna be really blunt with you,” Cohen said. “I rode up here in a car with Hugh Freeze and he had seven recruiting calls in those two hours. And many of the recruiting calls were kids calling him. One of the things I really admire about our football coach is—he’s always working.” These words, simple on the surface, contain an entire philosophy of leadership, persistence, and the unglamorous grind that defines the world of modern college football. What Cohen revealed in that offhand moment wasn’t just a praise for Hugh Freeze’s dedication—it was a window into what it takes to compete and win in a landscape that is as political as it is physical, as much about relationships as it is about raw athleticism. To understand why those two hours in a car matter so much, one has to explore what recruiting has become, what Freeze represents, and why the character behind a head coach is just as important as the talent on the field.
In today’s college football, the margins for success are razor thin. Programs succeed or falter not because they lack money or facilities or uniforms or even tradition—but because of relationships. And no relationship is more important than the one between a head coach and his recruits. It’s easy to think of recruiting as just texting high schoolers and pitching a few promises. The reality is far more complex, and in many cases, grueling. Recruiting in 2025 is an all-consuming, never-ending chess match played with the highest stakes. The best programs don’t just out-recruit others—they out-connect, outlast, and out-work them. That’s the message Cohen wanted to convey. When you’re riding in a car with Hugh Freeze and you witness seven recruiting calls in two hours, it isn’t merely about volume. It’s about the totality of attention, the mental sharpness required to jump from one conversation to the next, and the emotional energy needed to truly engage a 17-year-old athlete about his life, his dreams, and his place in your football family.
It’s not just that Freeze was making calls. Cohen made it very clear—“many of the recruiting calls were kids calling him.” That might seem like a footnote to some, but to those familiar with the grind of recruiting, that’s a massive detail. In an age where most teenagers have attention spans split between Instagram Reels, Snapchat streaks, and TikTok trends, for them to pick up the phone and call a coach unprompted says something profound. It means Hugh Freeze isn’t just known—he’s trusted. He’s made himself emotionally accessible. He’s created a magnetic presence that isn’t just about football IQ or offensive scheming, but about being a person young athletes want to share their next four years—and maybe their future—with.
What Freeze has mastered isn’t some secret tactic, but an unrelenting willingness to be present. Recruiting in college football is no longer about identifying talent. Every high-major program knows who the top 300 players are. There’s Hudl, Twitter film, Elite 11 camps, 247Sports, and dozens of platforms offering breakdowns, evaluations, and in some cases, analytics-based projections. What separates a coach like Freeze from the rest isn’t that he discovers talent no one else sees—it’s that he builds deeper relationships than his rivals. He treats each recruit not just as a potential roster addition, but as a fully formed person with dreams, insecurities, families, and futures that matter.
To do this work well, you have to live it. Freeze, for all the controversies that have surrounded his past, has reasserted himself in the coaching world not just because he can draw up plays, but because he embodies what many recruits’ families want: a figure who listens, who pushes, who offers structure without stripping away individuality. For a parent considering where to send their son—a decision freighted with emotion, opportunity, and uncertainty—this matters. They want a coach who takes calls on a two-hour car ride not because it’s required, but because it’s who he is. The best recruiters don’t “turn it on” when it’s time to close—they never turn it off.
This is why Cohen’s anecdote hits so hard. It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t a press conference statement about commitment. It was an organic moment that spoke volumes. In those two hours, Freeze wasn’t putting on a show. He was doing what he always does—working the phones, being real with recruits, listening, guiding, and showing love. And not in a superficial sense. In a world where teenagers can sniff out insincerity from miles away, what makes Freeze effective is not just that he calls—it’s that they call him back. They want to talk to him. They trust him.
The emotional labor involved in this level of recruiting is rarely appreciated by the average fan. Coaching, for many, is still seen through the lens of Saturday results—wins, losses, rankings. But those are just the visible tip of an iceberg. Below the surface lies a day-to-day grind that involves everything from Zoom calls with families to late-night texts reassuring a recruit after a bad high school game, to flying across the country to watch someone play seven snaps. Coaches like Freeze succeed not because they work harder—but because they work with a deeper sense of purpose and personal investment.
There’s also a leadership lesson here, and it extends beyond football. What Cohen admired about Freeze is what great CEOs, great generals, and great teachers all share: constancy. It’s not the loud, performative kind of leadership that demands attention. It’s the quiet, persistent presence. The message is, “I’m here. I care. I won’t flinch.” For a 17-year-old still figuring out who he is, that kind of consistency can be life-altering. And for Freeze, that consistency comes from belief—belief in what he’s building, belief in the kids he’s recruiting, and belief in the process that, if done right, leads not just to wins, but to changed lives.
Of course, none of this happens in a vacuum. The environment of modern college football recruiting is cutthroat. The influence of NIL (Name, Image, and Likeness) has shifted power dynamics, with high school athletes now considering financial packages alongside development opportunities. For a coach to thrive in this world, he must blend old-school authenticity with new-school flexibility. Freeze seems to have grasped this balance well. While some programs lean heavily into NIL bidding wars, others try to preach tradition and brotherhood. Freeze has positioned Auburn as a place where both coexist. The relationships he builds aren’t just a foundation—they’re a counterweight to the chaos of the new era.
Cohen’s story also reminds us that recruiting doesn’t stop. There is no offseason. Coaches aren’t working “overtime” when they take seven calls on a car ride—they’re working standard time. Freeze’s grind is the new normal. And for coaches who don’t adopt this approach, irrelevance is fast approaching. Relationships are currency in the transfer portal age. Recruits want to know their coach is accessible, real, and present. Freeze has built that image not just through words, but through action.
But let’s be honest—Hugh Freeze’s past isn’t spotless. His career has been a rollercoaster, filled with highs and scandals. Yet, part of his appeal in the recruiting world might come from that very humanity. Players respect honesty. They respect a man who’s been humbled and rebuilt. Freeze’s comeback story is one of learning, repentance, and recommitment. He’s not just trying to win games—he’s trying to win trust. And when recruits call him, unprompted, on a car ride, that trust is evident.
It’s also worth acknowledging the emotional wear and tear of this lifestyle. Coaches like Freeze are expected to be psychologists, mentors, salesmen, and strategists—often all within the same phone call. That’s why a simple car ride anecdote carries such weight. Cohen wasn’t merely pointing out Freeze’s workload. He was spotlighting a culture—a daily ethic that defines Auburn’s football identity under Freeze. The recruits may not see the full picture, but they feel it. They know he’s there, that he’s working, that he cares.
And in the end, that’s what separates contenders from pretenders. Programs built on hype eventually fade. But programs built on relationship, trust, and relentless consistency endure. That’s the blueprint Freeze is following. And Cohen, as a key figure within the university, isn’t just promoting it—he’s witnessing it firsthand. For Auburn fans, this should be more than encouraging—it should be inspiring. Because it means the man leading the program isn’t just drawing plays—he’s drawing people in. And when people are drawn in, truly invested, magic happens.
The broader takeaway from this story isn’t just about Hugh Freeze. It’s about what great leadership in high-stakes, high-pressure environments looks like. It’s about what happens when someone lives their mission, instead of just speaking it. And perhaps most importantly, it’s about how small, unseen moments—like a car ride full of phone calls—can reveal the deepest truths about a person’s character. For Freeze, those calls are more than a job—they’re a lifeline between the present and the future he’s building. And for every young man on the other end of the line, they’re a window into something real.
This is why Cohen was blunt. This is why he said it with clarity and without fluff. Because sometimes, the best way to explain greatness is simply to tell the truth. And the truth is, Auburn’s head coach isn’t waiting for Saturdays to lead. He’s doing it every day, in every mile, in every phone call. And that—more than any scheme or slogan—is how programs change their destiny.
