Only in Today's World

So I'm sitting up in my usual spot—old Douglas fir, good view of the whole valley—and I hear through the human channels that LSU just lost their basketball coach and now there's a bidding war happening. Not for a player. Not for a team. For the guy whose job is to teach young humans how to bounce a ball around a wooden floor better than other young humans.

And the money they're talking about? Listen, I've watched a lot of things come and go in my time. I've seen economic booms, busts, gold rushes, real estate crashes. But I still don't fully understand why a college basketball coaching job can turn into an auction where millionaires are waving their checkbooks around like it's the last salmon run of the year.

The Machine Keeps Grinding

Here's the thing about college sports in 2026—and I've got decades of perspective on this—the money in basketball has become completely untethered from anything that makes sense. LSU's got a legendary coach hanging it up, so now they're competing with Auburn, Wake Forest, maybe a couple NBA teams sniffing around the edges. Everybody wants the next great coach. Everybody's got money. So everybody outbids everybody else.

The compensation packages these days aren't salaries anymore—they're empires. We're talking multi-million dollar contracts, performance bonuses, housing allowances, media deals, shoe endorsements, buyout clauses so expensive that firing a coach can cost more than some small towns make in a year. I've seen feeding frenzies in nature that are more orderly than this.

And don't get me wrong—I get it. Winning programs make money. Winning coaches bring in recruiting classes, tournament appearances, television contracts. There's a real economic engine behind it. But the bidding war? That's just humans being humans. You want something, I want something, neither of us wants the other to have it, so we both agree to pay twice what it's actually worth just to win. I've never quite wrapped my head around that one.

What LSU Really Needs

The real question nobody's asking is whether any of these elite candidates will actually want the job once the smoke clears. Because here's what they're inheriting: a program with expectations, a fanbase that's been spoiled by success, and the knowledge that one bad season means you're toast. The money's nice, sure. But the pressure? That's non-negotiable.

Some coach's going to get hired. He'll probably be great. He'll probably make eight figures. And in four years, if he doesn't make the Final Four, LSU fans will be calling for his head, and the whole circus starts over again. It's a wheel, and it keeps turning, and the money keeps flowing in directions that still confuse me.

Final Take

I've lived in these woods a long time without needing much. Been fine. But I'll tell you what—watching humans bid against each other for the privilege of stressing out for $10 million a year? That's almost enough to make a simple sasquatch feel like he's got it all figured out. Almost.

LSU's going to find their coach. He's going to be expensive. And somewhere down the road, they'll be looking for the next one. That's how it works now. The only mystery left is how high the number's going to go.