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Underachieving Cavalier football

I've heard many a hypothesis as to how a football program ranked as high as sixth can so precipitously plummet in just two short seasons - how a team borderline elite and perennially powerful only 24 months ago can morph into mediocrity, or even worse, outright abomination.

There's always the "superstar" theory, which informs Virginia fans that without Shawn Moore dissecting opposing defenses and Chris Slade destroying anyone in his radar, the Cavaliers simply cannot compete.

Theory denied.

The 2000 rendition of Virginia football may not possess Moore/Slade potency, but it has its stars.

Say what you will: Antwoine Womack is a manchild. How can the ACC's leading rusher not be labeled as such? Fight it all you want, but Byron Thweatt is a tackle just itching to happen on every snap. He's a stud.

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    There may not be 20 first-tier performers donning the orange and blue Saturday afternoons, but I implore you to name a football factory outside Florida that cultivates luminaries like oranges.

    Oklahoma presently reigns supreme atop the college football polls, and, out of the kindness of my heart, I'll give the Sooners three stars: quarterback Josh Heupel and linebackers Rocky Calmus and Torrance Marshall. Fifth-ranked Oregon would quack at the chance to land Womack-caliber talent. Nonetheless, the Ducks win.

    Then there's the "coaching turmoil" argument.

    I'll be the first one to admit that the letter-writing fiasco encircling Terry Holland and George Welsh sparked an uneasy and unending friction. But it did not lose football games.

    Contrary to what the Mark Cuban Internet buffoons believe, the World Wide Web cannot cripple Welsh's offense with anemia and it certainly can't spank his group by five touchdowns.

    Theory denied.

    I, on the other hand, champion the "Anthony Poindexter" theory.

    In other words, this team needs an identity.

    Identity doesn't necessarily derive from overwhelming starpower, though talent never hurts. And identity isn't unavoidably attached to coaching sagacity. No, identity is swagger. Identity is bravado. The current Cavaliers lack these traits. Dex embodied them.

    Sure, Poindexter may have been the best thing to hit the safety position since Ronnie Lott, and granted, he obliterated opponents with Dick Butkus ferocity. But beyond bone-crushing blows and uncanny on-field instincts, the pride of Jefferson Forest possessed an insatiable hunger to make Virginia great. It drove him. It possessed him.

    Time and time again, he proved himself "the man" between the lines. As a freshman, he denied Florida State's Warrick Dunn at the goal line. Three years later, his masterpiece (12 tackles, two fumble recoveries, one forced fumble and two interceptions) single-handedly lifted the Cavs over Duke.

    Off the field, he made Mike Tyson look coy.

    For all I know, Wali Rainier could have been sitting right beside me. Aaron Brooks may have offered to buy me a drink time and time again. Who knows, maybe Thomas Jones even invited me to Big Stone Gap for Thanksgiving dinner.

    I never noticed. Dex was in the room. And when No. 3, Mr. Cavalier himself held court, baseball cap on sideways, toothy smile wrapped around his face, everyone else faded to black - even Wali and his gold-embossed shades.

    Dex was Virginia football.

    Who carries that torch today? If you hesitate in answering that question, then the answer is no one. Even the indomitable Jones is no longer in the forefront of every Cavalier fan's mind. But the memory of Dex lives on.

    The other day I asked Thweatt if he would stand before his fallen countrymen a l  Cicero and attempt to ignite the demoralized troops.

    He nodded.

    When I followed up, questioning whether such a soliloquy would do a lick of good, Thweatt solemnly bowed his head, glazed eyes staring in space and answered "I hope so."

    When Poindexter spoke, you listened. If you didn't, you weren't a Cavalier.

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