Patty Nixon had been disappointed by the “extraordinary and unacceptable” amount of time the University of Florida had taken before delivering Aaron Hernandez and his fellow Gators into police custody. But were the university’s actions a part of a community-wide culture of impunity that had risen up around the team?
“It’s Gator Country,” Corey Smith’s mother, Sandra, says, when asked about the climate in Gainesville and her own sense that, in Corey’s case, justice has never been served. “When they say, ‘Gator Country,’ they mean it.”
“We were national champions,” a teammate of Aaron’s recalls. “We were walking around with rings on. They had lists of our names at the clubs. If we wanted to get in, they just looked down the roster: ‘There he is. Let him in.’ It was very accommodating. We could do whatever we wanted to. Everyone knew us. We were celebrities. We ran the city.”
No one could argue that, in Gainesville, the University of Florida, and its 50,000-person student body, played an outsized role. The university’s 88,000-seat football stadium—which was often filled above capacity for Gators games—could fit two-thirds of the city’s entire population. Around town, you’d see stores, shops, and companies with names like Gator Fever, Gator Mania, Gator Cuts, Gator Nails, Gator Cross Fit, and Gator Hydroponics. But, popular as the Gators were, there were those who bristled at the suggestion that UF’s football players were given free rein in the city.
Bill Cervone, a University of Florida alumnus who is currently serving his fifth term as a State Attorney in Gainesville, says that, over the years, “way too many” Gators have gotten themselves into trouble—usually for “insignificant college kid stuff.” But to him, “the idea that the university runs this town is way overblown.”
“It’s true to say that economically it’s the engine that drives Gainesville,” Cervone says. “We would be a much different community if the university wasn’t here. Obviously. But it’s way overblown to say that anyone around here, certainly law enforcement, kowtows to the university.”
“The coaching staff you have asked about are no longer here at the University of Florida, and the incidents involving Mr. Hernandez did not occur on campus,” university representatives say.
They continue: “UF has always and remains willing to cooperate fully with the Gainesville Police Department, which led all investigations regarding Mr. Hernandez while he was a student. We are not aware of any information—then or now—that requires action by the university.
“There was a time when the number of football player arrests was unacceptable and we are mindful of that. Our highest priority is to help these young men succeed in collegiate football and academics while growing them as leaders along the way, and many of them do.
“But we don’t always succeed. Some of our students—including student athletes—come from difficult backgrounds and bring with them lifelong problems. Sometimes it is not possible to overcome those challenges in the relatively short period of time these students are at the university.”
To his credit, Urban Meyer did his best to mentor Hernandez, making himself available to Aaron day and night. It was an extraordinary investment of the coach’s time—although, of course, Aaron was an extraordinary player.
“Aaron was unique,” Meyer says. “In a thirty-one-year career, I’ve never seen one like him. His route-running and athleticism. I don’t know if I will see another one. And I didn’t see it at first. I was disappointed in the guy that recruited him. I was disappointed in the player. I didn’t see the competitive spirit. But in the second year, in 2008 and 2009, we used him as much as we’ve ever used any player. He was the guy you would go into the game saying, ‘He’s one of the best players in America. Get him the ball.’
“He loved the game. He was extremely smart—a truly intelligent player. We’re a very complicated offense. We did a lot of things with him. He was a shovel runner. He was a corner-out runner. He could run all the routes. We isolated him to run the wide receiver screens. We could do everything with him.”
Meyer had a daily routine: in the mornings, he’d study the Bible. Aaron asked the coach if they could do that together. “Absolutely,” Meyer told him.
“So we’d sit there. That was every morning for quite a while. Then it started to be once a week. We’d usually take a scripture verse, or he’d read a part. I’d have him read it, and we’d talk about it: ‘What’s it mean?’ Then we’d pray together and he’d go about his day. He was asking for help. It was very obvious. He was over at my house quite often. He was very close with my kids, with my wife. He would come over by himself. He just wanted to experience family. That was almost his catharsis, his time, his release. Once in a while, I would hear about his tough side. I’d confront it. But I didn’t feel it until later on in his career. And then, you know—he just seemed to change. We didn’t have the Bible studies later on. The deep conversations stopped—and I would try to have them. He had his own way of dealing with it. And that concerned a lot of us.”