Beamer Calls His Shot

South Carolina fans are used to mediocrity.

Between the opening kick of the 2000 football season and Luke Altmyer’s victory formation in the Citrus Bowl, the Gamecocks played 320 games, won 178 of them, and lost the remaining 142. That’s a win percentage of just over fifty-five percent: about as close to middling as a program can get.

Outside of the Spurrier years—and only a few of those, really—our record says we’re ordinary.

But if you grew up a Gamecock fan, you know it doesn’t feel ordinary.

It doesn’t feel ordinary when the lights go down at Williams-Brice just before a 7PM kick, and the voice of the stadium reverberates through the night, rattling your ribcage with its deep baritone: “Under a Carolina sky I stand. Under the palmettos. Beneath the crescent moon.”

It doesn’t feel ordinary when the first note of 2001 bleeds from the speakers and a reverie sweeps through the crowd—somewhere near 80,000 strong no matter who or how we’re playing—every one of us filled with a singular, anxious hope.

It doesn’t feel ordinary when 80,000 rally towels whip the air to a blaring scream of Finnish techno music, 80,000 voices chanting, “U-S-C! U-S-C!”

South Carolina doesn’t feel ordinary. And that’s why Shane Beamer felt like such a gift.

“Shane Beamer” by Gamecock Central, CC BY 2.0

Because he got it. He got us. He said out loud the things we knew in our hearts to be true; that South Carolina is special—a sleeping giant just waiting for its moment, backed by the truest, hungriest, most long-suffering fans in the country.

He wore his emotions on his sleeve. Where Spurrier had wit and Muschamp had bluster, Beamer had unrestrained, almost infectious sincerity. “To all of the Gamecocks that are listening and watching live,” he said in his introductory press conference, “you have my word that we will work every single day to build a program that you are proud of.”

He believed it when he said it. You could hear it in his voice. I believed it, too. And truthfully, I still do.

Throughout his five-year tenure, Beamer has delivered some truly magical moments. I’ll never forget storming the field with my younger brother after Spencer Rattler’s 63-point performance against Tennessee in 2022, or watching Rocket Sanders bully his way into the end zone through sheer force of will to defeat Missouri. Third and 16 ignited a week-long argument in my family group chat and damn near ruined Thanksgiving with my orange-wearing relatives. Even some of the losses—like the LSU game that was absolutely stolen from us last year—felt somehow vindicating.

But the past is the past, and numbers are numbers. And this year, unfortunately, we are what the record says we are.

2025 has fallen well short of expectations. We were told we had a playoff team in Columbia, fueled by the sting of the committee’s rejection in ‘24 and led by a generational, Heisman-caliber quarterback. And he is that, by the way, despite the struggles he’s had this year. We’ve seen what LaNorris Sellers can do, who he can be, where he can take us if the chips fall just right. The thing is, they never tend to fall just right for South Carolina, whether you want to blame the Chicken Curse, the Board of Trustees, the OC, or the TAMU tunnel cop.

Yes, South Carolina fans are used to mediocrity, but mediocrity hurts so much worse once you’ve had a taste of glory, and that’s why Beamer’s seat is hotter than it’s ever been. It’s also why the Texas A&M loss was more viscerally painful than the blowout we expected. Rarely has a football team excelled the way South Carolina did in the first half only to utterly collapse in the second like a dying neutron star. We watched, horrified, as they crashed from the sky like Icarus, and it felt as though our hopes—and Beamer’s future in Columbia—crashed with them.

As a fan, I didn’t think I could feel much worse. Across social media, the “Fire Shane Beamer” movement jolted to life like Jacob Elordi in Frankenstein. Negacocks reached hateration levels never before achieved in recorded history. Even the sunniest of sunshine pumpers needed a minute (looking at you, Mrs. Hopkins).

But then Shane Beamer did the stupidest, ballsiest, Shane Beamer-iest thing he could possibly do. He looked up at the scoreboard, read the pitch count, then raised his hand and pointed at the center field flagpole.

“We’re going to be sitting here next year on this Tuesday night watching the playoff rankings to see where we are in the ranking show,” he told reporters in his November 18th press conference, “and we’re going to be firmly in the mix for a College Football Playoff berth next year at this time.”

Twitter exploded immediately. Already the national laughingstock of the week, South Carolina was once again catapulted to the center of the college football conversation, and not for a reason any of us asked for.

“Not now, Shane,” we all begged him telepathically. “Give it a week, a Coastal win, anything. Just please, not now. Please, just give it a rest.”

But “give it a rest” is not who Shane Beamer is. And that’s what will make or break him.

If he’s right—if he manages to lead the Gamecocks to the College Football Playoff for the first time in the program’s history—he will instantly become the stuff of legend in Columbia, and all will be forgiven, at least for a year or two.

If he’s wrong, well…

He’s got his work cut out for him. He’s replacing an OC (a hire he’s struggled to nail during his tenure) and potentially an offensive line coach if he opts not to keep Shawn Elliot in that role. There have been rumblings out of Blacksburg regarding a certain DBs coach, and Clayton White will no doubt find himself mentioned on a hotboard or two this offseason. Roster retention is another battle (though the GamecockCentral team thinks we’re in a pretty good position there), and then of course there’s the portal to consider. Vocal upperclassman leadership will be a priority—at least I hope so.

The first step comes Saturday afternoon at 4:15, when the Fighting Chanticleers of Coastal Carolina take the field at Williams-Brice. With a winning season out of reach, and since the winner doesn’t really get to keep Mike Uva, there’s not a thing at stake—at least on paper. Not a thing, unless you count the pride of a coach, a quarterback, a locker room. Not a thing except the glimmers of hope still flickering faintly, deep in the hearts of even the most cynical Gamecock fans.

Because if you look closely, even among the Fire Beamers, you’ll find one idea repeated again and again and again, in one way or another.

“He loves this place. I want him to be the guy.”

And maybe, just maybe, he still is.