Cohen declared, “I’m going to be really blunt with you.” “Hugh Freeze had seven recruiting calls in the two hours that I was in a car with him up here. And a lot of

Cohen declared, “I’m going to be really blunt with you.” “Hugh Freeze had seven recruiting calls in the two hours that I was in a car with him up here. And a lot of coaches would have used that time to talk football with me, talk scheme, talk NIL, talk about what’s broken and what needs to be fixed. But not Hugh. He made those seven calls, and every one of them was to a recruit or a family member. It tells you something.” There was an unmistakable tone of admiration in Cohen’s voice as he recounted the story. Not just admiration for Freeze’s tireless work ethic, but for the focus and clarity of purpose he brought to one of the most relentless jobs in sports: building a college football program from the ground up, day in and day out, and doing it with the future in mind.

Recruiting, in the world of college football, is both a lifeblood and a battlefield. The coaches who win aren’t always the ones with the flashiest playbooks or the highest-paid coordinators; they’re often the ones who win the living rooms, who build trust with teenagers and their parents, and who keep the pipeline of talent flowing no matter the time, day, or season. For Freeze, this is second nature. Whether it’s a Thursday afternoon in July or a game week in November, recruiting never stops. Cohen’s anecdote paints a picture of a man fully invested in that reality—eschewing ego and personal conversation for the next 5-star recruit or overlooked gem. It’s not just hustle; it’s a philosophy.

There’s a long-standing myth that coaching is about X’s and O’s—about game planning, drawing up plays on whiteboards, and making the right calls in high-pressure moments. That’s certainly part of it, but in today’s college football landscape, the job has evolved into something far more complex and layered. Coaches are now CEOs, tasked with navigating the choppy waters of NIL collectives, the transfer portal, and social media branding, all while managing a roster of 18-to-23-year-olds with vastly different personalities, expectations, and levels of maturity. Amid that chaos, the consistent thread that holds it all together is talent. And talent, in this context, is earned through relationships.

Cohen’s story reveals Freeze as a man deeply aware of that shift. He isn’t romanticizing the past or longing for a simpler time. He’s leaning fully into what the present demands and, crucially, what the future will require. His choice to spend those two hours on the phone with recruits was not a slight to Cohen or a miscalculation of priorities. It was a message, intentional and unapologetic: this is who I am, and this is how I work. It’s the type of moment that might seem minor or forgettable to the outside world but speaks volumes in the context of leadership and commitment.

Freeze’s approach, of course, is not without criticism. His career has been marked by both remarkable highs and difficult lows. He’s someone who’s had to rebuild his reputation, confront personal failings, and regain the trust of the coaching fraternity and fans alike. But what makes Freeze particularly interesting is not just his willingness to get back into the game—it’s the methodical, almost obsessive way in which he’s doing it. He knows every call counts. Every conversation has the potential to change the arc of a program. And so he treats each one with the gravity and urgency it deserves.

In the era of NIL, where players can earn six-figure deals before ever stepping on the field, coaches are often caught in the middle—balancing the promise of opportunity with the realities of culture-building. Freeze seems to understand that dance better than most. Recruiting is no longer just about finding great players; it’s about identifying the right fits—players who will buy into a program, stay focused amid distractions, and grow under the weight of expectations. The phone calls that Cohen overheard weren’t just check-ins. They were Freeze planting seeds, managing relationships, and reaffirming commitments that can so easily waver when another offer—or another dollar figure—enters the mix.

There’s something undeniably old-school about Freeze’s relentlessness. It echoes a bygone era of coaches who outworked, outlasted, and out-hustled the competition. But there’s also something modern and adaptive in the way he goes about it. He knows he can’t win on grit alone. The arms race of facilities, staff salaries, and branding is very real, and Freeze doesn’t ignore that. But he’s betting that by being more present—more available, more persistent, more human—he can win battles that others might lose simply because they got distracted or gave up too soon. In Freeze’s world, no recruit is off the board until they sign, and even then, the work has just begun.

Cohen, a seasoned administrator who’s seen all kinds of coaches up close, recognized the significance of that car ride. He didn’t need Freeze to flatter him or pitch grand visions. He needed to see how Freeze operated when no one was watching. And what he saw was a man who wasn’t putting on a show, wasn’t tailoring his behavior for effect. He was just doing what he always does: working the phones, connecting with families, pouring himself into the engine that drives everything else. It was honest, raw, and telling.

In many ways, that moment encapsulates the modern coach’s dilemma: how to be present in every role—recruiter, mentor, tactician, public figure—without losing your authenticity. Freeze, for all his controversies and comebacks, appears to have found a rhythm that works for him. It may not be glamorous. It may not get headlines. But it gets results, and it sends a message to everyone around him: if you’re not willing to outwork the next guy, you’re already behind.

College football, with its pageantry and passion, is still deeply personal. It’s about trust—between coaches and players, administrators and fans, parents and programs. Freeze seems to understand that better than most. And in those seven calls, made during a seemingly mundane car ride, he demonstrated the thing that separates great recruiters from good ones: consistency. Every call mattered. Every word carried weight. And for Cohen, watching it all unfold, it was proof that Freeze was exactly who he claimed to be.

There are plenty of ways to measure a coach’s impact—win-loss records, recruiting rankings, player development metrics. But some of the most important indicators can’t be quantified. They show up in the quiet moments, the unscripted ones, where values get revealed and priorities are exposed. That drive, those calls—they were one of those moments. And for Cohen, they confirmed what he likely suspected already: Hugh Freeze isn’t just trying to rebuild a team. He’s trying to build something that lasts.