Call Chip Kelly The Granite Fox. Like Rommel before him he has a gift for commanding men, for onslaughts and misdirections, for stratagems that bedevil and mesmerize a superior force. Rommel took 3-star men and materials and extended a war until he ran out of gasoline and had to haul tanks to the front on rail and by horse and wagon. Kelly took a bunch of 24th-rated classes to the National Championship. But Rommel's war was a grim business serving the agent of ultimate evil. Kelly's is a harmless diversion of autumn afternoons, a fit, chaste glory for young men. It's much preferred that the best of a generation receive their wounds and decorations on a painted field, rather than a beach pockmarked by artillery shells and machine gun fire. The horrors of Rommel's glory live in infamy.
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