There are games where coaches are supposed to let their players and performance do the talking. Saturday was not one of those games for Lance Leipold. After Texas Tech’s blowout win against Kansas, Leipold’s public meltdown, calling the tortilla‑throwing “bullshit” and swearing at Joey McGuire during the postgame handshake, was not just unnecessary. It was tone deaf.
Let’s be real: Kansas got embarrassed. The scoreline didn’t invite grandstanding or loud indignation from the opposing sideline. Sure, the tortilla toss is a long‑standing Tech tradition, and the Big 12 recently instituted penalties for fan debris on the field, but those changes had already been widely reported. This wasn’t a surprise to anyone watching the sport. Yet Leipold chose that moment, immediately after being dominated, to unload.
He told McGuire, “That’s bullshit,” and demanded accountability. McGuire’s restrained yet heated response, “Coach, I can’t do anything about it. You want me to do some f****** about it? I said I got it,” was a much more measured reflection of what it feels like to be caught between passion and authority.
Here’s why Leipold needed to swallow that reaction: first, he had already lost. Criticism from a man whose team couldn’t hang doesn’t land; it echoes desperation. If you’re going to publicly scold someone in the handshake line, you’d better have your own house in order. There was no room for the high horse. Instead, it looked petty and reflexive.
Second, choosing that specific moment was a failure of timing. The handshake line is symbolic. It’s supposed to be an exchange of professionalism, no matter how ugly the outcome. A coach jabbing and swearing in that space does nothing to elevate his team; it simply reinforces the narrative that he’s reactive, not composed under pressure.
Third, his comments shift the focus. Instead of postgame analysis, tactical fixes, or what his own team must do next, headlines will now highlight Leipold’s meltdown. That’s a distraction he didn’t need. Any coach worth his salt understands the importance of controlling the narrative. And picking this fight at this time is narrative surrender.
Lance Leipold is much better than this. In Big 12 football, where margins are tight and reputation matters, you learn that when you lose badly, your mute button should be right next to the buzzer. Complaints like that belong in a press conference setting or meeting with league officials, not in front of roaring fans and national cameras.
If Leipold cares about his program and standing, he’ll let the result speak and reserve the scolding for the locker room. The field is no place for public temper tantrums.
