Coach's Corner

The sportswriter shrugged. He spat in derision. What, he wondered, can this guy possibly know about football? Soccer? A man's sport? Only in a Chronicle movie review -- which only served to heighten the sportswriter's already considerable skepticism. How could a movie about the National Football League -- directed by Oliver Stone, starring Al Pacino, with plenty of Cameron Diaz -- possibly warrant a measly one-and-a-half stars? Blessed with extraordinary deductive powers, the sportswriter notes the reviewer's name is Savlov. That explains the soccer reference. This guy, if he ever watched a football game in his life, probably dreamed of being the kicker. The sportswriter couldn't wait to see Any Given Sunday. A cold, daylong rain falls relentlessly from the gray sky: a perfect movie day. He ponders Savlov's review as the lone employee goops extra butter on his popcorn. As the movie opens he feels some small remorse. It's a new year, he thinks, perhaps a bit more empathy for others is in order. After all, is it Savlov's fault American values were ignored in the home of his youth? So he doesn't like football, I suppose that doesn't make him -- necessarily -- bad. Still, maybe he should stick to those artsy films out at the Village.

Savlov was, indeed, mistaken. The movie was worse, much worse, than his review suggested. Any Given Sunday might well be one of the worst sports movies ever made -- and considering the dearth of good movies in the genre, that's a big statement. He tries to leave this piece of dreck three times, only to be driven back inside the cinema by the increasing volume of the rain and the pathetic realization that he really has nothing better to do.

At heart a decent fellow, the sportswriter feels bad about the black thoughts involving the movie reviewer. So bad, in fact, he dedicates himself to watching every minute of the impending playoff tournament. This solemn good-faith oath didn't make it through the Lions-Redskins game, which, since it didn't feature Cameron Diaz at all, was even duller than Any Given Sunday. ...

"So," he muses, "I missed an hour. Shoot me." He considers his football-watching credentials solid. As good as anyone's. In light of the sheer volume of football he views, the sports guy should know what he's talking about. He doesn't. He uses the confusion of parity to rationalize his many errors in prognostication last week. Oh, he divined the winners of three of four games, but none went as predicted, and the one he got wrong he got real wrong: Indianapolis, the "best team in the NFL," would "win the only one-sided contest of the weekend." The young Colts lost -- it was a close game -- and the shocking, bloody train wreck 900 miles to the south in Jacksonville was the blowout. The sportswriter now allows that perhaps the Colts aren't the best team in the league, though he's befuddled as to who is. Peyton Manning is, however, the best QB in the league. The sportswriter notes many great throws -- balls tossed into violent spaces tighter than a small monkey's nostril -- only to have usually reliable receivers not make the great catches Super Bowl receivers must make. In defeat Manning was victorious.

The AFC championship game fogs his head. The writer has no handle on Tennessee, though he wishes Tennessee were still Houston. (But then, he wishes the nightly news were a 15-minute show, so as you can see, events march on despite the writer's contrarian wishes.) As is his wont, skepticism abounds. The Titans shouldn't even be playing in Indianapolis except for a fluke, once-a-decade play. And the outcome in the HoosierDome might be quite different if not for a fourth-quarter punt return called back because the Colt returner grazed the sideline by the width of a pubic hair. So he ponders the question: Are El Titans lucky dogs, or the proverbial "team of destiny?"

Jacksonville's total destruction of a good Dolphin team was ... uh ... impressive. Only moments late in turning the game on, the writer is stunned to see the score, 38-0, with the first quarter barely finished. Not a fan of the Miami coach, he believes he's entered the lovely bye and bye for Jimmy Johnson haters. Very nice. The Fins, according to his country wife, "fell into a whole vat of nasty whupass." Yes indeed. The Titans, on the other hand, aren't particularly impressive. Steve McNair looks a little like a darker version of Trent Dilfer, minus some INTs. His line against the Colts is typical -- 13-24, 112 yards. Dilfer numbers. The Titan D is sound but ... well, these are not familiar names.

Then he considers that Jacksonville's only two losses came against these guys. With deductive powers now fully engaged, he figures they must be doing something right. He doesn't believe a gimpy Brunell will make it through the game. Ever the rebel, the sportswriter goes against conventional wisdom; Tennessee will win a third time, probably on a 60-yard free kick with no time left.

On the NFC, there's no fog. Tampa Bay, with a high-school offense, can't, really can't, beat St. Louis, no matter the great heart of the Bucs' stalwart defenders. This should be, on the fast turf of St. Louis, no contest. Which means that in this formless season, the Bucs will probably win ... though the sportswriter wouldn't bet on it.