Coach's Corner

The big news is my acquisition of one of those pizza-sized satellite dishes. I'd been debating this matter for quite some time. The colorful displays in stores would find me, more and more, drifting by. I'd ask a few questions, get frustrated with its complexity, exacerbated by the salesclerk's insistence on how "user friendly" it was. I'd wander off, decide against it, then repeat the process a few weeks later.

Then, my ex-sister-in-law called. She works for the unnamed company who invented this thing. She could "give me a deal." My bluff had been called. I was still filled with ambivalence, but my mom told my dad who told my brother who called to tell me to expect a call from his ex-wife who, in turn, called me and shit. The box sat untouched and forlorn in my garage for over a week as I mulled over the myriad of puzzling, intricate programming choices -- existentialism in the 21st century -- I'd have to make. Also under consideration: how to keep the kids from ordering thousands of dollars of pay-per-view movies each month with the touch of a button. I scoured the impossible manuals. Of the 75 different options parents have for "controlling (this is satellite dish talk) access," I didn't understand a single one.

Finally, after nine days alone in the dark, cold garage, I justified the whole damn thing as a Coach necessity. That felt better. Prudently, I decided to go with the "basic package," just sports and some basic channels. Who needs multi-channel HBO, Showtime, and Cinemax? In a brilliant marketing move, the company, taking its cues from the drug culture, gives you everything free for the first month. Excellent strategy when aimed at a compulsive/addictive personality like myself.

Six hours later, it's well past midnight. I'm on the floor, surrounded by guides, operation manuals, and remote controls. So engrossed was I in the crystal-clear digital picture, the endless come hither on-screen menus, and the multitude of attractive options, I totally forgot about my daughter's long-scheduled band recital. I'll pay for that, in spades, tomorrow. For now, I watch ice hockey from Saskatoon, basketball from Sacramento, and football from Indianapolis. Don't cluck-cluck about my lack of a life. I need this so I can be a better Coach... for you.

The first fruits of my labors have already arrived. A few weeks ago, I wrote a column highly critical of NBA commissioner David Stern and his handling of the ongoing strike of the league's officials. My point was more of a philosophical and ethical argument against cheap, irrational penny-pinching by the world's richest league, akin to Microsoft's Bill Gates stiffing the company doorman at Christmas time. After viewing godawful, dull, ragged, early season contests from Portland to Miami, I see no noticeable difference in the officiating. Yes, I've seen some strange calls. More than before? That's tough. The difference? Every call is second-guessed by everyone from unknown satellite announcers to rookie power forwards.

The players bitch, but I think it's a knee-jerk reaction. Star players don't get a whistle every time someone breathes their way. The Pro Gods are not given the NBA "extra step" (aka traveling) that the more pedestrian players get called for. Even better is the use of two officials. I hate three officials. Three zebras means only one thing: one more guy in stripes who must justify his existence by blowing his damn whistle every 20 seconds. The third official is even more odious in the slower college game, which should have no refs at all. The commentators and players buy into the party line -- maybe they even believe it -- that the scabs don't have control of the game and the extra official is missed. Not by me.

Blind luck or masterful planning? My guess is the former, but any way you look at it, the prestige athletic programs at UT seem well placed to start their tenure in the Big 12 on a positive note. An impressive win, with a young team in College Station, served notice to Midwesterners that more than one big dog was coming to eat at the new conference table. This team has a feeling of real substance, an intuition not present with the fluke team of 1990. For the Runnin' Horns, it will be a different road. Against a weakened Utah team, Penders, desperate to find a floor leader, used three different guys at point guard in the first 10 minutes of the game. Not a positive harbinger. The team looked ragged and disorganized. Because they have a terrible mixture of experience and talent, we'll see this often. The best players are young and inexperienced. The upperclassmen, who need to be team leaders, are not so good. They too are inexperienced. Next season, as UT enters the basketball rich Big 12, this situation will naturally -- freshmen turn to sophomores and so on -- evolve into a team with good chemistry and a bright future.

Parting Shots: What's a Virginia Tech? Where is Virginia Tech? Who is going to watch a Virginia Tech? How does an obscure, southeastern technical institute land in the Sugar Bowl and why does it have to be UT's sad misfortune, after finally earning its way into a prestige-laden bowl, to play a game with nothing to gain and a lot to lose? n