Coach's Corner

On Friday evening, there were two parties. One, the Chronicle's annual Christmas gala; later, a Clarksville-wine-sipping-sort-of-affair. The Clarksville invitation mentioned something about formal attire and bringing wine.

At the Chronicle, anything snappier than cut-offs, shoes with laces and the
T-shirt you worked in all day sets you apart as a Manhattan Socialite. My hair was moussed, black sweater clean, slacks not made of denim, and my shoes were constructed of something other than cloth. Colleagues, who have never seen me out of de rigueur Chronicle attire, touched my greasy hair and pawed the silky sweater with the same wonderment a boy from deepest Africa might express if Michael Jordan strolled into his village.

I was dressed, remember, for the "formal" party. It was time to go. My girlfriend and I piled into the truck for the short trip to the next party. I've known the host for years; been to the house many times. This knowledge caused great consternation when I couldn't find the damn house. "I swear to god," I said to my friend. "This is where it is." I said this repeatedly. We drove up and down, down and up. Like Beirut, half of the street signs were not there. It was a very dark night.

Finally, after 40 minutes, my buzz all gone, I gave up. Miles from the party we can't find, it came to me. I was looking for the house where the party was last year. But now she had a new boyfriend and the party moved to his house. I wish my friends would stop changing partners. Anyway, back we tarried, deep into the Clarksville maze we'd so recently left.

Finding Dick's house was no problem. The lack of any sign of a party was, however, a source of some concern. Well, I figured, a few people will still be there. Let's make an appearance. We walk up to the door and look into a clearly empty, dark house. "They're in the back," I say to my justifiably skeptical date. "Let's just go in." I yank on the locked door as my companion scurries back to the car, concerned I'm at the wrong house entirely -- not an unreasonable supposition considering the rest of the evening -- and we were about to get shot or at the very least, considering the neighborhood, forced by a sleepy environmentalist to sign a petition to save a bee or something.

Undesired of a late night confrontation with an angry hippie, I beat a retreat. It was then my friend Dick (dressed for bed) appears with a most curious look at his front door. Dick's a Southern man and thus a polite one. "Come on in," he generously offers. "We were just about to watch a movie." My confusion at this point was indescribable. Is this a bizarre, eggnog-addled dream? "Where's the party?" I ask, "Are we that late?" Dick put his arm around me gently, the way you would to tell a small child some terribly disappointing news. "The party's tomorrow night, dipshit. And don't forget to bring the wine."

Odds and ends: The past week has seen the Toronto Blue Jays and the Green Bay Packers clearly deep into the spirit of Christmas-giving. If you take one thing from reading this column, let it be this: Sports owners and many highly paid professional sports executives have less sense than a box of Frosted Flakes. The Red Sox were absolutely correct in letting Roger Clemens go. His record over the past four years (40-39) and his age (34) don't promise much for the future. The Blue Jays, once an American League power but now a sorry team, have hired Clemens for a guaranteed $24 million over four years. Explain that one to me. At least Clemens was a free agent. How about Reggie White? Green Bay just re-signed him -- he wasn't going anywhere -- to a monster five-year deal which will put The Reverend at defensive tackle until he's 40! Most of us understand there's not a plethora of 40-year-old defensive tackles in the NFL. After you figure out the Clemens deal, tell me what the Packers are thinking... Dennis Rodman is a fool if he believes his "fame" is lasting. He should count himself the luckiest man alive for parlaying a lousy attitude, a one-dimensional game, and green hair into fame and fortune. He should, above all, realize his fame, as it were, is totally dependent on his having a daily platform to perform in. Once that's gone, Rodman will be forgotten faster than you can say Bo Jackson... Does it really have to take two and a half hours to play 40 minutes of college basketball? All the TV time-outs, plus the coach's time-outs and the endless succession of whistles completely destroys the rhythm of the game... When's the last time you saw a reverse work?... If you're two-time defending Midwest division champs and you begin the new season 3-13 and you're the coach, you're gonna get canned. Unfair? Certainly. Not deserved? Well, maybe. Key player out? Yes, but the same team minus Robinson won 60 games last year. Bob Hill's mishandling of Rodman and the Spur play-off collapse last year didn't help.