Coach's Corner

At 7:55pm on September 3, I'm reposing serenely upon my bed. I'd been caught outside in a sudden rainstorm. The overhead fan, which has been making that I-need-oil sound for years, groaned over my slightly damp, unclothed, but for the first time in months, cool body. The Coach is quite comfortable in the gathering gloom. The television's on. ESPN has the Marlin/Baltimore game. Channel 28's showing the U.S. Open. I jump between the two as the whim strikes. I'm pleased. 7:55 is a good time. Suddenly, my girlfriend bursts into the room, appalled at what she took to be a somewhat premature bedtime. She's resolute that I join her ("Put some damn clothes on if you don't mind") to watch one of last year's television events: The Coming Out of Ellen. Realizing that I was, at this moment, the extreme female stereotype of the single-male-sportsfan, and being unhappy with this atavistic characterization, I do as bidden.

I'll admit, I'd never watched Ellen before. It looked too much like Murphy Brown, a show whose humor totally escaped me. Anyway, this isn't about Ellen, which I watched and liked, alone, because the girlfriend left after two minutes to chat on the telephone. It's about Ellen's sponsors.

At 8:30, I sit back down to watch the second half, a heaping plate of leftover spaghetti on my lap. As I'm shoveling the red goo into my gob, a plain but attractive woman appears on the screen. Behind her runs a montage of women doing active, womanly things: jogging, walking dogs, dining in elegant restaurants, and helping Bobby with his homework. The nice lady's holding a box of Vagisil, a medicated ointment previously unknown to me. As I dumbly gaze on, she explains -- clearing up a hotly debated, controversial subject -- that Vagisil is, indeed, the "leader in feminine itch medicine."

Is it wrong for me to admit (in this sensitive, politically correct time) I was totally grossed out, as was my teenage son, who left the room muttering that this was "something he was too young to have to know about?" I'll honestly divulge I'm unclear on what this vaginal itching thing is all about, but I have to wonder if, the spaghetti getting ice cold in front of me, even in these enlightened times, shouldn't some things be left for a woman and her doctor?

I mean, this is prime time network television, and tens of millions of people are watching a commercial about genital, female itching. I can empathize as well as the next fellow (hey, guys have itches too!), but I must ask, does America really need this information? I'll put it another way. Imagine the female outcry during next week's Monday Night Football telecast as Frank and Dan appear during the first commercial break. In the background, guys are playing football, guzzling beer, playing some golf, whatever. In Dan's huge paw is a tube of Scrotumill, the "leading gonadal itch and rash cream." I'd have to join the hue and cry: The image of Frank and Dan going at themselves like a dog with mange isn't good for the appetite.

I can't imagine what will come next. At the next commercial, I'm relieved to see a different perky lady come on the screen. She's smiling. Maybe, I'm hoping, this will be a mouthwash commercial. Uh-Uh. Though it would have been more gritty, were she throwing a purse or something, she's holding up a box of... Midol PMS.

I've become quite adept over the years at creating passable editorial segues from some of my more tangential openings. This one pushed me past my limits. I'm not even going to try. Last week saw the dissolution of Austin's most popular and best sports talk radio show. In my opinion, KVET's tandem of Jeff Ward and Bill Schoening was not only the best in Austin, but the most entertaining show of the genre I've heard anywhere. Like many on-air teams, these guys were not golfing and poker buddies out of the studio. Their on-air chemistry, however, was superb. Like most good partnerships, their respective skills and interests complimented each other nicely. Ward's bizarre sense of humor and willingness to push the sports concept to the far edges of acceptability played well against Schoening's more conservative pedigree and, in the process, allowed Schoening to display a quirky humor rarely seen in his solo work. Ward's staunch refusal -- not an easy public position to take in this town -- not to be a Longhorn cheerleader deflected Bill's past reputation as a UT homer. Between the two of them, there were few areas of sports and entertainment minutia left unexplored or unexplained. No topic was too weird to turn up on this show.

I think Jeff got bored with the strictly sports format. I read that KLBJ offered him more freedom to branch out... where, I don't know. Both of these guys have had shows of their own and both will be doing solo shows again. They're both pros. The new shows will be competent stuff. Still, I can't escape the feeling, in this case, that the sum was greater than the individual parts: Two will be less than one.

Parting shots: Obscure, crucial penalties going against Dallas? A horribly choked, botched, overtime gimmie Cardinal field goal hitting the goal-post and going in, instead of being blocked and returned for a Dallas touchdown? Someone out there's living a good, pure life.