Coach's Corner

Hail to a new hobby. A pursuit more in line with a more gentle lifestyle. Cooking. That's right, sportsfans, not fly fishing or skydiving, or even darts. Cooking. I have a little blue apron. I'm excited about new cookbooks. I read them before bed. I talk to people about the correct components of a nice cream sauce. I can be obsessive. If I want a new set of golf clubs, I'll research all the golf books. I go to golf stores, lots of golf stores, looking, feeling, fantasizing. I procrastinate, change my mind, decide maybe I want another boxer instead. The entire process can take six months, from the time the idea roots in my sick head like a disease-ridden tick, until I finally act. I want a Cuisinart. Oh yes. I must have one! I can chop and dice and slice and do other swell stuff my new cookbooks tell me to do. I go to Foley's, to see and feel these odd, squatty contraptions. I examine Consumer Reports. CR recommends a Cuisinart Little Pro Plus Food Processor and -- happy days! -- Juicer. It's at Breed's Hardware. I proudly take it home.

Whereupon, I have no idea what to do next. My new Little Pro Plus has 10 million gadgets, blades, blender things, shredders, graters, choppers, adapter stems, and three different juice cones, with their own special adapters. I stare at all this shit dumbfounded. I try to make orange juice. This seems like an easy starting point. After staring, paralyzed, at the manual and all the parts for half an hour, I proceed to almost burn up the motor (I saw smoke). On my next try, I snap off a piece of the bowl. More smoke from the guts of my tortured Little Pro. This isn't what I had in mind. Kelly comes home. She manages to get the now frozen juice cone off of the improperly inserted adapter stem. The Cuisinart lives to fight again another day.

Sunday was a nervous day for Cowboy haters. I need, like a desperate junkie, for Green Bay to put Dallas through a great, big, icy Cuisinart, chopping the Pokes into tiny pieces. I want it bad. This isn't good. Each week, you see, I watch every play of every Cowboy game, rooting vigorously for whoever Dallas is playing. St. Louis. New York. It doesn't matter. But my interest in these games always begins on a slightly detached, metaphysical level. It takes watching Aikman get sacked a time or two before my blood begins to rise. This game is different.

I sense that a Dallas victory at Lambeau Field will signal emotional devastation on par with a major life crisis. An alarming number of ominous factors lead me -- a notorious defeatist -- to see certain disaster. Green Bay, as everyone knows, can't beat Dallas. Now they have them at home, except the weather is, by Green Bay standards, balmy. The Packers are coming off a horrid performance against the second worst team in the league (the Bears are the worst) the week before. Last year's impenetrable defense has turned to mush. Their two best defensive players can barely walk. Their best receiver has two broken ribs. Their top running back is lost for the year. The offensive line's in disarray. Dear fucking God, the Cowboys are going to win!

These are my thoughts upon wakening, my heart racing spastically, on Sunday morning. I call James, one of Austin's preeminent cheeseheads. I need to know how he's feeling. "Fine," he says. "I feel good." I relay my litany of doubts. "Shut up," he says, "I said I feel good!"

He has his commemorative Green Bay beer stein close by. With each Packer score, James quaffs, with great gusto, from the commemorative mug. He hoped to be a mighty happy cheese-person by three o'clock.

The game starts badly. Two Packer breaks are wasted in the first couple of minutes. Inability to convert early scoring chances -- invariably, in all sports -- spells disaster for the team spitting at good fortune. Kelly enters the room. She's a token Cowboy fan. She snuggles up, saying irritating shit like, "Deion's gonna score a touchdown. I feel it." Seconds later, Sanders intercepts a Favre pass and returns it for a TD.

I may have mentioned to her this wasn't funny. I may have asked her to leave the goddamn room. She did. In a huff.

I changed televisions, mainly to hide from Kelly. The second half began with a long, brutal Green Bay drive. They're kicking the shit out of the Boys. Sweet Jesus, I was happy. Still, they're only up by 14. She finds me. She glares, informing me (rather icily I must say) that she's going to the mall. She hopes I'm happy now.

She sits on the bed (what happened to the mall!!?). She's thinking of hanging around a while. Within seconds, Dallas races the length of the field to score again. "Get out!" I scream. I guess I'm a little out of control. For good measure -- and more luck -- I kick Mr. Floyd, a slumbering boxer, out too. Instantly, Green Bay regains control of the game.

Since Sunday is an official day of rest and, besides, I have a column to write, I'm off cook duty tonight. The Cuisinart can rest easy.