Coach's Corner

I didn't even know I was going until I got in the car, so I was without the most basic of reporter's tools: a pen and notebook. With cars parked a half mile from the gym, I realized, too late, this was a mistake. Leaving a dark bar at 7:30, with my normal Friday night television routine of Millennium and Homicide disrupted due to the damned Olympics, I went to this game on a last-second whim. A friend's son, whom I'd never seen play, Adam Zimmerman, is the starting center for the Austin High Maroons. So a directionless boredom, coupled with idle curiosity, led me to be driving around the overflowing Austin High parking lot. I've been to all kinds of high school games in Austin. Always to my disappointment, I usually enter a half empty football stadium or gym. Once, this caused surprise - the mythical Texas high school sports mystique being so powerful - but now I'm used to it. Austin area high schools, with the exception of Westlake, have an astonishing lack of support, even on their home fields.

This is a complex dilemma, and a story on its own. For now, let's just say I feel sad and embarrassed for the kids from Johnston or LBJ or McCallum or wherever, playing their hearts out, often taking a bad beating in the process, with such miserable support. Often, it doesn't seem like the kids' parents are even there. I've been to Austin High games before. Their support, though better, is still pretty lame. So anyway, this was my frame of reference as I circled the packed lot. I kept wondering if a school play or dance was going on at the same time.

Instead, I walked into an energy-charged, emotional gym atmosphere I'd not seen since I was in high school, when this was the way I thought it always was. The gym was totally and completely full, on both sides of the court, five minutes before tip-off. I was dumbfounded. Really, I was. Again, I kicked myself for not bringing a notebook. I figured to easily find Adam's mom and dad sitting alone at center court and have a pleasant hour or two to catch up on old times. Instead, I stood, confused and stupid-looking, I'm sure, gazing out at the frothing mass of people covering every square inch of the gym. The Austin High side was absolutely full, not an inch of empty bench to be found. There were still a few scattered empty spaces over on the Westlake side. My God, out of pure dumb luck, I'd stumbled into an honest-to-god basketball game!

As The Coach, I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I doubt I'd ever gone to a game more ignorant. Shouting over the din of insults being hurled back and forth, I learned from fellow fans - more patient and tolerant than I'm known to be with morons like myself - such basic information as what the teams' records were, and if this was a playoff game or something.

The Westlake juggernaut of the past few years - how they didn't win state last year with Luke Axtell and Chris Mihm is a mystery as deep as the internal combustion engine - had apparently turned ordinary (5-4 in district). Though a longtime Westlake resident, I found myself rooting for the Maroons (5-4). I've known Adam, the center, since he was a baby, but now the baby was 6'5". He gave me a rational reason to root against my neighbors. Adam had a great first half, leading the team in scoring and rebounding. Still, it was clear, even to me, that Austin's lack of bench strength might be fatal. Before the half, Adam picked up his third foul. Though he rarely came out of the game, he was no longer a factor. Playing timidly, trying to avoid a fourth foul, he scored only two more points the rest of the night.

In the end, the Chaparrals won 58-55, but damn, was that a fun game. For one, it flew by. The pace was frantic. Coaches, not needing to worry about posturing for television, let the kids play. The officials, too, let the players play the game; if you've been to the Erwin Center any time in the last 20 years, you know that this rarely happens on the college level. Both teams made most of their free throws, another skill almost non-existent in college. When play was stopped, no children (who should be home in bed!) came out to shoot free throws, no fat men tried to make a half-court shot for a sandwich shop, bands didn't blare and, without the loud, inane drivel of a PA announcer, I was missing that psychotic urge to stab his eyeballs out. All this, in the big time, is somehow supposed to entertain us... the sportsfans.

I'll be damned if the game - a tense, entertaining contest to the last second, where many people really cared about the outcome - wasn't finished in just over an hour. I never yawned. I never secretly wished I was home watching television. This was the most fun I've had at a sporting event since, well, since the last high school game I went to. Like sex, I thought to myself, this is good; I need to do it more often.