Coach's Corner

The barrage of dispatches flying between a hunting blind in West Texas, the affluent suburb of West Lake Hills, the UT Athletic Department, a local radio station, the basketball coach's office, and the exotic Caribbean isle of St. Martin began over the past week to take on a comedic quality worthy of a new Pink Panther movie. The cast: In desolate West Texas, out where Pancho Villa rode: the talented, but petulant, 18-year-old freshman. He's a potential basketball star, a good boy, a little behind in his studies. In West Lake Hills: the meddling parents. Before the opening credits finish running, the parents do what any West Lake parent would -- they hire a politically correct lady lawyer from West Lake. In the lofty, regal towers of the University Athletic Department, trying desperately to stay above the fray: the Pope-like athletic director. At the local radio station: the hapless talk show host (who also, incidentally, happens to be a paid employee of the University) ridiculously trying to pretend he didn't understand the embarrassing nature of the information, spoon-fed to him by the unlucky, lifelong assistant coach (and long-time friend of the vacationing head coach).

We're informed -- hey, here's a new one -- "The media doesn't make the news. We just report it." It turns out, though, that this bit of news, to thicken the plot, violates some obscure law no one heretofore ever heard of, causing bad intestinal problems for the University attorneys, but pleasing to no end the PC lady lawyer from West Lake.

Through the first 15 minutes, we never see the coach. The lovely Caribbean Isle of St. Martin is mentioned repeatedly, so we can conjure up our own images of the suntanned coach, an icy beverage resting on his belly, as he handles the crisis of an imploding basketball program (all set in motion by the petulant 18-year-old who's hunting jackrabbits in West Texas). The coach is present only through scratchy, disembodied telephone dispatches, patched through to the United States with an impressively realistic, garbled, World War II quality. The mystery is not introduced until the movie really begins: The coach, due back on a private University jet, is seen boarding in St. Martin. When the jet arrives in Austin, the coach and his wife are gone.

Let's give the Sports Information Dept. some long-overdue credit. A hurrah and a bravo! Never previously thought to be overly concerned with creative issues, we happily discover a clever, resourceful PR machine; the envy of Hollywood and the White House. In the midst of the worst basketball season in memory -- indeed, in what's probably the worst athletic year in history, with all its major teams sporting losing records, UT is enjoying a bonanza in national ink, as if they were heading for the Final Four... Baaaby! Best of all, the athletic department times this event for SXSW. With all the high-powered movie talent in town, we can only hope someone out there takes the hint and gets this thing into production.

Oh my goodness, the possible endings are numerous. The freshman (now called The Kid) returns from his hunting trip with a new attitude. He still doesn't think it's right that he has to go to class and stuff. And, well, he's not too sure about this weightlifting shit, but for the sake of his teammates, he maturely suffers these slights. Next season, in the feel-good story of the year, he leads Texas to the championship game. Texas loses (we need to maintain some sense of plausibility) as The Kid's last second shot bounces -- in the slowest of slow motion -- off the rim. Interviewed courtside by Al McGuire, The Kid, claiming to have "seen the light," announces his transfer to BYU. He wants, he says, "to do God's work." Makes my nipples hard.

Too sappy?... Clouseau searches for the whole gang, with many laughs along the way, from Paris to Istanbul. At last he brings all the parties together for a healing meeting. The coach, The Kid, the broadcasters, the soon-to-be-fired-assistant coach, The Kid's lawyer, the University's battery of attorneys, the mom, the dad, the aloof AD, the sports information director, The Kid's tutors, teachers, and 10th grade guidance counselor. As brunch is served by black waiters in heavily starched white uniforms, The Kid stuns one and all by announcing he's quitting the team to become a postman in the West Lake area. After a dramatic pause, he opens fire (slow motion, Peckinpah-style) with his fully automatic hunting Uzi. Spurting red blood contrasts nicely with the yellow of flying scrambled eggs. Tumbling, shattered bodies jerk and twist grotesquely against the background of half-eaten bagels and coffee. Cheese Danish spurts from an attendant's mouth.

In a shocking, surprise ending, the only survivor, aside from The Kid, is the usually-first-to-die attorney. The PC lady lawyer from West Lake, though badly traumatized, recovers. As the film ends, we're told that The Kid was tried for the grisly slaughter. He said he was sorry, but after all, he had a permissive childhood and well, ya know, shit happens. After he's acquitted, he and the attorney from West Lake file a civil suit against the University, charging that systematic verbal abuse so tore into The Kid's inner being that he was forced to lash out. The Erwin Center is now named after The Kid. A new movie, Another Civil Action, is in the works.