Coach's Corner

I'm not sure if Floyd is an exceptionally smart pooch - a dog Mensa if you will - or if he's real stupid, on par with the Blue Bell cow. Floyd hasn't appeared in this column in quite some time, so to fill you in, Floyd's the younger of a pair of boxers who live in my house. They reign in a backyard where I've spent thousands of dollars fencing, paving, seeding and re-seeding, mulching, and creating their own special dog run, which they ignore. This was all done some time ago, when I labored under a most foolish notion, something about being a master. A few years back, I gave up. I don't even bother to fill the holes up any more. When we last saw Floyd, he was a disturbingly large and still growing puppy. That was several years ago. When he reached 104 pounds, he finally stopped growing. Floyd is to boxers what Shaq is to basketball players. Within the sub-group of boxers, a big dog, Floyd stands out. Anybody who's ever seen him - vets, other boxer owners, and mesmerized little kids (little kids love Floyd; despite his size, he's as non-threatening as a ladybug) - all marvel at the sheer mass of Floyd. Perhaps his size contributes to the impression that this dog just doesn't look very smart. He ambles along with a slow, shuffling gait, usually carrying a #4 soccer ball locked in his vise-grip jaw. When he's alert, one ear stands up nice and straight, but the other one, despite my best efforts, didn't take too well. It flops. Usually, they both droop. His large, bovine face is so friendly it can appear moronic.

Ms. Herta E. Kraupa-Tuskany is one of the world's foremost authorities on boxers. As her name suggests, Ms. Kraupa-Tuskany is a no-nonsense author. Her brusque book on the breed, with non-ambiguous chapters like, "What a Well Trained Boxer May Not Do," or "The Begging Dog Is a Tempted Dog," says this about boxers talking: "Talking aloud is actually the proper description, for with the boxer, it really does seem like they have their own language." Floyd, indeed, talks. He won't talk on cue, like the stupid dogs that appear on television. He, sensibly, only "speaks" when he wants someone to do something for him. He gets downright chatty when he thinks it's time to eat. The sound has elements of cow mooing, sick coyote whimpering, and werewolf howling. He'll walk up to you, brace his front legs, and start talking. If you don't respond, he'll walk to the door or stairs or wherever he wants you to go, and then come back, head raised, eyes rolled far back in their sockets, and start all over. Usually, this is accompanied by some added theatrics: bucking in a tight circle like a wild pony, around and around. He's relentless. He won't stop until he gets what he wants.

The big news of a AA baseball team in Round Rock did nothing for Floyd. On this subject he was, by and large, mute. He's a native of Central Texas. Wisely (I'm certain Frau Kraupa-Tuskany would approve), he's adopting a wait-and-see attitude. He's not as cynical as his master is. Perhaps long-term memory, a human characteristic, is to blame. After three decades in this area, where the city's garden spot is closed because a lizard might be disturbed, where roads never get built, well, I'm skeptical of any large-scale public projects ever getting done.

The local media, which, as I understand the relationship, is supposed to be questioning, effectively acted as the new team's unpaid public relations firm, as they babbled and wrote, and wrote and babbled a happy, feel-good tale of wonder and by-golly-gosh-darn-joy about this bright and shiny thing which had suddenly dropped out of the sky. Hot damn! Who do I call for season tickets? But wait. First they must build a ballpark. Uh oh, I'm thinking - as I'm listening to the news conference, gridlocked in afternoon traffic on Koenig Lane, a crosstown expressway that will never be - how will that ever happen?

A hotel tax? Ah, so that's how a multi-million-dollar ballpark is going to be paid for. My first thought was: a hotel tax, in Round Rock? I'm trying to think of a single hotel in Round Rock. But since then I've become educated. I'm astonished to now realize the worldwide popularity of the Inner Space Caverns. And then, there's Round Rock itself. Indeed, it's hard to book a flight into the Georgetown Municipal Airport these days, what with this heated tourist boom filling up all the Red Roof Inns.

Aside from Jeff Ward, a fellow far too cynical for such a young lad, can anyone say anything other than gee-whiz-this-is-so-cool?

Of course, nothing makes a citizen happier than getting something neato for nothing. A real baseball team, a nice ballpark, and best of all, it's free! Life is good! 747s filled with tourists, in to see Sam Bass's boyhood home, will foot the bill. "Hello, hello, hello," I say to Floyd as I tug on his filthy rope. "You're a smart dog; what do you think? Am I missing something here?" Floyd drops his rope, walks over to the food cabinet. He bangs his head against the wood and begins bucking. I think my boy is hungry.

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