Coach's Corner

The last college freshman in our fair land to leave home and go to school is still -- at 2pm late in September -- asleep in his own bed, upstairs in my house. It seems like years ago he was accepted to a surfing college in California, even longer when we proudly attended his high school graduation. All of his old delinquent pals are back in sundry "alternative" schools. One by one, his more conventional high school friends have left for college. They're all gone. Like the last remaining veteran of the Civil War, he's the only one still left at home. Asleep. Up in his room. Still blissfully waiting for the rest of his life to begin.

I understand that all parents of 18-year-olds are not unhappy to see their pups leave the well-worn litter, and to be sure, the feeling is returned in spades. Still, the irony that mine is still here is staggering. No parent in the nation has been more fastidious about counting down days to the end. But my days never end. The Boy is still here. If you've followed this column over the years, you've seen Adam appear first as a Little League hero.Evicted from aChronicle Christmas party at 12, an anti-jock by 13, a sullen Cobain grunge kid, advancing to a frightening teenage driver, truck wrecker, and expert on the parliamentary procedures of our municipal court system. Righteously indignant over a colorful characterization of him by old Dad, he penned a poisonous letter to the editor. This warm, familiar, rebellious chronological progression so endeared him to Margaret Moser she asked him to write my column for a week. Along the way, I've become unnaturally well acquainted with all of the assistant principals, counselors, grade advisors, and other education officials unfortunate enough to cross his stony path during this grand tour through the Eanes School District.

Lord, it's been a long, long march, but the end is near! Upstairs, a trunk is filling. Duffel bags are open. Every day, he gets mail from Santa Cruz (school mascot, the Banana Slug) with jolly greetings, maps, and instructions. A note came yesterday. They're looking forward to our arrival. Just park in front, the flyer said -- "A Slug would be there to lend a hand." Though The Boy sleeps, the clock is ticking. I rented the biggest car in America, with a mammoth trunk, a lurid Lincoln Continental. I pick it up on Tuesday. The cross-country rite of passage journey, which I've fantasized into another of those good bonding things, begins early Wednesday morning.

At UT, 26 freshman football players have been on campus since early August. Everything's changed from fall, one year ago. No national ranking. No expectations. A brand-new, fire-breathing, down-home coach. A coveted, nationally known defensive coordinator and a shiny new "attacking" defensive scheme. A new quarterback, fancy new stadium additions, and a positive new slogan. Everything's new. Everything's fresh. Yet everything is still the same. Texas is 1-2 and has given up 97 points in two weeks. A game this weekend with the much-maligned Rice Owls, an unworthy UT Mendoza line if you will, suddenly looms too large. The Ghost of Mackovic lurks.

My lovely fiancée, Kelly, has already lambasted me for even thinking of blaming the departed head coach for this year's problems. A most harsh critic, she's already tired of Mack Brown's sweet words. I told you last winter, Coach, everybody loves you when you're 0-0. Even a cheap shot writer like me understands that a new college coach gets a free year or two. It's frustrating for us "negative" writers to have all this cynical fodder going to waste, but there it is.

So, unable to direct attention toward Brown, last week I found myself dwelling on Mackovic. What a sweet offense he put together. When not forced by 35-point deficits to play street ball, this Mackovic-developed offense is a fine thing to watch. A fullback who can catch. Power running behind a pro-style line. Pretty pass patterns, good receivers. Even behind by a million against UCLA, the Mackovic West Coast Offense moved the chains like they were on grease. I couldn't help but think that if this guy spent just half the effort he put into getting players to move the ball into the other guys' end zone, into getting guys who could keep it out of his end zone, he'd still be sitting up in Belmont Hall, bathing in genius accolades, as the Horns became regular inhabitants of the Top Ten. Instead, as a devotee to the "best-defense-is-a-good-offense" creed, Mackovic died on his sword.

It's now even clearer that the pinball scores run up last year were not the result of a bad system. The players recruited are just not good enough. In two years, if the defense is still giving up 48 points, we can blame Brown. For now, these are Mackovic's guys. Mackovic loved his offense. Offense was what JohnMackovic was about. Why a bright, experienced football coach could so stubbornly ignore what even the greenest Pee-Wee coach understands -- which is, you gotta stop the other guy first -- is beyond me.

Sorry, Kelly, but that irrational, pig-headed intransigence is the reason games against Rice have become a world-turned-upside-down test for the once proud Longhorns.

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