Coach's Corner

So, I understand Miami and New York -- the NBA's prime exponents of goon-ball -- are likely spots for the landing of the poster child of NBA image problems for the next century, Latrell Sprewell. Shocking. Just shocking. In Chicago: Scottie Pippen's either staying in Chicago, about to sign with the Rockets, the Suns, or retire to caddie for Michael. The Spurs might sign Steve Kerr. Some union thugs, why do I smell Miami and New York again, want to hurt Grant Hill because he kept quiet during the long lockout while the "stars" made fools of themselves. In Australia, where they have Texas summers in January, a tired, discouraged Pete Sampras won't play in the year's first major. A rail-thin, middle-aged tennis pro named Petr Korda has been accused of ingesting steroids. If Korda, who must weigh all of 145 lbs., took steroids, he is certainly the drug's least successful devotee. Agassi is making another comeback. A lurid tale of greed and corruption continues to unfold every day in Salt Lake City, but since nobody can quite understand what it's all about, few care. Here in Austin, Rick Barnes is on track to out-miracle Mack Brown, turning a shallow, thin team who didn't know who they liked least -- each other, Barnes, or his defense-first system -- into a most unlikely Big 12 force. Still, Pender's loyalists continue to disguise themselves as empty Erwin Center Seats. A faceless fellow named Tolles beats Davis Love in something known as the Sony Open. Finally, Mike Tyson beat a South African ham 'n' egger in his return to boxing and the Dallas Stars are in first place. Few people noticed either.

What's the significance of this mishmash of early January sports? It's not that I care much about Mr. Sprewell, though I'm grateful he hasn't sued me yet. I do wish Scottie would stay in Chicago, but apparently I'm in denial about that one. Kerr would be a nice pickup for the Spurs, but that's not why I mention it. Physical threats to Hill only serve to remind the fan how petty these multimillionaires are and how little they've learned. But, unless Hill comes to a bad end, I probably won't note it again. I'm sorry Pete's discouraged by the lack of adulation he receives here in the U.S. He deserves better. Barnesball will, in time, overcome blasé Austin. I've come to discover Tolles' first name is Tommy. The Sony's in Hawaii. I was unaware Tyson was fighting until I read it in the sports section today.

Still, these are good things, good things one and all. Spanning the sports spectrum from hockey to baseball, from tennis to cycling, from Austin to Stillwater, from pompous, putrescent Olympic officials who look like they might have been in court at the coronation of Frederick the Great to stupid basketball players who don't know how good they have it. Faceless golfers, faceless hockey players, faceless boxers ... These stories, and whatever else you can scourfrom the sports page, is all we havebetween us and the most dreadedtwo sports weeks of the sportsfan's annual calendar: the 14 days preceding the Super Bowl.

Hear it now, the distant thunder is already audible. Berman, Simms, and Costas are already in place. Heavy artillery from CNN and ESPN are blasting away. From New York and Boston. From St. Louis and Little Rock. From Hong Kong to Havana. Reporters, camera crews and satellite trucks from every city, town, hamlet, or Third World nation with a television station have already set up shop in Miami. Before the fourth quarter began in Denver last week, with the AFC title still in doubt, the television boobs had already begun the tedious storylines that by now have been re-spoken, rewritten and re-recorded 10,000 times. The game is still over a week away.

With all the world's media outlets honed razor sharp, after a week's practice covering the retirement of Jordan, John Elway'slast game will be spared no words or ink or videotape. A two-week cliché fest has commenced. Elway's every step will be covered from every angle imaginable. Each of Elway's grade school teachers will be interviewed extensively. It will be understood by all, worldwide, that young John was, indeed, a good boy. But this is the Super Bowl, so we're not done with Mr. Elway, no sir, not by a long shot. His feud (or was it a feud, or was everything really peachy, whatever, we'll find out), with Falcon coach Dan Reeves, will be revisited ad infinitum. And there's Reeves, three-time Super Bowl loser, only weeks removed from heart surgery. His cardiologist will become a person of national repute. The sad sack story of his Atlanta Falcons will be hashed and rehashed, and then, when it doesn't seem possible, hashed again. Terry Bradshaw will ask Reeves, on Super Bowl Sunday, with eyes as innocent as a lamb, sporting a grin possible only of the clinically insane, a fresh question: "Coach," says Terry, "only two years ago your team was 2-14 and now you got these guys in the Super Bowl. Betcha' that feels good?"

It's a bad two weeks. Be most thankful for the aborted NBA season. Tennis in Auckland, golf in the Orient, the Iditorod in the Great North, horse racing in California. Anything to get us to Jan 31. Then it really gets bad. Football's over.

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