Coach's Corner
By Andy "Coach" Cotton, Fri., April 2, 1999
Thursday: I'm already worried about next week's column. I think about covering a Spurs or Rockets game. This, however, requires me to do something. Like get on the Internet and look up a schedule. Overwhelmed, I go to Starbucks and get a latte, hoping for an energy boost. Boosted, I go back to the office and chitchat with my staff. Then I go to the driving range.
Thursday night: I firmly announce to Kelly I'm thinking about going to a game. I figure this sorta commits me to some action. She's miffed I won't take her, forgetting how many times I've tried to explain that wives just can't come along.
Later Thursday night: I wander over to the computer. I'm going to check basketball schedules. That's what I'm going to do. I sign on. (Off to a good start.) Oh good, "I've got mail." I delete all the offers for free porn. I guess I don't really have any mail. This depresses me. I'll check my stocks. My Whole Foods stock is in the toilet. Why didn't I buy Dell? Maybe I'll reconcile my checkbook. I log off. I open the bank envelope. I wonder if there's any frozen wedding cake left? There is. I'm kinda tired. I go to bed.
Friday am: No more time for screwing off. If I don't get my credential request in quick, it's going to be too late. Houston's on a West Coast swing. I check the Spurs. Oh whoopee. They play Dallas on Saturday. I couldn't have found a less compelling reason to go to San Antonio if I tried. I fax Tom James, Spurs media chief, a credential request. On some level, maybe, I hope, I'll be turned down.
Noon: What, me worry? It's a nice day. Think I'll play golf.
5:45pm: My request is okayed. Guess I gotta go. James asks, nicely, if I wouldn't mind sending him past columns on Spurs games. He's not the first media guy to wonder who I am.
9pm: Quaff a glass of Ketel One. Can't wait until the game! Piece of cake. Speaking of which, I'm sure Kelly has hidden some of that cake. It can't be all gone. Later events prove she did, indeed, hide cake. I however, don't find it. Bummer.
Saturday 8am: My head hurts. No sympathy from the new wife. She says something about a "tubby old lush."
9:30am: I'm tired. I remember how much I dread the ride to San Antonio. Is the game on TV?
1:30pm: I run errands all morning. I'm exhausted. I need to leave at 4:30, which seems like in five minutes. I force myself to read a story about the Mavs. I take a nap. I force myself to read two stories re: the Spurs.
4:30: Damn, it's 4:30 and I'm still lying around watching golf. I wonder, idly, if I can fly.
5:05: I go to Starbucks and get a latte. I drive fast as the storm-filled sky blackens.
6:45: I like to get to a game two hours before tipoff -- but I never do. Tip's at 7:30 and I'm lost. The junction at I-35 and I-37, which goes into downtown SA, is the worst-marked major interstate junction in America. I almost miss it every time.This time I do. In a driving rainstorm, I swerve off the road somewhere deep in a South San Antonio barrio. I ponder that movie where the yuppies do the same thing and all get killed. I'm totally lost.
6:50: By sheer luck I come across I-37. I pick a direction and go for it. The monsoon doesn't help. The Alamodome, normally visible from Austin, is lost in the pounding rain. I wonder if that old umbrella is in the trunk.
7:05: I run into Statesman beat reporter Mark Rosner, in the media center. He mocks me for bringing my computer. The Chronicle, as usual, gets little respect.
7:10: Frantically, I read Spur and Maverick Gamenotes. Optimistically, I underline bits of bullshit, hoping to use them in my column.
8:10: Rosner and I chat about golf, travel, note-taking techniques, computers, and the weather. Suddenly, the first period's over. My first period notes comment on Maverick warm-ups -- they're ugly -- and something I can't read about defense. Not a good start.
8:35: It's a close game but, well, a blast of thunder is the loudest noise of the half. My entire notes take up 1.5 pages. The ugly warm-ups are the most interesting item.
Halftime: Don't worry, I tell myself, something will come. I go and eat an uncooked hot dog. I steal a brownie for the ride home.
9:35: Game's over. Spurs win in a blowout. My head is as empty as a tire. Still courtside, I open the computer. I turn it on. It beeps. It sputters. The screen stays blank.
9:50: I scurry to the Spurs locker room. Maybe I'll pick up a quote or two for my "story." I scribble stuff, hoping I'll figure out why later. I drag the computer that Rosner mocked into the media workroom. I stare at the screen. I read my "notes." I check and re-check game stats. Nothing. Okay, I tell myself, just write a lead -- any kind of lead -- then you can go home. I wonder if the hot dogs are gone?
11pm: I get lost, again, leaving the Dome in the icy hurricane.
11:15-1am: The ceaseless downpour makes the endless drive longer. I tune into WOAI for a post-game talk show, looking for a column idea. Not one caller wants to talk about the game. They all want coach Popovich fired, or they won't vote for a new stadium. I know I'm from out of town, but what am I missing here?
Sunday: I wake up in a bad mood. Last night was like what Bob Dole calls "penile dysfunction." This has never happened before. I covered a game and have no column. I'll read Rosner's story, maybe steal something from him.
9:15: He's buried on page 10, with the shortest NBA game story in history. Deadline's tomorrow. Shit, I'm in trouble.
12:00: A bulb goes off! I'll write a column about what happens when nothing happens. That's a pretty damn dynamic idea. I'll think about it. I watch some tennis. Then some hockey. Then some golf. I go get another latte.
3:30: "Anatomy of a column"...
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