Coach's Corner
By Andy "Coach" Cotton, Fri., June 25, 1999
Roxy and I have reached an odd point in our lives; we're both the same age. And like me, she's starting to break down. A couple of weeks ago the vet told us Roxy had torn an ACL. She needed an operation. The vet said there was news, good and bad. The good news was the operation should work just fine. The bad? She had to be kept "quiet" for six weeks, or she'd tear it again. The vet had seen enough of hyper Roxy to appreciate the quandary.
The two dogs have rarely been apart. The few days Roxy was in the hospital found Floyd abjectly depressed. How did we know? Big Floyd, who holds every meal most dear, wouldn't eat. He sulked. He refused to acknowledge any commands. Now Roxy's been home two weeks, and it's been hell. They need to be kept separate so they don't start playing. Roxy can only be allowed out into the yard, on a leash, for moments at a time. She limps horribly. The ugly metal staples in her leg give her a Frankendog appearance.
But this isn't the worst of it. About a year ago Kelly picked up a stray neighborhood kitten. I've never like cats. I wasn't too thrilled. The cat, named Cat, grew on me. She's little but tough. One bloody nose was all it took for Floyd to give Cat a wide berth. After many bloody snouts, Roxy and Cat came to a Cold War style arrangement of tolerable coexistence.
Meanwhile, Kelly and Cat developed a spooky feline/human relationship. Cat came when Kelly called. Cat followed her around the house. Cat actually listened to her. Kelly went home this weekend to see her mom, and Cat decided to run away. Cat's gone. A bad couple of weeks for animals. Odds and Ends: In a week of absorbing sports stories, one was the Laker hiring of Phil Jackson to coach their loony bin of a team. The conventional wisdom says it's a slam-dunk winner for all concerned. Jackson (the mellow guru with six world championships) will teach the scattered Lakers the way of the circle -- that's Jacksonspeak for everybody loves everybody -- and win many world championships. Don't bet the house on it. Hot coaches in the NBA have a dismal record when they change teams. Pat Riley minus Magic and Kareem has a string of first-round playoff losses in Miami. Chuck Daly -- minus Isiah, Joe, and Dennis -- can't even say that. Rick Pitino's finding the SEC wasn't so tough after all. Jordan, to understate the case, was a one of a kind. Kobe's Kobe. Shaq's Shaq. No Jordan in sight ...
With Kelly in Waco, I was free to indulge my most base instincts. I tuned in the Stars game at 7, watched every minute, until I fell asleep around midnight with the second overtime period ending. Just because it's overtime doesn't mean it's exciting. Nowhere is this truer than in hockey, where defensive overtimes can easily stretch into the next day. So I missed the coolest ritual in sports, as the two teams in sport's most vicious game line up and shake hands, acknowledging it's important, but it's only a game. This Stanley Cup tradition sends a great message about sportsmanship, absent in all other sports. It tells the rest of us that sports and life are not the samething. Too bad everyone missed it.
There's nothing like a rainy day and good sports on television: They go together like a rum and Coke. Taking advantage of my wife's absence, bizarre June weather, and Father's Day, I shamelessly watched, from the comfort of the well-worn divan, hours upon hours of U.S. Open golf. It was indeed consuming sports drama, with many made-in-Hollywood plot lines running in full view: a no-longer-so-young, can't-miss guy (who's never won a major) ready to leave the course at the first ring of his beeper for the birth of his first child. An omnipresent media creation trying to live up to his hype. The misunderstood #1 golfer in the world (also Majorless) -- playing without the trademark mirror Oakleys -- trying to dispel his own demons. And an old guy, who won the Open almost 20 years ago and choked away a four-stroke lead in the final round last year, atop the leader board for three days. It was all great until the old guy, after snaking in two unlikely, brutal putts on the final three holes, driving a stake into the heart of the still Majorless dad-to-be, opened his mouth. Whenever an athlete starts a sentence with, "Thanks Johnny, but first I'd like to thank ..." I'm looking for the mute button. What's with jocks and their special relationship with God, Jesus, and Allah? I could take this pipeline to the Lord shit (maybe) if some blame was attributed. "God didn't give me a three-footer all day and I only said 'shit' once. What does that guy want anyway?" There oughta be a law concerning separation of sports and church. Save it, fellas; tell me about the putt.
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