Coach's Corner

I hope what I'mabout to recount isn't an isolated occurrence; common only to the women who frequent my house. It's about the movie Notting Hill. I saw this film in the theatre a few years ago. It wasn't really bad. Okay, it was decent. Little did I imagine how this pleasant little movie, eminently forgettable two blocks from the theatre, would curse my life. It began with curiosity, changed to bemusement, next, sullen resignation, and -- finally -- abject frustration.

Women can't watch this movie too much. Yesterday I pressed Kelly, with no success, for a rational explanation of this phenomenon. Moments ago my 17-year-old daughter, who was just going to eat a sandwich before we went out to hit golf balls, finds Notting Hill among the 1,043 cable channels. She's glued to the TV -- potato chips missing her mouth -- rapturously viewing Notting Hill for the umpteenth time. I hate this movie.

This year I made a pre-holiday resolution. I swore that, instead of resolving on Jan. 3 that I'd take off the ten pounds of eggnog and cookies, this year I wasn't going to gain it. I was not going to drink four eggnog lattes at Starbucks every week. I would not eat all the cookies people leave at my office. For sure I was not going to hide any to take home to eat later. But this unforeseen Notting Hill crisis was threatening my well-intentioned plan before the season's officially begun.

By now Kelly has joined Janie, and though they rarely speak to each other, both are completely engrossed in a movie they know the stage directions for. When I begin to grouse, I'm summarily shushed from the room by this most unlikely alliance. My pre-holiday good cheer shot, I drive to the Chronicle-less Starbucks to quaff my first eggnog latte of the season. I fully intend to bring it home and, though the hour is early, spike it with a generous dollop of rum from my private reserve. My friends at Seattle's most picked-on success story bail me out: They won't have it until next week.

Today, however, was my day. I reserved the television room well in advance for Rivalry Saturday. The day dawns cold, gray, and rainy: perfect for sitting home all day watching football. I explain to Kelly, "Honey, it's my job. I'd love to go to the Container Store with you, and returning sweaters to Dillards sounds great, but ... I am The Coach. Duty calls." I then lie upon the divan and proceed, after a hearty lunch, to work. It starts at 11am with Michigan/Ohio State at the Big House in Columbus. With both teams just so-so, much of the luster's gone but still ... I'd love to see this game live at Ohio State. I see more trick plays in a quarter than Woody Hayes ever thought of. OSU loses again. Buckeye coach John Cooper's record against his archrival is 2-10-1... and they say Ohio State's a high-pressure job. Ha!

I look forward to TCU/UTEP. I last saw the No. 15 Frogs the last time they visited the still Memorial Stadium in the still-SWC. By the second quarter, playing on a field without a trace of green, they're up by 25 points. Switch channels to Auburn/Alabama in Tuscaloosa. Many football pundits claim this interstate hillbilly rivalry is the most intense in college football. Many football pundits also touted Alabama (3-8) as National Champions. Three field goals and a 9-0 Auburn victory in a persistent, driving, icy rain remind me of a Bears-Lions game. I take a nap. I awaken, looking for a good game on my day in my room. Instead I find a flat Oklahoma struggling against, of all teams, Texas Tech. It's the worst I've seen Heupel look all season. After absorbing a plethora of savage hits from a Tech defense not known for doing much to justify the adjective savage, Josh looks like he doesn't want to play anymore. I find it hard to believe Tech discovered some blitz scheme Nebraska couldn't come up with. Whatever it is, the Sooners better fix it quick. I want to see Oklahoma/ Florida State in the Orange Bowl.

The centerpiece of my day turns out to be the turd in the toilet bowl. All week I've been looking forward to the Florida Bowl. Florida State quickly wrecks the long-planned night. They score a few seconds into the game. And they continue to score ... and score ... and score. By the second quarter I've digressed into cursing Brent Musberger for his -- here the King's English fails me -- repetitive references to Florida State as "the Noles." "The Noles, the Noles, the Noles." Four quarters of "The Noles." Jesus, Brett, you're killing me! Good Lord, man, you're a professional. Form a different sentence! Were I not an eggnog-latte-drinking Gore supporter, I'd have gone upstairs (or wherever fully armed Bush supporters keep their automatic M-16 deer rifles) and shot the shit out of my television set.

Perchance, I've been in this room too long. In a depressed blur, I stagger upstairs where Kelly's probably watching her tape of Notting Hill. I officially vacate the television room. 'Tis only 10pm, but I am weary. Being The Coach isn't an easy job. Somehow, I'd strained my back while lying motionless on the couch for 10 hours. I ingest a "muscle relaxer" or two, wash it down with a spot of bourbon, and go to bed.