Coach's Corner

In order to begin to understand the culture that is Westlake High football -- a culture where a bedroom suburb almost indistinguishable from Austin's urban sprawl manages to create a proud, small-town loyalty with fans (many without children in the Westlake system) who will travel anywhere in the state to see their team play; sophisticated, successful people more likely to be driving a Mercedes than a Ford, following a group of kids often characterized by detractors (who miss the point of the whole thing) as "spoiled, rich, white kids"; a group of kids and an athletic organization that for all practical purposes never loses -- an observer needs to leave the realm of the game and enter the arena of show business.

Tonight's the third time this fall I've gone to a game of the state's top-ranked team with a notebook and pen in hand. The other two times I left with a full notebook ... but no story. With apologies to Mr. Kipling, you're a better man than I, if you can create an entertaining, or even readable, piece from two games where the Chaparrals outscore supposedly competent opponents 85-14. But tonight, in San Marcos, the day after Thanksgiving, with Westlake already up 21-0 in a playoff game against a team with a 10-1 record, the light bulb went off.

Instead of football, imagine a rock & roll band of old pros: Bob Dylan, or Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. A band and a support organization that put on a professional show where a good opening act will start at 8, where the headliner will start at 10, where the $50 hats and shirts will be plentiful, where the light show is perfect and the amplifiers don't screech. Where a tired band can go through the motions but the paying customers won't notice a thing.

This is the way to appreciate the Westlake football machine. From the snappy drill team, to the college-quality band, to the perfectly coiffed cheerleaders, to the headliners themselves, meticulous in the state's sharpest uniforms, that's the attitude: Roll into town, put on a show low on emotion but high on perfection, pack up the trombones, the drums, the batons, the glittery skirts, the shoulder pads and the footballs, get on the bus and do it all again next Friday night. Even the opponents and their fans must appreciate the spectacle and leave for home understanding that the outcome was preordained, "but you gotta admit, honey, it was a good show."

So I pay my 50 cents for a program and stroll up the concrete ramp into Bobcat Stadium: a plain vanilla, double-decked concrete structure with a turf field surrounded by a red cinder track. It won't win any warm fuzzy awards for retro-architecture. I find myself on the second deck on the Oliver Wendell Holmes side of the field, directly astride the 50-yard line: the concert equivalent of 20 rows back, center. I watch, impressed, as the Westlake opening acts go through their precision paces.

I believe Holmes, coming off a 27-0 first round win, will give the Chaps a real test. They're stoked up like rats on speed as they come roaring -- hopping and jumping -- out of their bomb-shelterlike locker room. In vivid contrast, Westlake calmly jogs onto the field, trots through the paper Chap banner, and has a composed team huddle. This might've been the end of Wednesday practice. Another Friday night, another town, another show.

Like a veteran band, the Chaps (12-0) start their show with an old crowd favorite. The sky-high Holmes balloon bursts quickly, in the stands and on the field. Holmes kicks off to Christian Campbell. Within seconds Campbell lies on the Holmes eight-yard line. Seconds later Westlake scores. I feel the hammerlike blow being absorbed by the Holmes crowd. Before tonight, Westlake has outscored its opponents an unbelievable 163-7 in the first quarter. Fifteen minutes later it's 177-7.

Playing from a run-and-shoot spread formation -- passing on virtually every down -- Holmes, to their credit, never quits. Making no pretense of running the ball (their huge offensive line never even settles into a three-point stance), they stand their ground and defy the Westlake defense to go around them. Their small quarterback, Sean Salinas, drives the Westlake defenders batshit with wild scrambles and some precision passing. The Huskies score as the half runs out, making it 21-7.

The reason the run-and-shoot has virtually disappeared from football is on vivid display tonight. Holmes can score quickly. Good news and bad. Scoring's good. Scoring fast, at least against Westlake, isn't. A Holmes score is invariably followed by a long, efficient, grinding, clock-killing Westlake drive, virtually every play a punishing run (they ran the ball a staggering 53 times), almost always ending in a score. I don't care if you're the run-and-shoot Houston Oilers, you cannot pass every play and stand a chance against the Westlake machine. It's a suicide mission: doomed before it begins.

The final score is 42-28. The old pros gave the fans a little of everything: vicious defensive hits, a Duke-bound halfback scoring five touchdowns, a 92-yard kickoff return, and the good show-business sense to keep some dramatic tension in the show by letting the flashy Holmes offense run up and down the field a bit.

It wasn't the greatest show I'd ever seen ... but it wasn't bad. Not bad at all.