Coach's Corner

Animals smell fear.At least that's what I remember from Jack London. As my airplane -- hopefully bound for Denver -- moves into position for takeoff, I'm glad there are no savage, blood-sensing beasts lurking anywhere nearby. Ever since an incident last May involving smoke in the cabin and an emergency landing in Dallas, I've become, for all practical purposes, catatonic in the minutes surrounding the "takeoff roll," as they say in airline speak. The heavy metal machine seems to be going too fast … or too slow. It struggles into the air at far too steep an angle … or it doesn't seem to rise at all. Those steep turns, when the plane is 5 feet off the ground, seem like the last seconds of my life.

Sitting next to me today is my 17-year-old daughter. We're going to Colorado on a college hunt. She, also, isn't a calm flyer. Fear is a living, cannibalistic creature, feeding, like a fire in a drought-parched forest, upon itself. Janie's staring straight ahead, seeing, I'm certain, absolutely nothing. A glance at her hands gripping the seat confirms this. I fear the airplane. I always have. What am I doing in a 20-ton machine hurtling along the ground at 180 mph? But it's worse now. As I type, sitting in Denver International Airport, I wonder seriously if these words and thoughts will doom my fellow cavalier, nonchalant passengers and me. Only time will tell.

It's interesting spending so much time with my almost-grown daughter. For seven days I'm exposed to a morning disposition even worse than her mother's and mine: an unkind genetic quirk. Any attempt at conversation prior to noon is met with a sullen, hostile stare … a problem since our two school visits are both at 10am. But once the clock creeps past noon a transformation takes place. She helps me sneak into Mile High Stadium (at 2pm), days before its demolition, distracting the beer man with flirtatious patter as I slip past, alone in a football palace I've seen for decades only on TV. An empty stadium filled with ghosts is a solemn, thought-provoking place. She good-naturedly sits through eight innings of a dreadful Rockies game (7:05pm), asking to leave only when the score balloons to 11-3. She's relatively tolerant of many wrong turns (most made against her advice) and is far better emotionally equipped than I am to handle the Colorado Springs-to-Denver traffic (afternoon) that makes Austin-San Antonio seem like a bucolic holiday romp through the countryside.

High in the mountains, the town of Vail is immune to heat. Air conditioning is virtually nonexistent. So it is that, our college work done, we go to this pleasant, fake alpine village for a respite from Texas heat. If our president wants to see everyday evidence of global warming he should go to Vail and visit his pal Jerry Ford. The central Rockies -- where snowfall has been below normal for almost a decade -- is in the midst of an unprecedented heatwave. Daytime temperatures climb above 90, making expensive restaurants intolerable and rendering more plebian spots, like the Haagen-Dazs, into sticky infernos. The excessive heat creates an unforeseen problem: a ghastly, biblical Plague of Moths, not seen since the days of the ancient Pharaohs. Moths swarm in our eyes, mouth, food, and water. Clean windshields are splattered with moth carcass within a block. Tiny, disgusting moth bodies pollute the water of hot tubs. One Vail resident tries to convince us that this infestation is the sign of "a healthy river." His arguments are not compelling.

A busy week listening to droning admissions officers, fuming in hellish traffic snafus, and traipsing docilely along behind perky, sophomore campus guides leave little time to keep up with the world of sport … and who promised you sports, anyway? A few things did penetrate this welcome barrier:

Jennifer Capriati has become a textbook example of how the media -- even when their intentions are benign -- can cause a gentle fellow such as myself to despise the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and the Pied Piper. The girl can't pick up a racquet before somebody -- again -- launches into the story of the Young Girl Who Would Be Queen, falling on hard times, only to find herself Queen again. I feel like I'm in The 10th Kingdom for another night. How old will this girl have to be before Marv, John, Jim, Mary, and Martina think of something else to say? …

If you think Austin summer sports news is dull, be happy you don't live in Colorado. The news that Bronco linebacker Bill Romanoski beat a confusing "drug" charge concerning health food diet pills dominated Colorado newspapers -- I'm talking about front page -- all week, finally putting the Stanley Cup (which ended a month ago) on page 2 …

The remarkable season of the Seattle Mariners casts an ill spotlight on the baseball playoff system: the biggest joke in sports. Baseball's trump card is the beyond-reproach integrity of their 162-game season which, according to lore, weeds out all pretenders. But what does it matter if Seattle wins 100 games? They're lucky to get one extra game at their home park. Meanwhile, the Yankees coast, accumulate pitchers, and wait until October for the playoffs to start. Sound like the NBA?