John Mackovic, I must admit, got off a pretty good line last week. His reference to the “coach’s paparazzi,” if he thought it up himself, was pretty clever, though totally misplaced. Mackovic, crispy after a week-long, well-earned public barbecue, snapped back at his tormentors: the media, in particular, the talk show media. It’s true he, like many of his coaching brethren, are hounded and snipped at. But the paparazzi thing falls apart about there. As late as the 1970s, even the best coaches didn’t make $75,000. Had they been subjected to the media attention common today, even Vince Lombardi might have walked away to an easier calling. Today, coaches are paid like kings, in part to deal with the wolfpack media and a get-a-life-public. At close to $750,000 a year, in the putrid wreckage of an indescribably horrid 63-point ass-whupping, at home, by an inferior team, Mackovic should be man enough to say, over and over and over, “It’s my fault, all my fault, blame me, leave the kids alone. It’s all my fault.” It was his fault. Any public and media vitriol is richly deserved.
It was probably good for Texas to see Rice beat Northwestern. I understand it doesn’t seem within the realm of possibility Texas would ever take a team lightly again, but don’t be so certain! Now, there can be no excuse; Ken Hatfield’s Owls are not the football pansies of the Seventies.
Watching Rice run the wishbone this weekend (the scholarly Owls are the third-ranked rushing team in the nation) got me thinking. The ‘Bone’s totally out of style today. But I wonder for how long? Remember when the wishbone, run with proper talent, was the most devastating offensive system ever invented, all but impossible to stop? (The exceptions to the rule, Rice and Air Force, with severely limited talent, only prove the dictum.) The knock on it is, no kids today want to play in a one-dimensional, no pass offense. I say, bullshit! What running back worth his hip pads doesn’t want to run out of a backfield scoring 40 points a game, all on the ground? It’s a Heisman Trophy waiting to happen. In the years to come, some coach at a major university, desperate for wins to save his job, will bring back the ‘bone, terrorizing, once again, defensive coordinators across the football landscape. It’s just a matter of time.
I shouldn’t admit this, since I know it will give aid and comfort to the Cowboy fans, but in the immediate aftermath of that crushing Dallas “win,” I quaffed two stiff glasses of vodka, such was my state of internal agitation, just to calm down sufficiently to stop meandering in repetitive circles about my house. When I finally did fall asleep, it was to an uneasy, fitful slumber. It was, indeed, a bad night. In retrospect, I came to realize, no matter how badly the Eagles botched a golden, rarely given opportunity from a hated nemesis, no matter how much those of my ilk — and we’re legion — gripe about decades of unmerited Dallas luck, no matter how much we whine about this game, a hard fact remains: Philadelphia didn’t play a good game, only to get out-lucked at the final gun. They stunk too. In particular, Eagle special teams were a disgrace, allowing long Cowboy runbacks on every punt and kick-off, setting up easy Dallas drives; guaranteeing poor field position for themselves if the Cowswill didn’t score. Dallas special teams, in stark contrast, smothered the Eagle returnee’s first twitch. This part of the game isn’t about skill and glory. It’s about courage, desire, and sacrifice; supposedly what Ray Rhodes is all about. He should have fired whoever was in charge of this simple, but hyper-vital, part of the team the next morning, not the hapless cornerback who got outfought for a ball in the end zone.
This article appears in September 26 • 1997 and September 26 • 1997 (Cover).