My
old friend
The Whipp once observed that I couldn’t be happy unless I had something to
bitch about. The Whipp, as always, is wise. He spoke, however, to a younger,
more volatile Coach.
Grudgingly pulled towards 50, I find myself in a relatively tranquil, dare I
say content stretch of life. The Continental Club and Antone’s, where I
was for 20 years a regular bar-worm, have become too smoky and too crowded.
Midnight shows, which once conveniently allowed plenty of time to get blottoed
on anything swallowed, passed or sniffed, are now most difficult to stay awake
for. Staying up past midnight is becoming, as to a child, an event. More and
more, as I yell at the teen-agers who live upstairs to decrease the arena-style
decibel level emanating from various jamboxes or to clean up the pig sties in
which they sleep or to just be quiet for a few minutes, I feel like a stuffy TV
dad.
Heavy angst may make for a more amusing writer, but with all my old running
buddies settled into various states of domestic tranquility, it’s a good thing
I’m happily girlfriended-up or I might be very depressed. Apparently, this
sedated, suburban placidness dulls me or, at least, that’s what Dave Cook
thinks.
Mr. Cook wrote a letter, taking me to task for ignoring the easy opportunity
to attack, again, the Cowboys with “…all the smug malaprop verbiage in your
arsenal.” Dave, questioning my card-carrying, Cowboy-hating credentials, infers
a loss of my usual sharp edge and calls recent columns competent but “tame.”
Finally, he strongly suggests this admirable show of restraint on my part was,
in fact, a capitulation to “…the new girlfriend threatening to cut off the
nookie.”
If the writer is the same Dave Cook — a spry, alert lad — who once had the
educational experience of editing a few of my columns before moving on to the
real (as opposed to the Chronicle) world, I say, “Shame, Dave,
shame,” to take such an easy shot at your old idol (whom you must know
takes more pleasure in Cowboy woe than the very sweetest nectars of life
itself.) I’ll answer your plea of, “Say it ain’t so Coach,” by replying, “No,
no, no. It ain’t so, Dave.”
At last, the rest of the world has “discovered” what a bunch of amoral
scumbags comprise the Dallas Cowboys; from the low-rent, Machiavellian
maneuverings of Jerry Jones, to Barry Switzer, whose disingenuous public
philosophy of “letting the men make their own decisions” has recreated an
uncanny anarchic, lawless replica of the fiasco he left in Norman, to the
obvious targets of Irvin and Williams. Now, everyone knows what me and Dave
have known for years. When it’s broadcast on Sportscenter 12 times a day
and debated in USA Today, what remains for the wizened (but serene)
Coach to add? Another brindle heifer in the herd, Dave? I think not.
It’s much the same with Mr. Rodman. (Wouldn’t he fit in nicely in silver and
blue?) Rodman’s a jerk. He’s always been a jerk. Malicious jerk in Detroit.
Disruptive jerk in San Antonio. And now, somehow, some way, a
media-superstar-jerk in Chicago. This is the most perplexing, disturbing sports
phenomenon of the decade. It’s one I don’t get — nohow, no way — but, I’ve
lost touch, what with being in bed at 10pm. So, what do I know? Where, Dave,
would Dennis be were it not for professional basketball? A homeless person?
Maybe lost in a backwoods booby hatch? I don’t know, but why waste words on
him? Rodman doesn’t care, not at all. The league fined him $1 million dollars.
Rodman, total moron that he is, couldn’t give a shit. Swell! So, why waste our
breath?
More disturbing to me, a Bulls fan, are class acts like Jordan, Pippen, and
Jackson actually coming to this idiot’s defense. Come on, Phil, I’m one of
three or four people who’ve read your book. Would your Zen masters and Sioux
shaman really want to “close the circle” with this guy? The fewer times the
word Rodman is printed or mentioned, the better off the world will be. I shall
banish him forthwith from my Microsoft Custom Dictionary.
Now, back in the fall of ’94 — when I was a sharper, albeit more angst-ridden
Coach — I wrote in my NFL fall preview that the New England Pats would be the
first AFC club to win a Super Bowl since Antone’s was the New West. It took a
while, but here they are. The NFC’s historical domination means nothing. As the
clich� goes, that was last year. Twelve years is a long streak.
Often, the AFC was totally outgunned. But, a few were lost due to bad
luck; a missed field goal here, an O’Donnell gift there. The Packers are not a
great team. Neither are the Pats. I don’t think we’ll see any more great
teams.
In the age of free agency and the salary cap, the time of NFC domination is
over. It’s now impossible to build and maintain a powerhouse �
la Dallas, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, and San Francisco. With all teams flitting
on the frayed edges of mediocrity, the prince’s idiot brother is king. I love
the Pats with the points. I like them to win outright.
Nookie or not. Witty-insightful-opinionated: Are you happy, Dave?
Write me: Coach36@aol.com
This article appears in January 24 • 1997 and January 24 • 1997 (Cover).