The big news is my
acquisition of one of those pizza-sized satellite dishes. I’d been debating
this matter for quite some time. The colorful displays in stores would find me,
more and more, drifting by. I’d ask a few questions, get frustrated with its
complexity, exacerbated by the salesclerk’s insistence on how “user friendly”
it was. I’d wander off, decide against it, then repeat the process a few weeks
later.
Then, my ex-sister-in-law called. She works for the unnamed company who
invented this thing. She could “give me a deal.” My bluff had been called. I
was still filled with ambivalence, but my mom told my dad who told my brother
who called to tell me to expect a call from his ex-wife who, in turn, called me
and shit. The box sat untouched and forlorn in my garage for over a week as I
mulled over the myriad of puzzling, intricate programming choices —
existentialism in the 21st century — I’d have to make. Also under
consideration: how to keep the kids from ordering thousands of dollars of
pay-per-view movies each month with the touch of a button. I scoured the
impossible manuals. Of the 75 different options parents have for “controlling
(this is satellite dish talk) access,” I didn’t understand a single one.
Finally, after nine days alone in the dark, cold garage, I justified the
whole damn thing as a Coach necessity. That felt better. Prudently, I decided
to go with the “basic package,” just sports and some basic channels. Who needs
multi-channel HBO, Showtime, and Cinemax? In a brilliant marketing move, the
company, taking its cues from the drug culture, gives you everything free for
the first month. Excellent strategy when aimed at a compulsive/addictive
personality like myself.
Six hours later, it’s well past midnight. I’m on the floor, surrounded by
guides, operation manuals, and remote controls. So engrossed was I in the
crystal-clear digital picture, the endless come hither on-screen menus, and the
multitude of attractive options, I totally forgot about my daughter’s
long-scheduled band recital. I’ll pay for that, in spades, tomorrow. For now, I
watch ice hockey from Saskatoon, basketball from Sacramento, and football from
Indianapolis. Don’t cluck-cluck about my lack of a life. I need this so
I can be a better Coach… for you.
The first fruits of my labors have already arrived. A few weeks ago, I wrote a column highly critical
of NBA commissioner David Stern and his handling of the ongoing strike of the
league’s officials. My point was more of a philosophical and ethical argument
against cheap, irrational penny-pinching by the world’s richest league, akin to
Microsoft’s Bill Gates stiffing the company doorman at Christmas time. After
viewing godawful, dull, ragged, early season contests from Portland to Miami, I
see no noticeable difference in the officiating. Yes, I’ve seen some strange
calls. More than before? That’s tough. The difference? Every call is
second-guessed by everyone from unknown satellite announcers to rookie power
forwards.
The players bitch, but I think it’s a knee-jerk reaction. Star players don’t
get a whistle every time someone breathes their way. The Pro Gods are not given
the NBA “extra step” (aka traveling) that the more pedestrian players
get called for. Even better is the use of two officials. I hate three
officials. Three zebras means only one thing: one more guy in stripes who must
justify his existence by blowing his damn whistle every 20 seconds. The third
official is even more odious in the slower college game, which should have no
refs at all. The commentators and players buy into the party line — maybe they
even believe it — that the scabs don’t have control of the game and the extra
official is missed. Not by me.
Blind luck or masterful
planning? My guess is the former, but any way you look at it, the prestige
athletic programs at UT seem well placed to start their tenure in the Big 12 on
a positive note. An impressive win, with a young team in College Station,
served notice to Midwesterners that more than one big dog was coming to eat at
the new conference table. This team has a feeling of real substance, an
intuition not present with the fluke team of 1990. For the Runnin’ Horns, it
will be a different road. Against a weakened Utah team, Penders, desperate to
find a floor leader, used three different guys at point guard in the first 10
minutes of the game. Not a positive harbinger. The team looked ragged and
disorganized. Because they have a terrible mixture of experience and talent,
we’ll see this often. The best players are young and inexperienced. The
upperclassmen, who need to be team leaders, are not so good. They too are
inexperienced. Next season, as UT enters the basketball rich Big 12, this
situation will naturally — freshmen turn to sophomores and so on — evolve
into a team with good chemistry and a bright future.
Parting Shots: What’s
a Virginia Tech? Where is Virginia Tech? Who is going to watch a Virginia Tech?
How does an obscure, southeastern technical institute land in the Sugar Bowl
and why does it have to be UT’s sad misfortune, after finally earning its way
into a prestige-laden bowl, to play a game with nothing to gain and a lot to
lose? n
This article appears in December 8 • 1995 and December 8 • 1995 (Cover).