Friday had been a
crummy day. I was tired, listless, and cranky. After a huge cup of coffee, I
was tired, jittery, and cranky. A headache, present at 6:30am, resisted
a take-no-prisoners barrage from my home pharmacopoeia. At 5pm, head still
pounding, I just wanted to go home, sit in the dark and sulk. By 8:30pm, having
sulked enough, facing an aimless Friday night, I regretted my decision.
Jacqueline had not spoken to an adult all day. She spent her entire day
exchanging e-mail with strangers, pretending to be at work, but in reality,
just whiling away idle hours in the bright matrix of cyberspace. Now, she was
baby-sitting for two five-year-old boys. She’d be glad to have any adult
company, provided I let her talk. I filled my little flask with Fighting Cock
bourbon, grabbed a can of Coke, and departed for South Austin.
After several hours, transfixed in rapt attention, digesting Jackie’s
bizarrely iconoclastic views on the Internet, child-rearing, her father,
mother, unavailable ex-boyfriends, evil sisters, Call Notes, and REM, I was
renewed. My visit ended as Jacqueline insisted I lay upon her ill-used pallet,
as she, clad coquettishly, with pierced body rings winking seductively in her
boudoir’s blinking Christmas lights, read to me, in lurid detail, her most
intimate e-mail. It was definitely time to move off into the cold, blustery
night.
This leads, at last, to the Electric Lounge, where Lucinda Williams was
playing to a packed house. She was supposed to start at 11pm. In the vilest of
Austin traditions, it was well after midnight and there was no sign of Lucinda.
I hate beer, but that’s all they had, so I drank two. My headache was back. I’m
thinking how overrated Austin music crowds are; we have this silly reputation
as knowledgeable music patrons.
In fact, we’re doting, co-dependent saps. We’re dithering,
just-glad-you’re-home-honey, worms. As another half-hour passed, I wanted to
throw a chair. I’d have settled for some hardy booing at this arrogance.
Indeed, it did get a bit restless; meaning some guy shouted, “Come on, let’s
go.” A few people clapped. When she finally hit the stage, the polite citizens
hooted and howled. With nary a word of contrition, Lucinda accepted this
adulation as would any privileged queen. During the long wait, I amused myself
creating my column… about overrated things.
The Heisman Trophy: In 1959,
Billy Cannon, an All-American running back playing for the designer team of its
era, Paul Dietzel’s LSU Fightin’ Tigers, won the Heisman, before national
television coverage of college football existed. Still an innocent boy of 11, I
viewed, on a grainy movie newsreel, as transfixed as I would be 36 years later
by Jacqueline’s navel rings, Cannon return a punt for a touchdown against Ole’
Miss. Cannon became my hero. Anytime I could pick a number for any team I was
on, it would be Cannon’s #20. Many great players have won the Heisman,
supposedly honoring college football’s best player. The list includes:
Staubach, Simpson, Plunkett, Dorsett, and Campbell. However, the last player to
win the Heisman and achieve any NFL stardom was Barry Sanders in 1988. The most
boring sport’s argument of every year is, “Who’s going to win the Heisman?”
Who gives a shit? On the plus side, I suppose it fills up hours of dead air
time on talk radio. I couldn’t care less who wins the award. It’s more
indicative of the school’s powerful public relations department than football
excellence. The Heisman Trophy winner has no more significance to me than the
Country Music Singer of the Year.
Mike Tyson: The other night,
I was watching an old tape from the 1976 Ali-Norton fight. It was their third
fight. In the first, Norton took the title from a well-past-his-prime Ali, as
Ali fought 12 gutsy rounds with a broken jaw. Ali won it back the next year. I
couldn’t help thinking, as I’m watching Ali fight a tough but pedestrian
Norton, how both these guys could beat Mike Tyson now or Tyson 10 years ago. I
don’t know if sports fans believe the media hype — remember it’s in the
media’s self-interest, both print and electronic, to overhype Tyson — that
he’s one of the great fighters of all time. No way. Can you remember the last
time Mike looked good in the ring? A better question: What’s happened to the
great heavyweight fighters? Boxing was always an option of the last resort for
unfortunate athletes with no other choices. I’m sure the inner-city athletes,
who would have been great fighters, are now linebackers or power forwards,
opportunities which were not available to the athletes of previous
generations.
And finally, Barry Switzer:
No matter how bad a coach you may have thought Switzer was, he’s proved himself
much, much worse. The Call, as it will forever be known, was the most
profitless, injudicious call in any sport on any level, I’ve ever
seen. From a risk-reward point of view, Dallas had nothing to gain (were they
going to drive the ball 60 yards, into the wind, with a suddenly vanished
offense?) and everything to lose (they did). Times like this, with the whine
of the Cowboy singing in my ears, makes it sweet to be alive.
This article appears in December 15 • 1995 and December 15 • 1995 (Cover).