Coach's Corner
By Andy "Coach" Cotton, Fri., May 2, 1997
Last night, I was in Dallas for a disappointing Stars playoff loss, in double overtime, to the Edmonton Oilers. We had great seats. It was fine theatre. Still, the game itself was a little like two people ingesting cheap speed, laboring at sex for hours, neither partner ever achieving orgasm; we sat through five hours of hockey without seeing a goal.
Driving 400 miles in 24 hours, through a drumming, North Atlantic monsoon, has left me tired and sore. I'm not really in the mood for Antone's. Neither are any of the other five, middle-aged, once-upon-a-time fun people standing in the room. "Do you want to go to Antone's?" someone asks halfheartedly. "Ehh, I dunno honey, do you?" someone replies, without much enthusiasm. "I'll go, if you go," a funster (me) chimes in. "Let's go home. I have a headache," another partygoer intones. Finally, the malaise is broken by the Solomon-like suggestion that we flip a coin: heads we go, tails we go home. I suspect all are quietly hoping for tails, but alas, it comes up heads. Though the person with the headache still pleads her case, three car doors slam on the weirdly cold April night.
I slam down three tequilas in rapid succession. If I'm drinking tequila, it's a desperate situation. My tank is totally dry. Tonight, even after refueling, I just feel kinda sick. I'm discussing this distressing phenomena with a friend. "Andy," she says, "We're getting too goddamn old!" With that, she drains one last sip of tepid beer and goes home to bed.
Reminded that Johnny Copeland is from Houston, a sports fan at the bar demands a screamed-in-the-ear assessment of the Rockets chances in the playoffs. This is what I said to him -- don't throw up -- in verse:
Itsy, bitsy, potsy, hey, which old Rocket will be injured today?
A hamstring for Charles, a knee for Ha-keem, perhaps old Clyde will rupture a spleen.
Nasty old mongrels guarding the bone, healthy Rockets could take it all home.
Nicks and cuts, sprains and pain, these old geezers can't win it again.
The Sonics are fun; crazy, wacky guys, a barrel of monkeys, a ride in the sky.
Shawn misses airplanes, he grumbles and broods. One night he scores 20, the next just two.
Gary be jivin', George be eatin', Detlef be hurtin', and Sam be blue. Sigmund old fellow, where be you? Sonics be lucky to find round two.
Close by in Portland, where the sun never shines, it's cold and it's rainy most of the time.
A team called the Blazers keeps people sane, through long gloomy winters of fog, sleet, and rain.
But summertime's a comin', nipples are a'twitter, byebye Blazers, see ya next winter!
Tarry my friends in the land of the dream, where the sun always shines, and the beaches are clean.
Jack and Dyan sit, teeth a dazzle, cheering for Nick, and young Elden Campbell.
But rooting and cheering, shoutin' and cryin', won't help Rapster Shaq at the free-throw line.
A young team, a good team, it is such a pity, their fun will end in Salt Lake City.
Let's go play golf in the land of the sun, with Danny and his boys, but, oh, how it begun.
0-13, it's been often told, how this team was a cadaver, icy and cold.
Then a gift from Dallas made them all so glad. The team started winning. No one was sad.
This is it guys, the end of the line. Learn to play defense. I'll see you next time.
Come on by friend, let me tell you a story, 'bout a team with the wins, but never much glory.
In the land of the good, the beautiful, the true, great salty deserts, nice snow too.
Malone and Stockton, the old pick 'n roll. How many years has this been so?
So many chances, but nary a cigar. Will this be the year the Jazz go far?
In the Delta Center, the Mormons do cry, 'bout home court advantage, and an eye for an eye.
This is it boys, let's all shout and whoop. John'll toss the rock right into the hoop.
Malone and the Jazz will deliver the mail. To the old pick 'n roll, all bow and hail.
Parting Shots: Now that the fried chicken and collard greens controversy has faded, this is what lingers for me: Why did Tiger choose to let Fuzzy Zoeller twist in the wind for three long days, as a self-righteous, politically correct public crucifixion took place, until Zoeller groveled and sniveled enough to satisfy Tiger and his Nike handlers? Fuzzy's remarks, though stupid, were not as horrible and "mean-spirited" as the media feeding frenzy made it appear. Find me someone, of any race, who hasn't uttered similar remarks, not intended to be cruel, and I'll show you someone I don't want to hang out with. Tiger himself was, at the time of the fried chicken incident, being softly criticized for similar remarks in an interview in GQ magazine. The only difference? The media loves Tiger today, so his "jokes" were, mostly, ignored. Zoeller's just another golfer and he insulted Saint Tiger. Woods will find, soon enough, the media's a fickle lover.
