COACH WILSON

In the seventies the Anglo-dominated school boards in a town 90% Mexican-American didn't feel their little brown brothers had the experience and expertise to serve as head coaches. They felt more comfortable hiring a redneck from a hick town outside of Dallas or Houston who would gallop to the border only to discover that the wife wanted to turn the covered wagon back north because she had no intention of living in Mexico. The good ol' boy would greet me with bravado and brag about his accomplishments in a backwater Texas town that I had difficulty locating on the map. Coach Thorton Wilson was typical of the lot except a year on the border had filled him with paranoia, not unlike the uneasy feeling that began to overwhelm the defenders at the Alamo as they looked into the distance and saw themselves surrounded by thousands of Mexicans. He regaled me with his illusions of grandeur and expected destiny to be on his side after last year's 0-10 disaster. I took notes and wished him well. I didn't know what to expect of myself as the new sports editor, let alone have any expectations for Wilson. I was too intimidated by my many responsibilities to give much thought to his remarks except to use the information to pen my pre-season forecast. In my estimation there was nothing notable about any of the six teams. They took their positions in the stalls and I would call the race as I saw it. That first Friday was an unmitigated fiasco as Coach Wilson's charges lost, 49-7. In my inaugural Sunday column I raised questions about specific strategies in key situations with an overall judgment that the team's performance bordered on the pathetic, but this was the opener and we could look forward to improvement the following Friday. I showed up at Coach Wilson's office the next Tuesday. He consented to an interview and grumbled his answers to my inquiries, but he also alerted me that this week's foe was a traditional power and his squad was young and rebuilding. "But, Coach, wasn't last year a rebuilding season?" He glowered, the negative vibes palpably bouncing off the walls of his office. The second outing was nothing short of a catastrophe, a 56-7 drubbing, fumbles, interceptions, penalties, dropped passes and missed tackles the bleak backdrop to play-calling that defied common sense: a bomb on fourth-and-one and a quarterback sneak on third-and-fifteen. The muttering criticism I heard in the stands indicated that the unpopular Wilson from last year was less popular this year. In their estimation he was too quick to blame the kids. Were their tones of racism in his criticism? The predominately Mexican-American fans weren't his fans. I smelled blood. I didn't know if this carpetbagger harbored KKK sentiments, but he didn't know football. With this assessment I would give the angry aficionados their red meat. In my Sunday column I butchered Coach Wilson. The readers wanted a scapegoat and I did my best to provide them with cabrito. With this serving I made my initial impression on the public as a journalist. I could hear them asking themselves: "Tommy Tamaulipas? He isn't Freddy's son, is he?" Coach Wilson had no intention of furthering his acquaintance with Tommy Tamaulipas. I appeared at his office for my regular Tuesday appointment to preview the upcoming tilt. One would have thought that I had roused a bear during its winter hibernation. "Get the hell out of here!" he roared. "If I see you around this gym, I'm gonna kick your ass, you worthless hippie?" The attack filled me with adrenalin. I witnessed for the first time that the pen stabbed deeper than the sword. Coach Wilson had no defense for my thrusts. He had no defense at all as another fateful Friday rolled around resulting in a 60-0 shellacking. The fans were furious and I fueled the flames with a column that fed the conflagration. "You're a son-of-a-bitch, Tamaulipas!" he bellowed over the phone. "You can criticize me, but don't criticize my players." "I don't recall criticizing your players." "You wrote that 'they gave up in the fourth quarter and if the opposition had left their first-stringers in the fray, the visitors would have surpassed Wilt Chamberlain's record of 100 points in a game.'" "I thought the passage had pizazz when I wrote it, but your rendering does it greater justice." He slammed the phone in my ear. It was a declaration of war. As bad as he was losing on the gridiron, I was pummeling him in the papers, alternating my offense between three-yards-and-a-cloud-of-dust and bombs that I kept completing for touchdowns. The public was applauding my efforts. Coach Wilson didn't headline every column because there were several other coaches performing as miserably as he, but his latest debacle found a prominent location on the front page. Barry Goode, the managing editor, heard from him next. "Your sports editor is making my players the laughingstock of the community and he is destroying our program in the process." "Is he writing lies?" "No." "Are you 0-5?" "Yes." "According to our sports editor, since I share little interest in sports, you lost last weekend, 35-7, to a school that entered the contest 0-4. Is that true?" "Yes." Barry was warming to my talents. As a Californian who believed every sport had its season, he saw evil in Texas' fanaticism with football. "Have you spoken with our publisher about your concerns?" If Barry was washing his hands of Coach Wilson, John Freeman would be flushing him down the toilet. "I must confess, Coach, that I'm not much of a fan. I'm a hunter and a fisherman. I don't follow local sports, but I have read a few of our sports editor's columns and I have found them entertaining and informative. I won't disagree with you that he has a way with words, but I don't understand the problem." "Sir, it's how he writes. He embarrasses my players and my family. I can't explain it exactly. It's like he exaggerates everything." "Can you give me an example?" "He wrote this comment in his column last week: 'If Coach Wilson says that his players are trying their best but they're not getting the breaks, then the mendacious mentor is going to finish the season with a nose longer than Pinocchio's. He is simply not telling the truth. Bestowing this eleven with breaks would be more ridiculous than presenting a blind person with a beautiful painting.' You see what I'm talking about?" "Hmmmmmm. It's descriptive. How many games did you win last year?" "Ahhh...none, sir." "And have things gone any better this year?" "No, sir." "Any ties?" "No ties, sir." "And what was the final score last week?" "We lost 49-13, but we were ahead 10-7 at half. We didn't get any breaks...I mean...the ball didn't bounce our way in the second half and the refs wouldn't give us any calls." "Those damn zebras. But I don't follow the criticism about your family?" "My wife and children read these columns. They have this strange expression in their eyes. I fear they're losing confidence in me as a husband and a father." "Over a football game?" responded John who had lost interest in the conversation and was fantasizing about fishing in the clear bay waters chasing herds of reds. "I'll talk to Mr. Tamaulipas, but I can't guarantee anything. I don't interfere on the editorial side because I have my hands full with advertising. First Amendment rights, Coach. I know they can be a pain in the ass, but they're part of the Constitution and who am I to argue with the Founding Fathers. The freedom to express your opinion without fear of retribution has made our country great. By the way, Coach, how does the rest of the season stack up?" "We're finishing the schedule against the district's top three teams. It's going to be tough." "I'm sorry to hear that, Coach." Five minutes later John had forgotten the conversation. This was comic relief compared to the complaints he received after Barry had vilified the mayor or the county judge. Only the threat of a suit or the loss of an advertiser distracted him from those big reds. In his avuncular managing style he would mention in passing to Barry that Coach Wilson had called, Barry rolling his eyes all the reassurance he required. Against the conference leader that Friday, Wilson was down 28-0 at the end of the first quarter, 51-0 at half. Whatever hopes he had placed in John, he knew had been for naught as he must have buried his head in his hands halfway through his Sunday paper. He could no longer distinguish between the writing in my column and the writing on the wall. He called the next day. His downtrodden circumstances had reduced him to begging for crumbs. "Mr. Tamaulipas. This is Coach Wilson." I had risen in the world from son-of-a-bitch. "What's up, Coach. Tough outing, Friday." "They couldn't do anything wrong and we couldn't do anything right. If you've been in this business as long as I have, you're going to have nights like that." "They're loaded," I agreed. "I'm sure they'll advance three or four rounds in the playoffs." "Sir, please hear me out. My children are reading your columns and they're asking me, 'Why is that man writing mean things about our daddy?' I'm not asking for any consideration. I can handle the criticism, but my children! They say that the kids at school are making fun of them. Is there anything we can do to save my children from these uncomfortable situations? They're kids. They don't understand." "Yeah, Coach. There's one thing you can do," I answered as I pushed him to the end of the plank with my pen. "Win. Just win. Then your problems will be over." Prior to his firing two weeks after the season ended, Chad covered his finale, but when we laid out the article on the page, there wasn't enough copy to fill the space I had blocked. "Do you want me to write three or four inches?" asked Chad. "Fuck it," I said. "Find a mug shot of Wilson and put this cutline: 'Loses again'."