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TIME: Almanac 1995
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TIME Almanac 1995.iso
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040593
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0405640.000
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1994-03-25
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<text id=93TT1324>
<title>
Apr. 05, 1993: General Patton, Sit Down and Shut Up!
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
Apr. 05, 1993 The Generation That Forgot God
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
ESSAY, Page 68
General Patton, Sit Down and Shut Up!
</hdr>
<body>
<p>John Skow
</p>
<p> O.K., let's get this sorry mess sorted out before the
Final Four. First thing, coaches. College basketball coaches are
braying asses. They are, in addition, paunchy, hairy-eared
gasbags. They are nearly as loathsome as George Steinbrenner,
the swollen ego sac recently reinstated as New York Yankees
owner. (How about a trade, Steinbrenner for Cincinnati Reds
owner Marge Schott and a psychiatrist to be named?) But you can
watch an entire Yankees baseball game at the ball park or on the
tube without having to see Steinbrenner.
</p>
<p> If you like basketball, however, you need the reflexes of
a snake to turn your eyes from the tube fast enough to avoid
television's favorite stomach churner. This, of course, is the
coach-reaction shot. Whenever something happens or fails to
happen on the court, the camera flicks to a close-up of an
aggrieved coach chewing his necktie, swelling up like a bullfrog
and calling down spittle-flecked abominations on his team and
the uncaring refs. Then you get a shot of the other coach,
regarding the action with a jowly sneer.
</p>
<p> These are not pretty sights. Television, of course, is
mindless and thus not really to blame. It was sportswriters,
drones with the notebooks and pencils, who came up with the
bizarre notion that coaches were somehow interesting and
admirable and even--ah, why not?--the stuff of legend. It
is not hard to understand how this happened. If, like most
sportswriters, you were a middle-aged, overweight guy, it was
a lot easier to talk to another out-of-shape 50-year-old in a
suit than to try to get a bored teenager to explain how he ran
or hit or shot the ball so well. Coaches could always give you
a couple of quotes for an easy story, and the kid athletes
mostly couldn't. Writers cranked out flattering stuff about
these flabby fellows with thinning hair, using words like hard
and nose.
</p>
<p> Legendmongering started with college football, way back
before basketball walked tall. Amos Alonzo Stagg, Fielding Yost
and Knute Rockne built character like honest stonemasons, or so
sportswriters wrote through eyes misted by manly tears and
sometimes a little bourbon and ginger ale. Maybe Rockne and the
others really did build character. But by the '50s, football
coaches all behaved like George C. Scott playing General George
Patton, and basketball coaches were getting into the act too.
These days round-ball philosophers, who are nearer to the
cameras, are the greater public pestilence. Their nervous
breakdowns are photographed in extreme close-up. TV crews are
so fond of showing coaches with their eyes bugging out that they
miss whole minutes of what a naive observer might think is the
point of bringing the cameras to the gym: namely, the action on
the floor.
</p>
<p> The coaches, of course, know they are performing for
ESPN's or CBS's entire congregation. Sir Laurence Olivier could
not have played a coach with subtlety under these conditions.
A curled lip or a raised eyebrow will adequately express dismay
for the first minutes of the first quarter, but if the coach's
team is falling behind, and, of course, one team or the other
almost always is, the camera keeps coming back, begging for real
scenery chewing. So we get pacing, towel throwing and screams of
rage, and a lot of other naughtiness that two-year-olds get sent
to bed for, all in rising spirals of boorishness.
</p>
<p> This is excusable because the coaches are geniuses, and
thus fragile. And, of course, because they are paid as much at
a typical university as the entire chemistry department. They
are great personages, feudal barons only nominally under the
control of college presidents. Cal Berkeley astounded the
civilized world by firing a coach named Lou Campanelli for
yelling at his players in a manner deemed insensitive. Much
agitated discussion followed. Had the university lost its sense
of values or, worse, its hope of national television? Were its
ballplayers men or New Age mollycoddles?
</p>
<p> Or are we paying too much attention to functionaries whose
most important job is to show up and unlock the basketballs
every day? Fortunately, there is a solution. In professional
tennis, a sport not otherwise known for wisdom and moderation,
coaches are forbidden to communicate with their players during
matches. No yelling, no signals, no meaningful throwing of
chairs, or a penalty is imposed.
</p>
<p> Thus: college basketball coaches are to be banished to
seats at least 14 rows up in the stands. Their pants are to be
nailed to these seats, so that they can't stand up. One-way
glass is to be installed in front of their pens, so that the
cameras can't see them. It's true that with this plan, we won't
be able to see Bobby Knight emit steam from his ears. (Knight,
the glowering genius who cut Charles Barkley from the '84
Olympic tryouts, is the coach whose Indiana University team is
right up there in the all-important tantrums-endured statistical
category.) But as cartoon figures like Knight cease to be
visible, their need to overact will diminish. So will their
salaries, as they cease to be celebrities, and chemistry
departments across the nation will be able to afford new test
tubes.
</p>
<p> Now, quickly, a couple of minor reforms: tell players to
get rid of the moldy "gym rat" fad of wearing T shirts under
their uniform shirts. This is intended to signify dedication,
because if you keep practicing three pointers long after the
heat has been turned off, you need a T shirt. But the pros don't
dress this way, do they? Also lose the dreary possession arrow
and reinstate the jump after a held ball. Little squirts love
to try to outjump the big droids, and audiences love to see
them do it. Right. And, coach, you up there in the 14th row
with the seat torn out of your pants, that will be a two-shot
foul.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>