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At The Cooler, there's not much cooler than the Heisman Trophy.
|  | | Eric Crouch might be wondering how much he can get for this trophy on eBay in 20 years. |
Understand, I don't necessarily need the hourlong show sponsored by Wendy's.
When it comes to the Heisman, I'm Old School. I advocate simple rules.
(1) Don't let a school's sports information department tout a candidate until a month includes the letter "r."
(2) You find out who won when you find out who won. It doesn't have to be a
TV show. It can come Pony Express. I still remember where I was when Charles
White won the 1979 Heisman. I was home sick from school, listening to AM
radio, and the DJ who had just played a tune -- most likely "What a Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers -- came on to say that White won the Heisman, as announced by the Downtown Athletic Club. That was a Friday morning, if I recall.
And it was cool, baby. See? Things don't have to be drawn out, overproduced,
or overhyped. Indelibly, I remember the moment when White -- who would later
make good on the stereotype of the drugged-out 1980s pro athlete by wielding
a trash can lid in an Orange County parking lot -- won the Heisman, and I remember it by AM radio.
Or take how Joey Cappalletti's father found out in 1973. According to the TV movie "Something for Joey" -- which, on a tear-spilling level, makes "Brian's Song" look like "Porky's 2: The Day After" -- the old man found out while working in the steel mills in Pennsylvania one day. (Remember his "My boy won the Heisman" line to a co-worker, all understated and perfect? You must revisit this Hallmark Hall of Fame special if you want a flick that will have you calling for a janitor to mop your floor.)
But this is America, 2001. And as The Cooler's close pal, T.C., points out, everything in America eventually turns into garbage.
So we have Rex Grossman in a polka-dotted tie, and an hourlong show, and
eventually we have Eric Crouch thanking Wendy's. And we have me, spending an
hour of a rain-free Saturday in Northern California, actually watching, and
jotting down on the margin of a newspaper: "Grossman ... brutal look ...
maybe pulled clothes from hamper ... gets points for looking most like a college kid, though."
My riffs from watching the Heisman: Joey Harrington? Seems like an incredibly
cool kid. Gets bonus points for being a Pac-10 product. Grossman? Who dressed
you, buddy? (Hey, I can rip him. He's going to win the stupid award next year
anyway.) Ken Dorsey? What's a NorCal kid doing in Hurricane orange? Come on,
Kenny! Cal could have used you, chief. Eric Crouch? No joke -- seemed like
the "it" guy of the Heisman race even before the envelopes were open.
Seriously: Watch that farm boy run. The dude can fly. Those moves set him
apart. If I had a vote, Crouch got it.
Grossman and Dorsey seemed too much like "system" guys. Harrington, while epic, didn't have the Q-rating of Crouch.
And the best part? While waiting for the announcement, you can motor down
Heisman's memory lane scanning the audience. There was Tony Dorsett -- the
brother was a Cadillac with the pill in his hands. Nice memory. There was
Mike Rozier -- who wanted to tackle that cat? There was Gino Torretta -- or
should I say, who chloroformed Gino and sent Beau Bridges in his place instead?
And, ah, there was Steve Spurrier. All I could think: Jeez, would I hate to
have that guy as a neighbor. Just looking at his mug, Spurrier looks like the
guy who would have a problem with a) tree limbs growing near his fence; b)
the smoke from your BBQ grill wafting near his back yard; and c) that time you
put the Clash CD up to "7" on the volume scale on a Saturday afternoon. Gives
me nightmares just imagining the guy knocking on my door.
So anyway, here's to the Heisman, and all its perfections and imperfections.
The right guy won it, and now he can party with Andre Ware, Ty Detmer,
Rashaan Salaam and Chris Weinke. Oooh. Sorry, Eric. Didn't mean to bring you down like that.
Straight to the Weekend List of Five, then:
1. ND Finds Its Man
|  | | George O'Leary has the one credential that matters most, his last name. |
Let's not pussyfoot around this. While I would have loved to have seen Jon
Gruden or Steve Mariucci in green and gold next year, the Domers did it
right. They hired a guy named O'Leary. I don't care about his credentials.
I'm here to tell you as a guy named Murphy, it's only right they kept it in
the tribe. Deal with it, America.
And this O'Leary really fits the bill, sort of like Barry Fitzgerald in "The
Quiet Man," or Richard Harris in "The Field." He's got the silver mane, the
ruddy complexion, and the New York accent. I'm calling ND with at least nine
wins next year.
2. BYU: Take a walk!
|  | | It's luau time for June Jones and the Warriors. |
Guess the Elders can scratch Johnnie Cochran's name from the Rolodex. The
talk of BYU suing the BCS was properly laid to rest when Hawaii went
Book-'em-Dano on the posers from Provo. What was the case going to be,
anyway? If there's no Rose Bowl, you ain't got no soul! (Hey, it was
as good as BYU was going to do, all right?)
When the Warriors (I miss the days when Rainbows were still a part of the nickname -- not that there's anything wrong with that) hang 72 on you, what
can you say? Answer: Nothing. You get back on the plane, you order your caffeine-free Coke, and you hang your head in shame.
Bless that Hawaii team. I hope June Jones fired up a pig on the roast right
there in the locker room. Send me the apple from the pig's mouth, boys. I'll
put it in a glass case.
3. A Quick Aside on that Male BYU Cheerleader
Did anybody else catch the highlight of that male BYU cheerleader fronting
those Hawaii players after they late-hit somebody into one of Provo's prized
blondes? The dude, who appeared to be a bulky, buffed Samoan, was hot under
the collar. He did not back down one iota from the helmet-clad Hawaii
players, who appeared taken aback by the cat's ferocity.
This created a phenomenon in me called cognitive dissonance -- the only
useful thing I took out of Psych 101 at UCLA. On the one hand, you had a guy
who appeared Samoan to be frothing mad and fearless. On the other hand, you
had a male cheerleader frothing mad and fearless. My simple brain
could not process this dissonance.
I'm chalking it up to an historic breakthrough in the annals of Male
Cheerleaderdom. This guy is their patron saint.
4. A Tale of Two Quarterbacks
|  | | Some are celebrating the end of Flutiemania. |
This may be it, Cooler denizens. Today may be the day I remove my Doug Flutie
Boston College game jersey and hang it in the rafters of my home next to my
other sacred articles of clothing -- my cantaloupe-orange R2D2-C3PO T-shirt
from fifth grade, my madras-plaid short-sleeved shirt from the early '80s and
my "Word to Your Mother" leather jacket from the early '90s, a gift from my
good friend Vanilla Ice.
After another flop for San Diego, Flutiemania is officially dead.
Instead, I don the No. 4 jersey of my new Main Man, Brett Favre. Face it:
He's the Most Likeable player in the NFL. I'm on board.
5. Baseball: A Year-Round Endeavor
When will Jason Giambi sign in New York? If so, will he also sign a deal to
bartend two nights a week at the China Club? Will Gary Sheffield be an
Oakland Athletic? And if so, will he show up on time for, what, three games a week?
The winter meetings start this week, and hopefully the answer will come soon
to the question everyone asks: When will Billy Crystal make the HBO film "73"
in honor of Barry Bonds? And if so, in a nod to Bay Area love, will he let
San Francisco's own Robin Williams play the role of Bonds?
Or, perhaps, another NorCal stud: Gino Torretta. Of course, he'd have to call
Beau Bridges' agent first.
Brian Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle writes the "Weekend Water Cooler" every week for Page 2.
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