LITTLE ROCK — A MINOR spat in the homey world of Arkansas media afforded some of us a nice break from the real news the past week or so. It involves football, journalists, cussin’, LSU and Les Yards or Les Miles or Les First Downs or somebody like that. It’s been a show. Unfortunately.
In case you can’t be bothered with such things, we may need to tell you that there was a ball game a few weeks ago between the biggest football program in Louisiana and the biggest football program in Arkansas. The game was played in Baton Rouge. And the team from Baton Rouge won. (There is no justice in this world.)
The team from Arkansas and the team from that other state are in the same conference and same division thereof, therefore the game is played every year. And the winner seems to change each year. The rivalry has provided a heckuva ball game every Friday after Thanksgiving.
This year, though, there was an Extra Added Attraction. The head coach of the Arkansas team didn’t much care for some decision or another made by the head coach of the LSU team. Maybe the coach in red didn’t like the other coach’s decision to keep his team scoring late in the game—when LSU already had a comfortable lead. Maybe the coach in red didn’t like his opponent’s hairstyle. Maybe the coach in red thought purple and gold clashed. Who knows? What is known is that the coach in red yelled a few things in the direction of the other sideline, things that were caught on camera. And it didn’t look like he was wishing anybody a happy Thanksgiving.
If you’ve been through basic training or seen an Eddie Murphy film in the last 20 years, you’ve heard the words. It didn’t take an expert in lip reading to figure out the meaning.
No, it wasn’t the end of the world. Football coaches are hired to win games, not to make friends and influence people. The time when college athletic programs were touted as a way to teach young people good sportsmanship now seems part of the distant past. So nobody should have been surprised when CBS showed the footage several times on the small screen. But when the footage rolled, some parents may have felt the need to send the kids to the kitchen for a snack. Or go themselves.
THE NEWS media got dragged into this thing because some inky wretches thought the lexical acerbity was worth repeating, and others dismissed it as no big deal. Still others—like us—rather enjoy it when pundits are sniping at each other over a world-shaking incident at a football game. Because (a) the Republic is seldom safer than when journalists are going at each other hammer and tong, noun and verb, and (b) the spectacle is a welcome corrective to any delusions journalists may have that we’re Deep Thinkers.
After the subject was beaten into the ground, the coach who didn’t wish the LSU sidelines a happy Thanksgiving that Friday afternoon granted an audience to the press corps. He even addressed the matter. Sort of.
“That was a long time ago,” he said. “To be honest with you, you don’t recall things like that. I was told about it. Obviously I’ve got to be more aware of my actions and my language. We’ll work on improving that.”
Don’t you love it when public figures preface their remarks by saying, “To be honest with you . . .” as if they aren’t usually and they’re making an exception for this special occasion. Said coach might also have done better to change the plural to the singular in his kind-of confession, and said: “I’ll work on improving that.” What’s this We business? Was there somebody else yelling at the other side? Or was this the royal We he was using, as befits someone of his rank at the university? (It’s not as if he’s just a professor or some other mere academic.) We? What’s he going to do, hire an assistant to remind him to be nice on the sidelines? As for his reference to the game’s being a long time ago, it wasn’t.
As far as the coach’s not recalling his, uh, mini-oration, that’s not hard to believe. People get carried away on the sidelines. Not to mention in the stands. If a little old lady from Texarkana can make her friends blush when the Cowboys fumble, the head coach of the state university’s big-time football program can surely be forgiven for losing his mind in the course of a humiliating loss for his team.
Whew. We think that about covers the coach’s short statement and the sheer number of tasteless things he managed to pack into it, none of them terribly important in the great scheme of things. Football is, after all, only a game, though you might not suspect it from the ocean of ink spilled over this little play by now. Oh, and one more thing. As far as the coach’s saying it’s obvious he ought to watch his language, yes, sir, it is. And that should have been that. Except . . . . Also heard from in this little matter was the UofA-F’s athletic director. He told the press he was disappointed. In CBS. For showing the coach’s tirade. And in slow motion at that. “Certainly none of us like the use of profane language,” the director said. “Certainly it happens in the heat of the battle. It’s unfortunate, but I think in this case I’m disappointed that it was displayed in the way it was by CBS.” Got it. He wasn’t disappointed in the coach’s performance that day, but in the press for reporting it.
Well, sure. Blame the media. How did we not see that coming? It’s the oldest feint in the book. Direct attention elsewhere when something embarrassing happens. Oh, if only the good director had stopped at the word “unfortunate” in regard to this little dust-up. And dropped the whole subject. Instead he had to go and try to shift the blame. He committed the fatal error of all those who’ve never learned how to apologize. They always have to add a But. As in, “It’s unfortunate, but . . . .” The rest is gracelessness.
CHANCES are the coach’s holiday wishes will be remembered next time these two teams meet. Which will be next year, when LSU will have to travel to Arkansas. So it’s not too early to explain how to deliver a proper apology—again. A proper apology consists of two parts and only two parts:
(1) Apologize.
(2) Then stop. Right there.
If you must add anything, try a phrase they taught us in basic training: No excuse, sir. And then stop. Period. Why, oh why, does every apology from a politician, teen, coach or athletic director or those who write about them have to come complete with some kind of escape hatch, semi-justification, fulsome excuse, and/or clinton clause? As in so many arts, when it comes to the art of apology, simple is best.
I’m sorry.
Those words don’t need much help.
Editorial, Pages 78 on 12/18/2011