ESPN.com - We can play, too, dude!

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Tuesday, September 4, 2001
We can play, too, dude!

By Brian Murphy
Special to Page 2

Attention all Surfer-Stoner types: Ye are welcome at The Cooler any day.


	Never underestimate a West Coast squad -- just ask Alabama, which got flattened by DeShaun Foster and UCLA.

This revelation came to me over Labor Day weekend, as I labored to drag my butt off the couch for yet another warmish Keystone Light in a can. The UCLA-Alabama game was flickering delightfully on my TV screen, and I thought to myself: That's right, baby. My Surfer-Stoner pal was right on, brother.

A little background: The Cooler is born-and-bred California-style. That means going to school with, and completely becoming one with, the requisite Surfer-Stoner types. Surfer-Stoner types were always good for a smile, mostly because their culture consisted of five sacred tenets:

One Love.
Always Hang with the Hottest Chicks.
If in Possession of Ganj, Share the Wealth.
One Love.
Repeat Step No. 2.

So it was with this lifetime of knowledge that I found myself at a UCLA-Michigan game at the Rose Bowl in 1989, when the Bruins were overmatched on paper. But the Gutty Ones played their tails off that day, and when a clutch second-half touchdown was scored, I had a moment of truth. It came from a nearby Surfer-Stoner bro, who corralled me and my buddy from behind and, in a roar of love and passion that could only come from the truly baked, shouted in our ears the words that sustain us to this day: "We play some ball on the West Coast!"


	Who says West Coast folks are too laid back? Certainly not these celebrants at Fresno State.

My buddy and I weren't sure we heard the beauty of those words correctly, so simple and profound were they. We turned to him, and through his shoulder-length, sandy-blonde, Spicoli-esque mane that flopped over his bloodshot eyes, he repeated, while embracing us: "We play some ball on the West Coast!"

It was if the Dalai Lama himself had spoken to us on the Mountaintop. East Coast biases, college football polls weighted toward the SEC and Big Ten -- all that nonsense went out the window when our Surfer-Stoner bruddah came through with his knowledge. So did the fact that Michigan wound up winning that damn game.

But to this day, I can transmit a lifetime of UCLA football fandom to my boy T.S. with a simple e-mail, like one I sent after the Bruins did some serious representing in Tuscaloosa on Saturday night. It read, simply:

"Dude: We play some ball on the West Coast. Take it light, Murph."

And yet it says so much more. It says things about One Love, and Sharing the Wealth, and Hot Chicks and, oh, did we mention the One Love?

So today at The Cooler, we toss on our red, black, green and gold macrame hats and dust off the Burning Spear CDs to go along with the Three-Day Weekend List of Five:

1. The tortured psyches that are the Red Sox


	If Carl Everett had not broken up Mike Mussina's perfect game, Sunday night might have been a tragic evening at Fenway.

Speaking of the relaxed West Coast vibe ... is there any more dysfunctional place on Earth right now than the Red Sox clubhouse? I mean, besides any Red Sox fans' chat rooms -- and rest assured, the only people left in this world still visiting chat rooms are Red Sox lunatics, guys with handles like "NOMAH4PREZ" and "DUQUETTESUX" and "NODINOSAURCAHL."

Here's the deal: Sign Manny to big dollars, think this is The Year, watch Nomar get hurt, watch Petey get hurt, watch Carl get hurt, fire your skipper to motivate your troops, then go straight to The Toilet, do not pass go, do not collect $200 (even for a box seat). It's sad, sorta.

Thank God Mussina didn't go Perfecto on the boys Sunday night, or there might have been Jonestown-styled refreshment stands outside of the Fens after the game.

Speaking of the AL playoff teams ...

2. Let's get the AL playoffs on the road, pronto
It's all set, isn't it? Mariners, Yankees and Indians in the divisions and the Swingin' A's in the wild card. Righteous stuff. Write off Cleveland right now. They can scare Seattle, but have no shot, not with that pitching staff.


	Ichiro and the M's have already clinched a playoff berth. You can pencil in the A's, Yanks and Tribe, too.

It's down to three teams, and each brings some serious noise to the table: Seattle, with its unreal mojo, spectacular bullpen and piping-hot lattes; the Yanks, with three straight titles, dignified Joe Torre and a press corps more populous and nutso than Bellevue Day at the Stadium; and the A's, with the three best starters in the game, the free ease of the underdog, and Jason Giambi's little black book, containing the names of the best biker bars in the American League.

Can't wait.

3. The U.S. Open, alive and well -- I guess
Best I can tell, nobody's been upset in Queens. Petey, Andre, the rest. But I gotta admit: Five-setters can be tough to sit through. Wake me up for the weekend, baby. Then I'm all over it.

Good to see Goran Ivanisevic take the fall. I mean, I'm all for the guy's free spirit, but I'm not up for a Goran post-gamer to produce some of those hilariously caveman quote bombs that would cause a full fleet of America's PC Police to descend on Arthur Ashe Stadium.

4. Coaches who wear sideline passes
Just a pet peeve here. Saw new 'Bama coach Dennis Franchione wearing his sideline pass on his belt loop. Sure sign of a poser. Did Bear Bryant ever wear a sideline pass? What's Franchione afraid of, that campus security is going to eject him?

I don't know about you, but I don't want my Head Coach wearing ID that gets him past the yellow jackets. I want my Head Coach striding past the yellow jackets, bellowing out Knute Rockne quotes and spouting out formations.


	David Carr and Fresno State crushed Oregon State's dreams in the Beavers' season opener.

And when a guy asks him for a sideline pass, my Head Coach sends his Samoan henchmen to dismantle the yellow jacket's bone structure. Franchione's pass might as well have read SHORT-TIMER on it.

5. The dream dies at Oregon State
Cute stuff, Sports Illustrated picking Oregon State No. 1 in the land. What did they mean, No. 1 north of Eugene and south of Seattle?

I've got no beef with that. I'd wear the Big Foamy Finger for that No. 1 ranking. But when the Beavers went down to Fresno on Sunday night, you could see a loss coming the way you can smell an OSU ag student coming -- from waaay far away. This is not to entirely diss Oregon State. They'll be tough this year, no doubt. But to play under the lights at Fresno, in front of all those loaded raisin farmers wearing more red than a May Day parade in the Khruschev regime? You got no shot, pal.

Because, as well all know by now ... we play some ball on the West Coast!

Brian Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle writes the "Weekend Water Cooler" every week for Page 2.