What the hell are we going to do with Oklahoma football coach Bob Stoops? He's clueless. He's inept—he's two flights and a puddle jumper from ept.
Most college football coaches have egos just slightly larger than Boise, Idaho. You couldn't find Stoops's with a magnifying glass and tweezers. The guy drives the preschool car pool every morning. In his Pontiac minivan!
Texas coach Mack Brown has an office big enough to U-turn a Greyhound bus. Stoops's is so small you have to leave to sneeze.
O.K., so he's got the Sooners, who beat Colorado 34-20 last Saturday, 8-0 and No. 1 in the country again. Look at the lousy example he's setting!
Coaches have been known to cheat on their wives, slobber on Sigma Chis, speed-dial strippers. Stoops? He goes to his wife's Mary Kay cosmetics conventions in support of her career.
Coaches are supposed to watch film until 2 a.m., sleep on their office couches and get started again at sunup to prove how much they care. Stoops? He's usually home for dinner. He holds Wednesday-night "family meetings," during which the coaches' spouses and their 30 kids turn the football offices into Gymboree. He doesn't start his day until 8:45 in the morning, so his coaches can see their broods off.
On the Thursday before Oklahoma's 65-13 fricasseeing of Texas in Dallas, Stoops was eating lunch with his first-grade daughter at her school when he noticed that half the kids were missing from the lunchroom. "Where are they?" Stoops asked a teacher.
"They left already for the Texas game with their parents, Coach," she said. Uh, coach, hello?
You know what the problem with Stoops is? He's got the wrong hero. His hero is a man who was never even a head coach in high school, a history teacher and defensive coordinator who used to bring game film to his little three-bedroom house on the tattoo side of Youngstown, Ohio, and watch it on the refrigerator door. Why? He wanted to be near his wife and six kids. The hero? Stoops's father, Ron.
"There was nobody wealthier than my dad," says Stoops. "He was a man before his time. He'd do the dishes, do the laundry, scrub the floors. He could've had all kinds of head-coaching jobs—high school, college—but he didn't want 'em. He wouldn't have wanted my job for anything. He loved his life just as it was. He was happy. What else can you want?"