Title IX.... (Here Below).

ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS that Scholastic Coach did when it came out of the gate in 1931 was to invite women coaches to hitch on to its wagon. We offered them a way to enhance their knowledge of the X's and 0's and the philosophy of their programs, as well as to contribute articles on what they were doing.

We continued to support the cause of women's sports right up until the federal government made Title IX the law of the land and launched the revolution that would bring millions of fresh faces into the arena and produce an astonishing enrichment in the coaching of quality female athleticism.

Of course there have been problems, stemming largely from the gender equality equation in Title IX. To keep the gender scales balanced, our college AD's have been forced to eliminate a lot of men's programs.

According to the latest count, 19 men's gymnastics programs have been dropped, golf (53), wrestling (43), tennis (40), track (27), swimming (26), cross-country (26), baseball (17), and 11 each in lacrosse, rifle, and soccer have also been cut.

How did all this happen? It goes back to the origin of the species, in 1971. Although our legislators showed courage and conscience in enacting Title IX, we do not believe they got it all right.

You cannot classify every sport precisely by gender - without taking into account tradition, genetics, and status quo. And so Title IX is now in the throes of a major impasse. Its name is football. As we know, football is the most glamorous of college sports, the richest in tradition, the sport that requires the most scholarships, and the sport that women do not play (in any significant numbers). So how do you apply participation equality to it?

The peace-makers have a Plan A and a Plan B. Plan A removes football from the mix. Plan B (as we understand it) reduces Division I scholarships from 85 to 53 and then splits the scholarships between men's and women's sports.

Time marches on and so does the controversy, and the loss of programs in 11 sports can hardly be considered progress.

How many more victims does Title IX have to claim before the cooler, smarter, and more tolerant heads prevail?

THE SOUND OF MUSIC?...

IN OUR TIME, WE HAVE heard a lot of strange sounds on the sports beat, like the snorting of prize fighters, the snarling of football lineman, and the explosive grunts of shot-putters and discus throwers.

But none of them prepared us for the shrieking in tennis - the exhalations of tortured lungs that accompany every swing of the racket. A nice little lady named Monica Seles has become the Galli-Curci of this bizarre vocal form. She cannot swing a racket without emitting a screech guaranteed to puncture the human eardrum.

Jennifer Capriati was right when she called the shriek not only a distraction, but unfair to the opponents. How can a player concentrate on her game with that screech drilling holes in her head?

We cannot understand why her trainers never did anything about it or how the rules committee turns a deaf ear to it. Is it an irremediable disease, like the one that did in poor Lou Gehrig?

The only screecher who ever won a prize was a lady named Ethel Merman. She was a world-class screecher, scoring 11 Broadway hit musicals in 14 years. But anytime this lady raised a racket, she made you love it!

A SOFT TOUCH...

THE ONLY OTHER idiosyncratic athlete who forced us to turn off our TV set whenever he showed up on it was a major league first baseman named Mike Hargrove. He stupefied us whenever he came to bat in the '70s and '80s. He would go through an astonishing routine of touches - left shoulder, right shoulder, pants pocket, shirt, cap, ear, and so on - 17 touches in all!

We always wondered: How much time is a hitter given for such choreography? Wasn't there a coach around when Hargrove started going through his incredible routine? Don't you do something about an athlete who has to touch himself all over before facing a pitcher?

We stopped watching the Cleveland Indians after we found ourselves counting the touches every time Hargrove came to bat.

THE COACH...

TWENTY-SIX YEARS AFTER he had coached his last basketball game, The Coach received an invitation in the mail.

"Dear Coach, we'd like to inform you that you have been elected to the University's Hall of Fame and that the installation will be held on February 10, 2001 at the new sports complex. All of us in Administration and many of your old players will expect to see you there. Details follow."

He had been just a high school coach when he was hired by the university. but it had turned out to be a perfect marriage of coach, players, and school.

He had been born in the city and nurtured on the city game and it had made him tough, smart, and demanding.

It had taken him just a season or two to develop a signature team: a team of black kids and white kids, small, intelligent, and disciplined, who nursed the ball, played both ends of the floor, and whom opponents hated to play.

And that is the way it was for 12 years. He won a lot of games, a few tournaments, and everyone's respect. And then, suddenly, it was over. A disastrous experience soured him on coaching, and turned him away from it forever.

When he entered the university's sports complex 26 years later, he was astonished. The invitation hadn't exaggerated. Practically all the kids he had coached were there. The players, their families, and the guests created a warm and magnetic ambiance.

In his ceremonial speech, The Coach put it all in perspective: "I know it isn't considered good form to start a speech with an apology. But I have to admit: Until I entered the arena and saw so many of my old players, I hadn't fully realized what this occasion really meant to me.

"I was overwhelmed by a thought: that it was not me you should be honoring, but my players - the kids who came here and played so hard and practiced so hard and who went on to earn their degrees and bring honor to their university and the people around them.

"I would like all of my old players to stand up and be recognized. I want them to know how proud I am to have coached them and then watched them grow into such responsible human beings."

An unusual thing happened as The Coach was speaking. All of the players had gathered in a line and had started moving toward the dais. As they came by, each reached for the coach's hand, shook it, and said a very simple thing: "Thanks, Coach, thanks for everything."

If all this sounds unreal, it is because it is unreal. But life sometimes works out that way. It did so on February 10, 2001, at the Long Island University Hall of Fame installation of former head basketball coach, Roy Rubin.

TO THE LETTER...

IF WE HAD ANY DOUBTS about the message that was delivered by the athletes at the Long Island University Hall of Fame installation, they vanished when we read a letter that had been sent to The Coach by a former player named Ronnie Williams (Class of '73):

"Dear Coach, as you know, I never impressed anyone as a student. I never studied, I cut classes, I rebelled at your discipline, and I gave you a terrible time.

"You had every right to give up on me, but you never did. In fact, if it were not for your timely intervention at key stages in my life, I never would have graduated.

"At the Hall of Fame installation, I was very impressed by your speech. As a player, I had always been too blind and self-centered to have seen that side of you. It never occurred to me that you were a professor of physical education and a director of athletics at the same time you coached the basketball team.

"It wasn't until I heard you speak that I could appreciate the wit, intellectualism, and caring that so obviously had gone into it. It made me realize how lucky I had been to have had you in charge of my life at such a critical time."

After reading Ronnie Williams' letter, our first thought was: What a terrific person Ronnie had turned out to be.

Our second thought was: Can you imagine receiving a letter that validates everything you did as a coach and an educator?

Our third thought was: What a great thing it is for America to have coaches who, in the best of times and the worst of times, are always around for their kids - coaching them, guiding them, making something special out of them!

RELATED ARTICLE: THE BASE OF PRE-TITLE IX.

Caption: This is what a 21-year-old Texas kid named Babe Didrikson looked like while she was winning six of eight events at the 1932 Olympic Trials. She went on to gold medals in the javelin and 80-m. hurdles, and was relegated to silver in the high jump on a technicality. She then spent the next 20 years winning all kinds of events in golf, bowling, baseball, basketball, billiards, and swimming. She died tragically at age 45, but her name and her fame as the "world's greatest women's athlete" live on.

PUDGE WORKING OVER THE YALE LINE AT AGE 48

Caption: According to Ivy League mythology, Pudge Heffelfinger was so dominating a tackle in 1889-91, that he returned to the Yale Bowl 25 years later to scrimmage against the varsity, and wound up flinging the kids around like ten-pins. At 63, he played his last game on an all-star team. Unbelievable?