By Kevin Clerici
Arizona Daily Wildcat
September 3, 1997

On the Sidelines

Memo to Homer Smith

Mr. Smith,

When I first came to this fine institution two years ago, I thought of myself as a strapping, healthy young man. But within the first month of school, I caught something I can't seem to get rid of. At first, doctor examinations were a waste of time, they said it was mental. Then a specialist put a name to it: Arizoneous Postis Crampeous; laymen's terms, "Up the Middle" syndrome.

I was infected at an Arizona football game. Stuffed play after stuffed play, overthrown pass after overthrown pass, this virus was unleashed upon inexperienced Wildcat fans like myself. It's transmitted through the air and by alcohol filled saliva, laced with sweat. It grows in the upper rows of the student section, in the fans that have quit trying to fight it and now passionately scream those three brain matter reducing words to no end. On third and two, the virus makes these people crazy. I know I am not the only one suffering.

I tried penicillin: worthless. A date with a sorority girl: symptoms worsened.

Things got so bad, I forced myself to stay up late to watch ArenaBowl reruns just to get a little offense in my system.

Then you were hired last year, with your 30-plus years of experience at all levels of football and your NASA-like, scientific offensive schemes. And Keith Smith, this gifted athlete, was going to take over the reigns of Arizona's offense. My head started clearing, I could breathe. The two of you were going to shatter passing efficiency records and clear the stench that lives in Row 32.

But now I hear a rumor you want to keep Keith Smith in the pocket. Please Mr. Smith, tell me it's a lie. A fabrication to attack wish-bone loving fans. My throat starts to itch just thinking about it.

Keith Smith, the ultimate offensive weapon contained in a collapsing 10-foot circle. Oh, my retinas are starting to burn.

I understand what you're thinking - a solid receiving corps filled with exciting players, a veteran line that can slow the pressure, Smith using his mind more than just his feet - but it's poppycock. The disease and the diseased will feed on it.

Remember, Richard Dice is gone. If Smith gets trapped in this pocket thing of yours, he can't just hurl the ball in Rodney Williams' or Brad Brennan's or Dennis Nothcutt's direction and expect the same miracles as before. These guys need time to get open and neither my liver or Smith can wait that long. I'm almost healed Mr. Smith, don't do this.

Why trap your most elusive back in a cage. Without a proven tailback, defenses will key on Keith. They will tell each other: " We batter Keith Smith, we beat Arizona."

I can almost feel my anterior cruciate ligament decaying.

Let Keith get outside Mr. West Coast Offense, put the pressure on the opposing linebackers. Make them make a decision - charge and stop Keith on the run or stay back and prevent the pass? Then let Keith burn them. When Bill Walsh coached Joe Montana with the San Francisco 49ers, he always praised Montana for finding passing lanes to throw through. How is Smith going to find lanes in that paper sack, you call a pocket. Oh, my head is boiling.

All I can picture is Keith Smith having every attempt knocked down by a defensive lineman. Or a blitzing safety tattooing his blindside because he knows where he is going to be every play.

So please Mr. Smith, use your degrees from Stanford and Princeton and Harvard and re-think this pocket ballyhoo. Let Smith roam, let Smith roll out, let him scamper up the sideline like in the Iowa game and score touchdowns. Use Smith on double-passes, I guarantee it will work.

Otherwise, I'm history. A snowflake in Tucson. You are the only one with the anti-virus I need, you possess the cure for all of us Wildcats fans sick and tired of keeping the ball between the tackles. Eliminate the stench, please....