Sidelines
JUNE Jones is a coach, and coaches don't smile, never, no. Not head coaches, not NFL head coaches. Not the big men in college. No smiles. If they let one slip for a second, just a flash, you're lucky. Tough coach’s emotion
shows for a secondThey say all the right things, always, every time. June Jones knows this. June Jones does this. Coaches don't celebrate. They smile just once (just a flash, as they shiver in their victory ice bath), say something appropriately vague and then get right back to working. Right back to worrying.
"I tend to put things in a little bit more perspective," Jones said. "You probably need to ask other people. For me, it's something to enjoy for 24 to 48 hours and you go on to the next one.
"And I'm already on to the next one."
Of course. This is serious business. With black shirts and black helmets and black socks. "Warriors," you know. All that stuff.
But then Jones smiled.
He did it again. He did it before. He did it after. He did it without even knowing it, and then someone got too carried away, asked him the wrong question, and he realized what he was doing, where the conversation was going, and snapped out of it hard. He came back down to earth.
"Like I told them (the team), it doesn't mean anything if we lose this week," he said.
Of course.
He's right.
But it's not so easy, not after Friday night, not after 38-34, not after THE GAME, not after THE FUMBLE, not after THE FOOT. What a comeback! What a night! Fresno State coach Pat Hill was so mad he could have shaved off his mustache.
(And he should have. There are only two people in the world who can pull off that style -- Jack Lambert and Skippa Diaz.)
Meanwhile, Jones was in an opposite mood.
Have you ever seen someone try to hold back a smile?
Have you ever seen them fail at it?
At yesterday's press conference, a giddy Jones interrupted KFVE's Jim Leahey in mid-question, in mid-lecture, in mid-Leaheyism. "I like the way you talk," an almost giggling Jones said. "You know that?"
That game was different. This team, suddenly, is very, very different. Jones knows that. He is trying, desperately, to keep a handle on himself, to be the coach. The serious, big-time, tough football coach.
But then it all hits him, the music of the night comes back to him, and he just can't help himself, if only for a second at a time.
It's a sin, it's a coaching sin, it's a football sin. But he's earned it.
"Whether it's a good play or a bad play, forget it," Jones likes to say. "The next one's the most important play."
He said it again yesterday.
By the time you read this, he'll have moved on. Serious. Focused. Driven. Every inch the coach.
But sometime this week, he'll turn his head away to the side, keeping it to himself. Hiding it. Hoarding it. It'll all feel so good that it'll have to bubble over again. But just for a second. Just for a flash.
Kalani Simpson's column runs Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays.
He can be reached at ksimpson@starbulletin.com