Columnist Dean Juipe: Coach, wife find firing emotional

Dean Juipe

Monday, Nov. 23, 1998 | 9:48 a.m.

There were dozens of sympathetic hugs and plenty of tears. And through all the embraces and the dabbing at the eyes, Jeff Horton's departure as head coach of the UNLV football team offered this poignant reminder: We're all human.

Sure, Horton failed in a five-year run as coach of the Rebels to accumulate the wins that were necessary to not only keep the team's old fans but add some new ones. He departs with a dismal 13-44 record, his career as a head coach ruined at least for the short term.

For those with only a distant interest in UNLV football, Horton has come and gone without making an impact. He was only a name, a caretaker of a sorry program, and the fact that he was fired last week and coached his last game Saturday was of little importance.

But behind the undesirable win-loss record is a real person with a real wife, and each of them had their emotions visibly on display both before and after the game with TCU at Sam Boyd Stadium as well as at Sunday's farewell dinner with the team and its most avid if anguished supporters.

By now, Jeff and Teri Horton are probably cried out. The well, the tear ducts, are dry after a weekend of reassurances and what might have beens.

He put on his best face for as long as he could, yet there were moments when it was no longer possible to appear content or even solemn. His post-game remarks were tinged with sadness, in part because everyone with even an ounce of compassion for him had wished him well before what would turn out to be a disappointing 41-18 loss in his finale.

Prior to the game, he stood at the head of a line of 24 seniors and tried to keep his bearings as he patted each player on the back before they were publicly introduced. And while he smiled wherever possible, he had the look of a man saying his goodbyes as the gallows inched progressively closer.

It was no easier on Teri, who hugged a steady procession of friends and familiar faces on the field before the opening kickoff. She was both comforted and comforting, easing her acquaintances' looks of disbelief while finding steady use for the tissue she kept in her right hand.

It was an emotional overload and it peaked when the day mercifully came to an end, the Hortons meeting on the field and walking off in their own we're-in-this-together embrace. His team had come out flat and lost for the 11th time this season and 16th consecutive time overall, leaving no doubt some sort of change is necessary for the good of the program.

That change is his dismissal.

He has already cleaned up his office and by this afternoon it might look like moving day in the UNLV complex that housed Horton and his nine full-time assistants. For each of them as well, this is a professional if not personal tragedy.

Many, many lives are affected.

Yet life goes on and there were signs of it at Boyd Stadium even as Horton's Rebels unraveled for a final time. Seemingly oblivious to the heartache around them, workers were busily constructing new bleachers near the west end zone that will expand the stadium's capacity to something like 40,000.

It's among the next man's responsibilities to try to fill those seats.