ATTILA'S HEADSET.(Washington Redskins coach Steve Spurrier)

In his debut performance as head coach of the Washington Redskins--a home victory over the Arizona Cardinals on September 8th--Steve Spurrier was among the injured. It was hardly surprising, given his flea-on-a-griddle exertions on the sidelines. He paced, he fidgeted, he shouted, he pleaded, he writhed, he leaped, he threw his handwritten laminated play sheets on the ground in anger or waved them impatiently to demand someone's attention. When his offense left the field, he dropped to one knee and bore into his play sheets, scratching his head and grimacing, and when the offense took the field again he was back in motion, leaning into passes and kicks as if he'd launched the ball himself. Sometimes, in a game, he will peer up at his assistant coaches in their boxes high in the mezzanine and throw his arms open wide, as if to say, "Help me out here, will ya!" He is a virtuoso of facial expression, with features that twist, flex, bend, stretch, slacken, and knot like putty, reflecting every nuance of mood during a game. In the opener, a bulky headset sat astride his sun visor, a trademark accessory that he had flung from his head many times during twelve seasons with the University of Florida Gators. He fiddled with the headset constantly. When one of his successful plays was nullified by a holding penalty, Spurrier tore it off and sliced his middle finger.

"The earphones had that little sponge padding on them and the edge went right through it--cut me pretty good," he said after the game, displaying the bandaged finger to a room crowded with reporters and cameras.

In addition to the usual pack of Washington sportswriters, a number of scruffy writers from the Florida swamplands had shown up to see how their ol' Gator "ballcoach" would fare in the big leagues. He did well this first time out, putting up thirty-one points (to Arizona's twenty-three), dispelling predictions that his "collegiate system" would collapse in the face of a genuine pro defense. Spurrier faced the room with cheerful resignation, his usual pose in the spotlight. He is a lean, loose-limbed man with a mop of chestnut-colored hair and a quarterback's physique. (He retired from the field twenty-five years ago, when he was thirty-two, and shows hardly a wrinkle or patch of gray hair.) After spending hours in the sun, his face was burned pink up to a distinct curving line under his eyes; above that, where the shadow of the visor had fallen, the skin was pale. His hair was tousled and matted with sweat, and his black cotton shirt--he has not worn the Redskins' team colors, burgundy and gold, presumably because they resemble too closely the colors of his old rival F.S.U. (Florida State University)--hung limp on his sloping shoulders. He looked pleased and weary, as if he had just finished playing in the game himself.

In Washington, a city that straddles North and South, Spurrier's down-home style has tilted the axis Dixie-ward. For many years, the Redskins were the capital's only big sports franchise, and pro football is followed there with a passion that unites its widely disparate social classes like nothing else. Fans now speak of their "ballcoach," and the "ballplays" with which he plans to "pitch and catch" the Skins back to the Super Bowl. "SPURRIER DAZZLES IN DEBUT" was the headline on the Washington Post columnist Thomas Boswell's account of the Arizona Cardinals game.

Spurrier built his career in a league that is made of raw talent and youthful exuberance. He says that there are only two ways to be successful. One is to work harder than everyone else; the other is to do things differently. He long ago chose the second path, refusing to work long hours. When practice breaks, he often runs on a treadmill and lifts weights for about an hour, and then he drives home.

"He's the opposite of a workaholic," his wife, Jerri, says. "He doesn't overwork himself emotionally, mentally, or physically, and he doesn't want those working for him to, either. If he sees them working late, he'll kick them out. Some of them sneak back, but, eventually, when you work with Steve you get into that mode. You don't have to grind, not in anything."

Normally, college coaches who reach the N.F.L. spend years as relatively low-paid, overworked assistants. Pro coaches like to think they play a more sophisticated brand of football, so Spurrier's sudden ascent was seen as an insult, and there has been some grumbling about the folly of bringing a collegiate system to the pros. The hard feelings were aggravated by Spurrier's salary. Under the five-year contract he signed with the Redskins' pugnacious young owner, Dan Snyder, he will earn almost five million dollars a season--making him one of the highest-paid coaches in N.F.L. history. Also, Spurrier is ...