Beneath a baleful,

slate-gray winter sky, an icy north wind..." Perhaps, "Pulsating from the amplified effect of brilliant night lights, the herbaceous, rain-soaked turf..." Maybe, "An angry multitude, attracted like summer June bugs to the bright silhouette of wintery..." These were only a few of the imaginative leads possible to begin this column. Unfortunately, they required, to maintain any journalistic integrity, my pre-game presence. Due to a badly timed soccer game, on a muddy, godforsaken pitch somewhere in south Waco, I won't make it for any pre-game observations.

Experience says the soccer game I'm watching will be more exciting than the UT-Texas Tech game I should be at. However, I'm fearful someone will yank my press-pass if I don't make an appearance at a game. I labor under the inflated illusion someone at UT knows of my existence. Slathered in guilt, I pawn off my daughter on a nice mom who will take her home. I'm hopeful she'll make it to the next event -- a dance -- on her busy social calendar this evening. I tell her I'll pick her up at 10. A catty glare doesn't convey much confidence.

Psychics, astrologers, metaphysical friends, and others of this ilk often laud my "good instincts." Once, I was flattered by these words; now I know it's utter nonsense. My most basic, primal gut instincts are dead wrong, at least 50% of the time. They're wrong so often, I either pay no attention or deliberately go the other way. It's a pyschic game of Russian Roulette. "Well," I tell myself, "You liked her, ergo, it'll never work out." It's confusing being me. The point is I was sure -- a gut instinct -- Texas was going to win big.

Why? UT's Burnt Orange uniforms, so ugly under the glaring sun, looked natty and powerful beneath the concentrated, misty candle power of Memorial Stadium. The Red Raiders, with a red-black-white color scheme, bad-ass in daylight, seemed high- schoolish under the lights. I paid this powerful insight no mind. It turns out, it was one of the other 50% that makes life so damned confounding.

Texas came out with a frothing, rabid intensity rarely observed in this laid-back town. Though down 14-0 after the first quarter, I was stunned to see Tech, statistically speaking, still competitive. The quarter had the feel of total and complete Longhorn domination. The two touchdowns came on ridiculously easy drives. The first, a two-play, 55-yard sally over tranquil Red Raider waters. The second, a five-play, 74-yard excursion, so smooth, I thought Aikman and Emmitt were in the Horns backfield. Surprises came on the much-maligned defensive side of the field. It's not easy to get the jaded press box crowd to react. Yet, three times in the first half, a collective sigh of uhhhhg, like the puke sound, arose from the box. On each occasion, a visitor from Lubbock was barbarously de-snotted. Two were conventional, straight-ahead football hits, brutal solo tackles, audible 50 rows up in the enclosed, glass booth. The third, by Texas defensive end Tony Brackens, is already, and rightly so, legend. Brackens, 250 pounds of nasty hostility, smunched a hapless Texas Tech kicker, on a fake field goal attempt, all over the Texas sideline. It was a ghastly and frightening splaaaat. I don't believe the kicker ever wants to hear that play called again.

I left, after bitching about the sleep-inducing but free food (beans, beans, rice, and greasy meat), at half-time. I felt a little guilty. "This guy comes once a year, he's late and leaves early, what kind of a writer is he, anyway?" I figure that's the main topic of conversation in the Athletic Department on Monday morning. The score was 28-0. I'd seen enough.

The following analysis bares some consideration. I don't like UT. I'm under no pressure to pander. Texas is well positioned to compete quite well in the Big 12. With the exception of Nebraska, they're as good as anyone there. It's true, the conference has four teams in the top 25. In reality though, it's not a strong football conference. Kansas, K-State, and Colorado are not consistent football powers. Oklahoma is disintegrating. Texas, at 6-1-1, if they were playing in the Big 12, would be in the top five and not hoping to crack the Top 10 nationally. That's what a drag the SWC is.

Mackovic is often criticized for being a poor motivator, but the bottom line is, he's 9-1-1 in his last 11 games. He can't motivate. He can't recruit. He can't hunt ducks. Jesus, Texas fans are the pickiest people I know. He wins. At this level, what else matters? Next week's game against Houston should be interesting for Mackovic-watchers. It's in the Dome. No one will be there. There's no television. No one will care. Texas will be favored by a jillion TDs. How flat will they be after this great performance? If they go out and kick the wee-wee out of the Cougars, like a real team would, I'll concede the Horns are on a serious roll.

I've left my poor, orphaned daughter in the hands of strangers all day. I can only hope she made it to her party. Off I wander, into the dank, drizzly eve, a cold, wet breeze at my back. The evil Scorpio moon, nowhere to be seen. n