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
This article appears in November 10 • 1995 and November 10 • 1995 (Cover).