The Rice Thresher (Houston, Tex.), Vol. 75, No. 13, Ed. 1 Friday, November 20, 1987 Page: 17 of 20
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THRESHER Sports Friday. November 20,1987 17
The thrill of the hunt links all Rice sportsmen
Saturday was a big day for a lot of
people. Everybody at Rice geared up
for the climactic experience that was
Esperanza; hunter and hunted waited
in trepidation. The true Texas sports-
man, however, w^S out in the woods
with a bloodlust of his own, for deer
season opened Saturday morning.
Regardless, the classic sense of sport-
ing pursuit was in the air. Be it a ten-
point buck or a small-nosed coed,
everyone knew what they were after.
The would-be skanker started his
preparations at 6 p.m., starting with an
extended shower and a luxurious
shave. He splashed his body with
sweet-smelling fu-fu juice, then care-
fully donned the rented tux. Armload
of roses and Godiva chocolates in
hand, he made his way to the home of
his appointed one, for the blessed
event was nigh.
The mighty hunter began his quest
by rising at4:45 a.m., stumbling curs-
ing through the darkness to find life-
giving coffee. He splashed his hag-
gard face with chilling tap water,
sprayed on some heavy duty insect
repellent, then broke out the com-
plete camo outfit to suit up. He then
dragged the 85-quart cooler, WWII
spotlight, Coleman stove, and as-
sorted munitions and heavy ordnance
out to the pickup truck.
Meanwhile, Casanova whisked
his fawning lovely into the heart of
the glamorous Galleria area to some
unpronouncable eatery.
The recently discarded wine
glasses lay on the floor of the sleek
sports coupe that he wheedled and
cajoled his way into borrowing.
Romantic music wafted from the
stereo. Dinner was perfect, the soft
candlelight complementing exqui-
sitely the romantic atmosphere, taste-
fully arranged food. The peach liquer
flowed.Then, on to the dance, to trip
the light fantastic.
The modem American predator
wheeled his truck into the Git 'n' Zip
convenience store at about 5:03 a.m.,
OWLOOK
by Keith Couch
the rolling of empty beer cans drown-
ing out Hank Williams Jr. on the
radio. After wolfing down a pair of
microwaved bean burritoes, washed
down with sticky chocolate milk, he
hurriedly purchased a couple of
"sport-paks" of Lone Star. Then, on
to the woods, to go and kill some-
thing.
At the dance, Don Juan began to
lay the foundations of a successful
climax to the evening. He was charm-
ing, suave, and debonair. He allowed
her just the right amount of intoxicat-
ing refreshment. He danced lightly
and nimbly, and lied through his
teeth.
By a quarter of six, the great
sportsman had strung up the Clay-
more mines around the perimeter of
his lease, checked the electronic lis-
tening devices, and climbed into his
elaborately concealed deer blind to
wait for the kill. Legal warfare did not
open until fifteen minutes before
dawn, so he whiled the time away by
shotgunning a few brewskis and
sharpened up his aim by picking off a
dog and a couple of snakes that never
knew what hit them. The time was
near.
The great gigolo hit his stride as the
dance was ending. He snuggled his
quarry gently as the strolled back to
the parking. He chose a long, tree-
lined, winding route home.
The cool breeze was refreshing
and soothing. They chatted in soft
voices and gazed deeply into each
other's eyes. Then they were back at
her place.
He was sensitive, sweet, and oh-
so-smooth. He knew the moment of
truth was near.
The mighty buck walked unwarily
into the clearing shortly after sunrise.
The hunter's eyes widened in disbe-
lief at his tremendous luck.He trained
the sights of his weapon on the beast
and tracked it as it strode towards
him. His fmger caressed the trigger,
waiting, waiting.
Suddenly she was in his arms, her
chest heaving with excitement. His
eyes widened as she moved so close,
and he blessed his foresight in prepar-
ing so carefully. Stealthily his hands
slid towards the back of her gown.
The hunter fired prematurely. The
shot echoed through the woods, and
harmlessly kicked up sod five feet
behind the magnificent trophy,
which instantly took flight.
The skanker made his play too
soon. He sat stunned on the steps
outside, as she slammed the door
behind him. "Schmoke me, baby!" he
cried in defiance.
Each shambled home, the thrill of
the hunt quelled, but vowing to again
take up the great sporting hunt next
year. Mother nature would again be
challenged, and next time they would
best her.
Lads battle SHSV to a draw in Olympian struggle
by Tony Mason
After a miserable game against
A&M on Friday night, the Rice lads
straggled back to Houston like a band
of beleagured Argonauts, without a
Jason, a Golden Fleece, and only a
few empties of Black Label Light to
show for their hardships. It was not
even one of those defeats that can be
made into a victory (even by the most
ardent of Thresher sports writers).
Nor was it humorous. Consequently,
I do not plan to write about it. Instead,
let's talk about Sunday's game
against formerly undefeated Sam
Houston State.
It was, of course, a dark afternoon
(apparently Helio's chariot had run
out of Relovacs) when the blues gath-
ered in the HanszenTV room. Coach
Henshaw slapped a tape into the VCR
and, in a fashion that would make the
Delphi oracle jealous, and said, "OK
blues, I want you to take a look at
this." "This better be pornographic,"
they thought, but instead, it turned out
to be the 1986 World cup, a game
more inspirational than even the first
Olympics.
In the Jovian'thunderstorm, Rice
took the field. Sure Sam Houston,
those sons of Achilles, were unde-
feated but they too had one weak-
ness—to borrow a phrase from Mr.
Breathed—they sucked. Rice bat-
tered their opponents in the pouring
rain and Stygian mud but were unable
to score in the first half.
The second half of the Trojanic
struggle was equally lopsided. How-
ever, Sam Houston on a breakaway
was able to score. Rice's determina-
tion increased. "Come on Rice, we
got to put the fucking ball in the fuck-
ing net." "Well... if we builtthis giant
wooden centerforward..." "No, I
don't think so..."
Then, on a Herculean comer kick by
Stuart White, Coleman Tucker with a
subliminal header, knocked the ball
off an SHSU player and into the net.
The game was tied 1-1. For the re-
maining 20 minutes Rice pounded the
SHSU goal in vain, even missing a
penalty kick—not a very glorious
way to win, but that never bothered
Odysseus. With the final whistle, the
score remained tied.
The blood streaked blues were
slighdy pissed. Though the game was
definitely a psychological victory it
wasn't a true victory, they could not
justifiably cut off their opponents
heads and drag their dust-streaked
bodies behind their chariots. "Damn.
No pillaging. No raping. No date
raping, even. I guess we'll have to
settle for a beer. Isn't Vahalla open?"
(Ooops, wrong pantheon).
Rice's final match is here this Sun-
day at 2 p.m. against Stephen F.
Austin. Because of the newly in-
stalled bleachers (not quite an
ampitheater, but we're working on it)
good seats are still available.
\ AS
II
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Raphael, Michael J. The Rice Thresher (Houston, Tex.), Vol. 75, No. 13, Ed. 1 Friday, November 20, 1987, newspaper, November 20, 1987; Houston, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth245679/m1/17/: accessed July 18, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Rice University Woodson Research Center.