by Blackie Sherrod
Knight Ridder-Tribune
A news bulletin timidly edged into this concentration pattern, which was focused on the fourth race at Louisiana Downs. A faint voice from the periphery told about some college hacking into another college’s Web site, thereby learning some deep, dark secrets.
Uh-oh, was the subconscious reaction here, the Cal Techs are back at their mischief, bless their hearts.
As it turned out, the story was a bit more serious than a prank. The Yales complained to the FBI that the Princetons were swiping valuable information regarding prospective students. The details, of course, were in Greek, as are all computer explanations. Something about unauthorized log-ins by the Princeton admissions office. Not exactly your garden-variety campus caper.
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What the story did, however, was bring back lore of campus mischief from the days when laughter ruled instead of gas mask research. I have no idea whether the stories are true or correctly cast, only that they were told by elders around the campfire while waiting for the buffalo hump to barbecue.
Here on the frontier, campus mischief was more basic. We were not embryonic physicists; more likely, we were learning how to irrigate cotton fields, prospect for oil or teach grammar school. Our capers were more like kidnapping the other school’s mascot before the upcoming football game. Like making off with the Baylor bear or the Aggie collie.
There is the parable about how the Texas steer mascot got its name back in 1916. The first longhorn was an ornery orange-and-white steer, and Texas students planned a ceremonial branding, 27-7, the winning score of the last Texas-A&M game. Aggie students slipped into the steer’s pen the night before and branded 13-0, their last winning score, on the animal’s side. With some ingenuity, Texas students subsequently altered the brand to read B-E-V-O, the name of a popular beer of the times.
Then there were the Aggie students who slipped into Memorial stadium and planted rye grass seeds. So that when the Bermuda died in late autumn, and winter rains came, there would be a bright green TEXAS A&M growing against a rust background.
There was a yarn, too, about Arlington State when it was a junior college and its main rival was John Tarleton in Stephenville. Arlington students prepared a big bonfire (a la Texas A&M) to be ignited the night before their traditional game. A Tarleton student rented an old biplane, with the aim of flying low over the woodpile and igniting it by dropping some sort of gasoline bombs. But a strong-arm Arlington student, seeing the plane approaching at roof height, grabbed a stick and flung it into the propeller, downing the raider. Such were campus pranks on the old frontier.
At Cal Tech, however, a bit more brainpower was employed (it doesn’t take a high IQ to throw a stick). The Southern Cal card section at football games is an involved masterpiece of engineering and planning. Scientifically programmed cards are passed down rows in numerical order. On certain signals, each student holds up his colored card, and magically, a huge “USC TROJANS” against a garish background appears on this sea of students. It is something to see.
But these pesky Cal Techs, future scientists and engineers and whatever, broke into the USC storeroom, changed the instructions on the back of each card and reprogrammed the whole smear. The next day, before a packed coliseum and a national TV audience, the USC producer barked a number into his microphone, the cards flashed, and to the great Trojan embarrassment, they spelled out “CAL TECH.”
Finally, another campus masterpiece is credited to Cal Tech students (or maybe it was MIT smarties) whose favorite professor bought one of the first Volkswagens to arrive on these shores. He was immensely proud of his vehicle, constantly lecturing about its superior engineering.
One weekend, he flew out of town for a meeting. His students picked the garage lock, painstakingly dismantled the Volkswagen down to its smallest nut and bolt and then painstakingly reassembled the car to the last detail, in perfect running order, in the professor’s upstairs bedroom.
Blackie Sherrod is a columnist for The Dallas Morning News. Readers may write to Sherrod at the Dallas Morning News, Communications Center, Dallas, Texas, 75265, or send e-mail to bsherrod @ dallasnews.com.
