University Daily Kansan
Wednesdav. September 26.1979
5
"Arms outstretched, I leap toward the frenzied quarterback . . . "
"I dare ya."
Story by Amy Hollowell Photos by Bill Frakes
A familiar whiff of sweat-laced Chanel inks in the chalk dust of the 20-vard line.
Behind her human barricade, the 110-pound querrerback struts to the line, peeking across as it went up.
Her destiny, anything-bot Petite-limenian, marries a wildwoman Addax into the earth and deeds deeper.
Secondes before haffition, fourth and inches, in the world of women's intramural football this is the test result.
Braced for the offensive onslaught, 1 peer across the line of scrimmage, focusing on the target of the defensive rush: the lightweight field general, looking like a namer doll about to be buried, crumpled.
But she is more than a female quarterback; she is our heart's mind and, to squish her to be quiche
So I attack. Full force, bones and muscles clash,
ebbows dig into ribs and a strategically placed knee drives into my thigh. Shooting pain, but the general is scrambling in the backfield like a maze in a maze.
No time for injury, no time for pain. Arns out stretched, leap toward the framed quarterback as she scores a goal.
"Yeah! Good job defense!" a gravelly-coached coach from the sideline sinistrud teammates' cries of relief. "Good job, Bob!"
*"Thanks."*
The quarterback backseak, the pass incomplete, the opponents sacerdote, the first hull is over. Our mission is to get back to where we came from.
No ballet show in the sorority league, only lukewarm water from a communal cup and a verbal instant replay of memorable atrocities and outstanding nays.
"I can't believe these refs," cries an outraged of fensive lineman. "That girl on the line has been hanging
"Just keep your cool and no matter what they do, don't let 'em get to you," our resident, level-headed, good sportsman says. "We're playing fair. We don't have to play dirty."
The paper doll general and her hard-biting henchman glare into our halftime bumble from across the field. As sorority team members have for the past 10 years, we return the rival glare.
This weekly meeting on the gridiron is much more than a diversion from the rigors of academia. It's the day to share the results of a successful preparation for 50 minutes of grace, femininity and athletic prowess in a game that by its nature is unpredictable.
Softly, but quickly, her never-a-hair-of-place quarterback calls, "Hut one, hut two, hut three." Dropping back, she rifles the ball into the receiver's waiting hands.
Second half.
Hurdle, break, lineup, pass. Twelve yards. Again.
Five yards. Once more, and then, we launch a 17-yard
block.
"Okay, we're 'taken' touchdown!" First and goal,
double reverse, the backward back *b* kick线 like late line.
Backhand, one second later.
"Touchdown, yeah!" Leaps, shouts, huts. The missed point is often dismised in the stuffie of the defense.
We continue to fold, winkle and ruffle the paper doll passer and her guards. We repeatedly crash through the line, crushing her, moving the line markers backward down the field.
Finally a pass. But from nowhere, the lingerbacker appears to make an interruption, "Awright," we're talking interception!" and the lanky runner flees with the thin, leaving a trail of disgruntled purses her woke.
"Awright, we're talkin' touchdown!" shouts an ecstatic lineman. We score. Again.
We win. Again. We hurt. Again.
After the rahr-rahs and the handshakes and the coaches' post-game talk, they are happy and sorried.
We're talkin' football.
the target of the defensive rush; the lightweight field general.
"So I attack. Full force, bones and muscles clash."
"Awright, we're talkin' touchdown."