ABSTRACT
The moment it happened was an October Saturday, autumn in Central Texas too subtle for those raised in four seasons to appreciate, but the sky is so blue and the breeze so fresh and the smell of cedars so rich you can’t believe you’ll ever want to live anywhere else. The University of Texas, where I was a freshman, was playing Arkansas, a nationally-televised and hugely important arch rivalry. Those of us who couldn’t drive to Little Rock for the game had popcorn and Oreos and a six pack or two of Lone Star on hand—the drinking age was 18 then and you could, as I recall, have alcohol in the dorms—and our RA had connected her TV in the lounge at the end of the hallway.
