Bethel University - Spire Yearbook (St Paul, MN)

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The dedicated IM athlete participates somewhere in the hazy land between stark reality and grandiose fantasy. To ignore the five per cent shooting percentage or the eleven consecutive serves into the net would be sheer folly, but to morbidly dwell on this prevailing ineptitude could turn participants into spectators. So, for the sake of sport and sanity, IM participants play in an arena that is neither real or unreal, neither concrete nor ethereal. Thus, Cervantes’ hero rides again, as seen in the dozens of Tarkcntons and inumerable World Series games that make up the intramurals. BILLTROLLINCER

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For too long the Bethel commuter has gone unnoticed. This comment is devoted to the identification of the “Bethel or bust” 200-400 miles a week, long-haul commuter. At first glimpse, riding in a commuter carpool is slightly akin to riding the Bethel bus. Much time is spent on waiting for your ride and, if you’re the driver, a proportionate amount of time is also wasted on waiting for riders. The carpool driver, much like Bethel’s busdrivers, is often the victim of back-seat driving. (Bus drivers are definitely worse off in this regard, owing to the fact that most buses contain more back seats than the standard commuter Hornet, Vega or Olds.) To fully understand the commuter mindset, you must realize that the commuter’s very life revolves around a phenomen known as “THE GOOD OFTHE POOL.”This view of life is manifested in varying degrees of self-denial on the part of the rider (staying late, leaving early) and over-extension on the part of the driver (dropping people off here, waiting for them there), both of which arc excellent character builders. Few realize exactly what the rigors of day-in, day-out commuting entail. Not only is there the daily ritual of deciding why who sits where when who is driving which car for whatever reason. There are also more definitive questions that need answers, such as: Where should everyone put their lunches, books, etc? How long should the pool wait for members at appointed stops? What is the standard fare and allowed baggage for nonmembers’ weekend jaunts home? All these questions are debated at great length. They, along with the weather, make for great conversation. The topic of weather has purposely been saved for last. You cannot be a commuter in Minnesota without having at least a cursory introduction to windchills and jumper cables. Once a thorough knowledge of different cloud formations and basic meteorology has been acquired, the commuter can battle with Mother Nature to overcome blizzards, sleet and unsaltcd roads at great odds on all but the very worst of days. And on days like those, who among us doesn't wish he could stay at home and be glad he’s a commuter? MARY NORTON

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The overworked music major inhabits a warm, claustrophobic cubicle for an hour each day. Do you see that lonely, scarred piano and a bench that doesn’t match? Those soundboards of white spaghetti echo the words, “Do it again.’’ Bad notes shatter lights, scratchy voices shake the walls. Even sweet melodies soak into the unexcited carpet. There are no clocks in practice rooms. Minutes disappear with the first chord. Someone always knocks to ask the time. Or they inquire, “Have you seen Joyce?” as if in the middle of the coffee shop. A coffee shop it isn’t. Musicians are a unique breed of masochists. But when chords come correctly and fingers move finely (and finally), the agonizing hours of labor arc forgotten, locked behind the practice room door. JONATHON PEPPER