HOME: Schenectady, New York

AGE: 20

PROFESSION: Cornell University "student" and varsity football starter.

MAJOR: Agriculture

HOBBIES: Growing potatoes and "cruising" downtown Ithaca in a tractor "just for kicks."

MOST MEMORABLE BOOKS: Burpee's 1978 seed catalogue, Eloise Goes to Paris.

LATEST ACCOMPLISHMENT: Achieved a 3.9 grade point average last spring semester at Cornell, receiving A's in Home Economics 102--Cooking ("Meals for Heels"), Food Management 205 ("Beefsteak"), and Botany 35--Corngrowing ("Stalks for Jocks").

QUOTE: "I'm getting a little bit sick and tired of all this horse manure about Cornell football players being just a bunch of dumb jocks. We have a pissah football team this year, and being an Ag major ain't no piece of cake. It's not like I'm one of those wimps in hotel management or something."

MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: "Yeah, I guess it would have to be last year when we were looking at Harvard films. I'm a little deaf in one ear, see, so when Coach Blackman starts talking about the Restic "Multisex" offense, I start giggling, you know, sort of quiet like. And then coach Blackman, he says, 'OK, Elmer, what's the joke? If it's so funny, why don't you share it WITH THE WHOLE TEAM?' So I go, 'Heh, heh, the multisex, what does that mean--some of the the guys wear PANTIES on the field or something?' And then everybody starts laughing, and I guess I was laughing too--yeah, I was laughing--except they were sort of laughing AT me, you know, not WITH me? Boy, what a bonehead move that was--you see, the whole time, it was the multi-FLEX offense."

PROFILE: Big, strong, dumb. And above all else fictitious, or else I'd be dead.

FAVORITE DRINK: Big Red Cowpuncher (6 ozs. Genesee beer, half-cup of fresh cream, jigger-full of tobacco juice, and a packet of unsweetened cherry Kool-Aid, with a twist).

*****

After seeking all sorts of remedies for my miserable 5-7 record following the weird first two weeks of predicting, I headed to the Harvard Pro last Friday night and purchased a six-pack of Schlitz sixteen-ouncers. Downing three of the tall-boys before making my picks, I ended up with six right, zero wrong.

As I write this week's column, I have already consumed six of these monstrous cans, so I'll be lucky if I even get the pairings straight.

Here goes, before I pass out: