COMMENTARY\The case of the assumed identity an often-seen rerun.

Byline: Blackie Sherrod Dallas Morning News

Even if you are not an acolyte of jockdom, you may be aware of an intriguing little plot in Austin. The story hopped the sports section all the way to Page 1. John Le Carre or Frederick Forsythe should be on the scene, taking notes.

Shortly before the Sugar Bowl, word leaked that a University of Texas reserve was playing under an assumed name (Ron McKelvey) and that he actually was a 30-year-old chap who spent his eligibility years ago. The real Mr. McKelvey works for a box factory in California. The impostor's official title is Ron Weaver.

Immediately, UT officials went into their classic defensive posture, which is patterned after that of the armadillo. In case of attack, one curls up inside one's armored shell and bites viciously any probing finger.

DeLoss Dodds, in charge of Longhorn sports, was quick to divorce his operation from any taint. How could his school be expected to be on guard against such subterfuge? How many times has this happened in the history of the sport? asked Mr. Dodds, who then answered himself. Never, he said.

Oh, how I wish he hadn't said that. With that one defensive reflex, Mr. Dodds put my memory on the rack, a position I wish to avoid because it requires a certain amount of mental dexterity.

Never happened in the history of the sport?

With a minimum of strain, I can recall just enough as to greet Mr. Dodds' statement with a sardonic chuckle.

Perhaps someone out there will help me remember the story of Ted Keys. Far, far back in college football was this Keys person, who played, I think, on the West Coast. Someone discovered that he actually was not named Ted and that Ted was the name of a cousin. The chap kept denying the charge to such an extent that reporters referred to him as Ted (Honest I'm Ted) Keys. The nickname is the reason the partial story is lodged in memory.

In fact, in the yore days, college squads were frequently inhabited by tramp athletes who played at various schools under various names. It was a way to earn bed and board and dates with pretty girls.

Once at a post-banquet cocktail party in Minneapolis, a tall, lean, handsome chap with steel gray hair introduced himself as John McNally. Fifteen minutes later, after he left, my memory had a spasm. Johnny Blood McNally.

While a collegiate player at St. John's, the scholarly Mr. McNally (he could recite Shakespeare all night long) also played professionally with the East 26th Street Liberties in Minneapolis. En route to signing with the pros, he passed a theater marquee advertising the Rudolph Valentino movie "Blood and Sand" and adopted the professional name Johnny Blood.

Mr. McNally played as an amateur on Saturdays; Johnny Blood played pro on Sundays. He went on to a legendary career as both a NFL halfback and an international playboy.

Some old goats might recall a West Texas idyll in the '30s. Botchey Koch, the renowned Baylor guard, was hired as coach of George Washington University. About the same time, a swift halfback named Clarence McCarver was finishing his college career at Howard Payne in Brownwood.

The next season, Mr. McCarver and four chums from Howard Payne and Daniel Baker College showed up at George Washington under new names. There was scant chance any Eastern citizen would recognize players from two obscure Texas colleges, but as a precaution, Mr. McCarver wore a nose guard.

However, he played so well in early games that he attracted press attention, and subsequent investigation uncovered the sham. Mr. McCarver, however, remained in school, got his doctorate and became a respected force in physical education.

Never, you say? Frequently, I say.

I once had a teammate with the improbable name of Tootie Puddy, who graduated from our high school, visited a sister in another part of the state, enrolled in that high school as a freshman and quickly became a football star. He was a hotshot around town and dated the pretty girls; merchants bought him meals and clothes; and when his ruse was discovered, he shrugged and caught the next bus.

It never happened before in the annals of the sport, Mr. Dodds? Not more than possibly 100,000 times. Perhaps young Mr. McKelvey-Weaver had no larceny in his heart. Perhaps he was, shall we say, a congenital devotee of history.