After dotting the last “i”s and crossing the final “t”s of what was a banner academic year, unwavering nostalgia would have been an anticipated, if not expected, element of a rather uneventful summer vacation. Thrust back into the repetitious work-home cycle characteristic of post-semester life, I found myself doing a lot less, and sleeping a lot more. Despite having the three month opportunity to truthfully lament over the loss of deadlines and productivity, I became preoccupied with a longing far deeper ingrained in my persona than Labatt Blue and jungle juice. I was abruptly reintroduced to the obsessive compulsion of the greatest game ever played; Legends of the Hidden Temple.

Rarely does a t-shirt have the power to stop time and create discussion out of thin air. Ironic phrases or comedic logos found across academic campuses, while perhaps providing a quick laugh to the unknowing passerby, often leave the bearer indifferent and bereft of any social recognition. Mid-summer, I received a shirt that broke the laws of the physical universe; matter in the form of instantaneous and enthusiastic dialogue was created out of dead space non-matter.

For the handful of people, no doubt the minority in this particular circumstance, who are not familiar with the show, I ask that you sit down and prepare yourself to receive knowledge that one day may save your life. Airing on Nickelodeon in 1993 and running for a paltry two years, Legends of the Hidden Temple was a television show that challenged its child contestants both physically and mentally. Divided into six color-designated teams, each composed of two combatants, the game itself was played upon a diverse obstacle course designed to muscle out the frail and destroy the weak.

Starting at a swimming pool referred to as the “moat,” despite not being a moat of any kind of fortification, team members would have to cross on rafts or, at different points in the show’s history, ropes without falling into the water. Whether or not live piranhas inhabited said moat is up for debate. The first four successful teams would advance to the next section, a series of steps where a legend was orally recounted by Olmec, a talking stone head voiced by a baritone child pedophile from South Philadelphia. After hearing that episode’s unique story, teams were quizzed on elements of the legend they literally just heard. At this point of the game, the potheads with short-term memory loss would be filtered out. The first two teams to get to the bottom of the steps advanced to the next stage, the temple games. Composed of different challenges often catered to that show’s particular legend, temple games were a modern Olympiad that made teams compete for portions of medals known as “Pendants of Life.” Whether clinging to life on some variation of a teeter-totter, or having to scale a wall while the other teammate launched things at them, here the men were separated from the boys. Or women separated from girls. Whatever.

The heart and soul of the game rested in the last course that the final remaining team was able to participate in, a temple constructed of cheap wood and plaster that did not have a side wall. Housing a dozen rooms adjacent to one another, the set allotted teams three minutes for contestants to run through, one at a time, and find the room that held the artifact of the legend. It was a time-attack challenge with one catch: you weren’t alone. Franticly trying to unlock doors and wade through the individually designed rooms, a player at any turn could cross paths with a Temple Guard. Dressed as some racist adaptation of an Inca warrior with branches attached to their bodies, Temple Guards would stop the contestant unless they had a full Pendant of Life to chalk up. Those without a pendant were taken away to be presumably raped and sacrificed. If either of the teammates were able to find the artifact and extract it before time expired, they were rewarded with the respect of the audience members and usually a crappy television set.

Despite having been cancelled for over ten years, the legacy of the show and its impact on those who appreciated it remains.

This past summer, I was given a Legends t-shirt, and I became an ambassador for the Green Monkeys. What I soon discovered while sporting it in public, and even at the workplace, is that the burning passion for the show that remains in my heart to this day rests deep in the hearts of countless youth across the nation. I would be confronted by strangers, brothers in arms separated from me only by the lack of a prior acquaintance. Discussions emerged, recounting the days of television where a lucky few were given the chance to compete for everlasting glory. Frustrations over the general inability of contestants to put together the shrine of the silver monkey, the greatest of temple challenges, in an acceptable time frame were abound. My childhood fears and anxieties over the Temple Guards were unearthed. Uproarious banter ensued, lasting for unprecedented periods of time. When the dust settled and laughter calmed, both myself and the individual would part ways, no doubt leading to a more enjoyable day.

Whether you are familiar with the game or not, it is time to put this hiatus to a halt. For too long have acolytes of The Temple been forced to wallow in grief over what was. It is time to throw out the “was,” to resurrect the fallen, and to make the Temple games a present tense “is.” Students, faculty, and staff of the university - hear my war cry. No longer can we wait for Nickelodeon to end its preoccupation with family-friendly television broadcast. As we march on under the banner of UB 2020, let us become pioneers and innovators of the SUNY system, nay—the world. It is time that we utilize the plots of land along J.J. Audubon for a greater cause than pickup soccer games and Ultimate Frisbee. Deconstruct the walls of oppression and work to reconstruct the wisdom of Olmec. Open land will soon be replaced with sweat, blood, and tears. I look towards the engineering and architecture departments to work side by side in crafting the floor plans to make the dream a reality. We must build it bigger, better, and far more dangerous than before. Who will be the contestants, you ask? Who would place their life and dignity on the line for the chance of resounding fame and glory? Sign me up.

Jeff Froustet is a junior history and classics major and Supervising Editor of Generation.