My First Big Game
November, 1962. The quiet roars we'd been hearing for weeks were the echoes
of a national sigh of relief. Khrushchev and Castro were dismantling the Soviet
missiles in Cuba ("Cuber", in the parlance of President Kennedy).
Keeping some of the parts in Havana to slap onto old Studebakers, and sending
the rest back to Moscow to use for spare parts on stoves and refrigerators. And
a maybe a few Volgas. That was a Russian car. Sort of.
But the only roars I was hearing at the time had nothing to do with something
as irrelevant and abstract as nuclear friggin' war; they were the ones I was
imagining after Stanford scored some touchdowns in the upcoming Big Game.
The Big Game, 1962! I couldn't believe I was really going to be there.
November 23. Hell, it was my first time in Memorial Stadium, so can you blame
me for being a little nervous? My job that day: friggin' usher. I was being
asked to guide total strangers to their seats in a section above the five-yard
line, west side, north endzone. I mean, there I was, a skinny, know-nothing
sophomore from Armijo High School in Fairfield, a Solano County town in the
heart of "Bear Territory". And there I was that morning. In the belly
of Oskie.
Our high school was a blue zone. Half the faculty graduated from Berkeley or
Davis. Bob Briggs, Armijo band director, would return to his alma mater five
years later to lead the Cal band and eventually become legendary director of the
Weenie outfit. Fairfield and Cal had a spiritual connection at the time that
makes today's "San Francisco" and "Democrat" seem tenuous by
comparison.
I hated Cal. I hated most of my teachers, too, especially during Big Game
week because they taunted me mercilessly. All because I was a vociferous,
annoying Stanford fan who barked at them every chance I got, really obnoxiously,
reminding them that our own high-school mascot was a freakin' Indian, that their
coach, Marv Levy, would likely be fired after the game, and that Iowa had
obliterated their overblown hero Joe Kapp in their last Rose Bowl appearance
('59).
Not only that, I "guaranteed" a Stanford victory in the upcoming
Big Game. And I made bets with a few of them. For real money.
So here was the deal: at every Cal game, certain guys on the Armijo football
team had the chance to be Memorial Stadium ushers. Our athletic director (and
driver-education czar, Ed Hopkins, was an Old Blue (of course) and wrote checks
to his alma mater. See how long ago this was? A high-school coach/drivers-ed guy
could write that kind of a check.
We got to the stadium early. About 10:30AM. We were the first ones through
the gates because we had to undergo much-needed orientation training, such as
learning where the restrooms were located and how the rows were lettered and
seats numbered. Not too complicated. The toilets, by the way, were as
dilapidated then as they are today. Just seemed like there were more of them.
But I digress.
Okay, now the people started wandering in. Lucky for me, I had no one to
escort. And I hesitated to make eye contact. God, what a slacker. But so what?
It was a Cal section and everybody seemed to know where were going. One thing
that sticks in my memory: attire. Men in sportcoats and slacks, many in shirt
and tie, were the norm. Ladies in heels, some in hats, yellow chrysanthemums
everywhere. And the aroma of cigar smoke - a different epoch, for sure. Mad
Men gets is absolutely right.
Suddenly, the teams entered for warm-ups. The Cal student section roared when
the Bears appeared. Clunky blue helmets, and navy blue jerseys with a bunch of
yellow stripes up the sleeves like old-school rugby shirts. Gold pants, no
stripes. High-top black cleats. Good quarterback, Craig Morton. A few minutes
later, enter the Tribe. Boos shook the building. I loved it! I saw my heroes in
the flesh for the first time! Glistening white helmets, no stripes or
ornamentation any kind. Made them look like astronauts. White jerseys, red
pants, white socks to mid-shin, black shoes. Mostly low-tops. The QB was Steve
Thurlow, who would go on to play for the New Yawk football Giants. He mainly
ran. The fullback, Ed Cummings, also played linebacker on defense. It was the
last year of two-way players. Backup quarterback was a guy named Clark Weaver
who maybe weighed 175 pounds. He would be the star that day, in the second half,
and turn a dull 13-3 deficit into a sparkling 30-13 Indian win. But I'm getting
ahead of myself.
Okay, so out of the south tunnel comes the Stanford Band, looking and
sounding absolutely nothing at all like today's Incomparables. Still, the
contrast to the Michigan-like Weenie Band was stark and dramatic. The Weenies in
white leggings and tunics, the all-male Stanfords in red blazers, white
turtlenecks, and oxford gray flannels. The dollies, adorned with red feathers in
their Indian-bead headbands, completed the picture. And to my adolescent eyes,
they were beautiful. Especially the daughter of legendary Stanford QB Frank
Albert. More on her, later.
Minutes later, from the north tunnel, the marching weenies high-stepped onto
the turf. Sounding and looking exactly like their descendants today.
Kickoff. Morton's Bears dominate. It's 13-3 at the half and it wasn't that
close. Maybe Marv Levy will keep his job. Maybe I'll have to return to
Fairfield, and Monday classes, with my pride in tatters, paying off those bets
with money I didn't have. God, spare me from this fate.
The Indians received the second half kickoff and out on the field jogs
Weaver. Might Coach Cactus Jack Curtice have something up his sportcoat sleeve?
Weaver went right to work, completing passes left and right. He then went to the old razzle-dazzle, tossing a wide lateral to halfback Chris Jessen who found sophomore Bob Howard in the endzone for a touchdown! South end of Memorial Stadium erupted and so did I to the chagrin of those
around me. Punk.
It was downhill from that point for Levy's Bears. His fate, and Cal's, were
sealed. Stanford kept the axe. Post game, everyone was on the very muddy turf of
Memorial Stadium and it was a very amicable scene. My usher brothers and I, like
heat-seeking missiles, went straight for the Dollies. We just wanted a closer,
uh, look. I can still see their legs, sneakers (no boots yet). No panty shots,
however. As the band and the Dollies headed off, Scott Chalmers, one of my close
buds, reached out and swiped Ms. Albert's feather. She gave brief chase. Scotty
melted into the crowd. Punk!
On the ride back to Fairfield that evening, in the back of the station wagon,
Chalmers passed around his trophy feather. It smelled like perfume. Lucky
bastard.
On Monday, I strutted around the halls and classrooms, not exactly endearing
myself to our Cal alum faculty, gloating and preening, ostentatiously collecting
bets. Levy got fired, but so did Curtice. I just wished I had that
feather.
Still do.
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