A Toe-Dip of Tradition
Hate is too strong a word. At least it was for me. I never particularly cared
for the Dirty Golden Bears, and my obligatory disdain for "the other
school" exponentially increased during my five seasons as a Cardinal
offensive lineman. Still, the ubiquitous yarns of mutual loathing associated
with the Big Game are often spun with considerable poetic license, and with few
accurate depictions of the athletic dynamic at the rivalry's core.
Upon arriving at their respective campuses, Stanford and Cal students are
imbued with abhorrence for one another's cultures, disrespect for one another's
curriculums, and contempt for one another's colors. That reciprocal repugnance
only intensifies after graduation, when alums are forced to join hands - or at
least occasionally put their heads together - in the professional world, despite
time-honored truisms such as "Cal sucks." But the Stanford-Cal
relationship is different for football players. At least it was for me. Blue and
gold never left me seeing red, and beating the Bears wasn't the sole requirement
for a successful season. The Big Game was, in fact, the annual climax of my
seasons on The Farm, but not for the reasons so many people assume. Bashing in
the Bears' brains was nice, and silencing Cal's obnoxious fans was a welcomed
bonus. But what made the Big Game truly special for me and my teammates was the
rare chance it allowed us to feel like everyone else.
I was recruited by Nebraska and Ohio State, and I never regretted choosing
Stanford - even as I watched the Cornhuskers and Buckeyes play for national
championships after my junior and senior seasons. I was glad that I hadn't
attended a football factory, where donning a jersey made me the focal point of a
myopic community with questionable values. I was proud to have traveled a
different and challenging path, and I never wanted my gridiron exploits to be my
life's defining highlights. Most of my teammates felt the same way. Still, I
couldn't help but wonder what it might feel like to be a football player in
Lincoln or Columbus, not to mention College Station, State College, South Bend
or nearly anywhere in SEC country. I didn't want to swim in a sea of sycophants,
nor ride a wave of obsessive adoration to the shores of egotistical entitlement.
I just wanted to dip a toe in the water, and the Big Game gave me that
chance.
My teammates and I occasionally lamented our typically sparse, hushed home
crowds, but we knew we would be hypocritical ingrates to complain. The reasons
behind Stanford Stadium often being more than half empty were the same ones that
drew us to Stanford in the first place. Our relatively small and intensely
focused student body precluded an imposing student section, but it contributed
to the world-class, inspirational academic environment we yearned for. Palo
Alto's postcard-perfect weather and myriad adjacent attractions gave thousands
of potential spectators too many tempting activities to opt for a seat in the
bleachers. And a region as captivating as Northern California proved too
expensive for many younger Stanford alums to remain within shouting distance. We
knew the problem wasn't the fans we had; it was the ones we didn't have - until
Big Game week. Beginning by the Mondays before our late-season showdowns with
Cal, droves of Cardinal backers emerged from the woodwork - or the Enchanted
Broccoli Forest. In classes, fellow students greeted us with enthusiasm and
encouragement, rather than the typical welcomes of mild interest, indifference
or contempt. In the community, people still didn't know us by name or jersey
number, but they wished us luck nonetheless, figuring college-aged Paul Bunyans
were likely in pursuit of The Axe. Perhaps most amazingly, the Bay Area media
suddenly realized there were two nearby universities that just happened to field
Pac-10 football teams. The attention that might have become a distracting
nuisance in the long run was refreshing in small doses.
The Big Game is a treasured tradition for those who grew up with a partisan
interest, as well as neutral Bay Area sports enthusiasts who simply appreciate
the rivalry's rich history. But despite their academic endeavors, it is
unrealistic to expect Stanford and Cal players to be scholars when it comes to
Big Game folklore. Stanford's stringent admissions standards for athletes force
Cardinal coaches to search well beyond California for the rare prospects who
possess the athleticism to compete on the Pac-10 gridiron, as well as the
balance and intelligence to excel beyond it. Raised in Morgan Hill, I was one of
the few players on my Cardinal teams with Bay Area roots. But before arriving at
Stanford, all I knew about the Big Game was that the Stanford band had once
prematurely entered the field in celebration, causing Cal's nasally announcer to
go berserk. A few days before the 1998 Big Game, head coach Tyrone Willingham
sat with our freshmen class as we watched a film about the rivalry's history.
Willingham wanted us to learn what the anomalous campus fuss was about, and we
knew the game must be a big deal to merit a mid-week crash course. We realized
just how significant the rivalry was that Saturday, when we saw a frenzied crowd
pack Berkeley's Memorial Stadium to watch our 2-8 Stanford team battle a so-so
Cal squad. I didn't play a down in our 10-3 victory, but as I left the field
among throngs of frenzied Stanford fans, I suddenly knew what it felt like to be
a college football star.
Cal and Stanford fans relish reducing one another to comical caricatures. Cal
fans maintain that Stanford supporters subsist on wine and cheese alone.
Cardinal devotees aren't bothered by such accusations, as they know the
"Weenies" are simply recovering from life at a fallback school. But
the irony, which both parties are wary to admit, is that Cal is the closest
relative to Stanford in the Pac-10, just as Stanford is the most similar persona
to Cal. The players realize this, which is why despite the visceral emotion a
rivalry game generates, the Big Game is far more venomous in the stands than
between the sidelines. Oregon State's renegades and USC's prima donnas were the
adversaries to which we couldn't relate. The Big Game had more on-field passion
and intensity than most contests, but surprisingly little malice. Upon signing
with Stanford, former Cal head coach Tom Holmoe called me with congratulations.
It was the first time we ever spoke. Golden Bears defensive end Andre Carter was
the most dominant and intimidating opponent I ever battled. He was also the
classiest and most humble. When Cal thumped us 30-7 in 2002 to snap our
seven-game Big Game win streak, I expected the Golden Bears to gloat. They
didn't, and Cal linebacker Paul Ugenti - a fellow fifth-year senior - shook my
hand late in the contest, congratulating me on a great career, and wishing me
luck for the future. The Big Game isn't distinctive among rivalry games due to
the emotion it incites, but for the unspoken respect beneath its surface.
Stanford's players have spent this week saying that Saturday's contest at 6-4
Cal is their most important game of the season. The Cardinal likely would make
similar claims with a winless record, but at 5-6, Stanford looks to become bowl
eligible for the first time since 2001, meaning Saturday's final chance for a
sixth victory would be equally crucial if it came against Cal Tech rather than
Cal. Stanford is focused on elongating its season, not just spoiling Cal's, and
that's the way it should be. Cardinal fans may wish for Cal to somehow lose 13
games in a 12-game season, but rivalries are at their juiciest when more than
pride is on the line. Each of the four Big Games I played in were historically
significant, or at least noteworthy. Our 31-13 victory in 1999 clinched our
berth in the Rose Bowl. In 2000, we won a 36-30 thriller, marking the first
overtime game in series history. In 2001, our heavily favored squad needed a
late defensive stand to hold off winless Cal, 35-28, in Holmoe's final Pac-10
game. Our 2002 defeat gave Cal its first glimpse of The Axe since 1994, and was
the first of five straight Big Game victories for the Golden Bears, who finally
fell to the underdog Cardinal last year.
The Big Game is special because Stanford and Cal players know it isn't the
end - not of their interaction with one another, nor of the important moments in
their lives. When Cardinal running back Anthony Kimble slips into the end zone
Saturday, he may do so by breaking the tackle of a future colleague. When
Stanford safety Bo McNally clobbers Cal wide receiver Nyan Boateng, it may be
the only time he levels a future business associate without legal repercussions.
For three precious hours, the Cardinal gets to thrive at the center of the Bay
Area sporting universe, rather than quietly exist on the periphery as respected
but anonymous student-athletes. Similarly, Stanford's fans get to shelve their
healthy priorities for a day, jeering kal with an intensity and immaturity that
surprises even themselves. As a player, I always respected the opposition. But
along with my final collegiate snap in Memorial Stadium six years ago came a
liberating freedom of speech, and I can finally articulate my complex
conclusion: Cal is poo.
About the Author: Greg Schindler, LSJU '03, was a four-year starter and four-year letter-winner for the Cardinal from
1999-2002, starting 42 of 46 games. After redshirting as a true freshman in
1998, he was the team's starting right tackle in 1999-2000 and the team's
starting right guard in 2001-02. Prior to Stanford, Schindler starred at Live
Oak High School in Morgan Hill, CA and was named a First-team All-American by
Prepstar in 1997. Following his Stanford career, Schindler was signed by the San Francisco 49ers as a free agent after graduating in 2003 with an English Major and a Political Science minor. His sister, Veronica Schindler, is a Development
writer at the Stanford Athletic Department.
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