In my younger days, I was fairly obsessed with Stanford football. It started on the first weekend of my freshman year when our RAs shepherded our entire dorm to Stanford Stadium for a game against San Jose State. The Cardinal lost by a touchdown that afternoon, but it didn't really matter. Later that fall I would suffer through a 49-0 pasting at the hands of UCLA, paint an S on my skinny brown chest for a game against Oregon, and enjoy the first of several Big Game victories over the Cal Bears. Somehow, I even thought the band was cool. I was hooked.
I stood alone in a dismal rainstorm to watch the Card lose to Utah four days after the Loma Prieto earthquake in 1989; I baked like a raisin in the sun as we were crushed by Washington in 1990. During my four years as a student, the team struggled to a cumulative record of 16-26-2. It would be generous to call this mediocrity, but things weren't all bad. We never lost the Axe, our 3-0-1 record highlighted by the greatest legitimately decided game in the history of the Big Game.
Trailing 25-18 in the closing minutes of the 1990 edition, we scored a late touchdown to pull within one, 25-24. Coach Denny Green had come to win, though, so he scoffed at the extra point in favor of a two-point conversion -- which failed. A lot happened in the next few minutes -- Cal fans storming the field, delay of game penalties, on-side kick recovered, desperate pass completed -- but everything came together when John Hopkins hit a field goal to seal a miraculous win as time expired.
I celebrated first by running senselessly across the astroturf of Cal's Memorial Stadium, then by challenging my friend Jack to race up the two poles which had held the net behind the goalposts. Jack went on to becme a rock climber, and I went on to become an English teacher, so it shouldn't have been too surprizing when he won the race and I fell about twenty feet and broke my arm. Still, it didn't really matter.
The funny thing is, I think I became a bigger fan after leaving the university. After graduating and returning to the Los Angeles area, my dedication began to exceed normal bounds. It was nothing for me to drive four hundred miles after work on a Friday evening just to watch a relatively meaningless game against Oregon State on Saturday afternoon before hopping back in the car on Sunday morning and cruising back home.
I'm certain that on some level I was just clinging to my alma mater and avoiding the rest of my life, but on its surface it really was about the football. I lived and died on Saturday afternoons. When we lost a tough game to Notre Dame and a friend of mine nursed his depression by spending an hour sitting in the dark beneath a birch tree outside my ex-girlfriend's dorm room, I was only laughing on the outside. Part of me was sitting right next to him.
Recently my expectations of the program have changed. Part of it, I suppose, has to do with growing up, not unlike the young Democrat who cringes at the bite taken out of his first real paycheck and suddenly registers Republican. (Don't worry, though, that hasn't happened yet.)
I finally began looking at things more realistically. When I sat in the stands in Pasadena on January 1, 2000, I was painfully aware that it might be decades before the Mighty Card made another appearance in the Rose Bowl, so I soaked up every moment. (Come to think of it, I still owe Jack for that ticket; since he still owes me for the broken arm, I guess we're even.)
But even though I don't look for ten-win seasons, BCS points, and annual bowl games for Stanford football, I still have some expectations -- none of which have been met this season.
First of all, I expect the coach to have some semblance of confidence, and perhaps at least a modicum of personality. A bay area cable outlet airs something called the "Stanford Cardinal Farm Report," a weekly review of Stanford sports. Coach Walt Harris gets about five minutes of time, during which he reviews the previous week's game and looks forward to the next. It's not like watching paint dry, it's like listening to paint dry. Beyond boring. And what was his response in the season preview when asked about his team's bowl prospects? "Well, we've got a chance." I didn't see the rest because I had to race out and buy my season tickets.
The second thing I need is for the coach to be at least as smart as his players. Harris looks confused on the sidelines and his game plan might have cost the Cardinal its first win last week against San Jose State. After giving up an early (and easy) touchdown to the Spartans, the Stanford offense took over, scoring 27 straight points to take control of the game. The passing game was clicking as quarterback Trent Edwards exploited an overmatched Spartan secondary by tossing four touchdown passes in the first half, including two to wideout Evan Moore. It was so easy that it didn't seem fair.
And then everything changed. I can only imagine that Harris slipped into a heat-induced coma at halftime and wasn't able to take in any fluids. That can be the only explanation for what transpired in the final thirty minutes of play. After rolling up 283 yards in the first half, 178 of which came in the air, Harris decided to dial things back a bit in the second half. Edwards threw only eleven passes after the half, and three of those came in the Card's final drive after they had finally lost the lead for good.
Eight passes before the final series. Eight. Maybe he was trying to develop the running game. Maybe he was trying to keep the clock running. Or maybe he's just an idiot.
So suddenly this week's game against Navy, the sacrificial lambs chosen for the opening night of Stanford's brand new stadium, doesn't look like the gimme it once did.
Which brings us to my third expectation. As the season moves on and the losses continue to mount, I have to be able to look at Big Game as winnable. We don't have to win every year, but I don't think it's too much to expect the Stanford football team to be competitive with Cal's. That wasn't the case last year, and it doesn't look any better this year.
So as far as I'm concerned, that's three strikes for Mr. Harris. It's been nice having you around, but it's time to go.
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