Rose Bowl Dreamin'

by Liz Zuercher

My father had no sons to share his passion for football, so he indoctrinated his daughters instead.  Once September rolled around, weekends found us glued to the television in our suburban Chicago den watching our favorite teams: any Big Ten team on Saturday, the Bears on Sunday.  I loved the college games the most, with intense rivalries, crazy flea flicker plays, enthusiastic students, cheerleaders, mascots and marching bands.

New Year’s Day was a big day for us as we watched game after game.  This was way before the BCS nonsense where computers figure out which team should be number one and which of the gazillion sponsor-named bowl games they should play in.  We just had the Sugar Bowl, the Orange Bowl, the Cotton Bowl and the Sun Bowl.  But most of all we had the Big Ten champion versus the Pac-8 champion in the Rose Bowl, the granddaddy of them all, our holy grail of college football.           

Sitting in our cozy den on a snowy New Year’s Day watching the Rose Bowl, I dreamed of going to the big game.  What a thrill that would be!  I would feel the California sun on my face as I sat on the fifty-yard line cheering my team on.  At half-time I’d stay in my seat as the marching bands strutted their stuff, moving from one formation to another to the rhythmic thump of the drums.  I especially loved the way the Ohio State band spelled out Ohio in longhand across the field.  Seeing it on television was one thing, but being there?  That would really be something!

Fast forward to New Year’s Day 1975.  By then I lived in Southern California, but I still hadn’t been to the Rose Bowl, the parade or even to Pasadena.  But in late December a friend of mine gave me two tickets to see USC play Ohio State in the Rose Bowl.  Free!  The Rose Bowl!  My dream was about to finally come true.  All those images of being at the big game rushed back from their hiding place.  I couldn’t wait!

New Year’s Day dawned warm and clear.  We’d had some storms earlier in the week, but this was the kind of day I remembered seeing on TV all those years ago.  It was perfect California weather for what I expected to be a perfect Rose Bowl adventure.

Gary and I headed for Pasadena, leaving lots of extra time to deal with the traffic.  I drove, because Gary wanted to take pictures of the snow-capped mountains sharp against the bright blue sky.  The drive was a breeze and we just knew this was going to be such a great, memorable day.

Then we got off the freeway in Pasadena and the traffic stopped dead.  Between people leaving the parade and people coming for the game, it was gridlock.  We crept along Colorado Boulevard, sometimes sitting in the same spot for fifteen minutes before we moved another inch.

We got thirsty – really, really thirsty – just as we came to a halt in front of a McDonald’s.

“Why don’t you go get us some Cokes?” I said.

“I’ll bet I can get in there and back before you move an inch,” Gary said as he hopped out of the car.

Just as he disappeared into the McDonald’s, the traffic started to move a bit.  I crept forward, not worried.  Then the line of cars ahead of me moved faster, up a hill, away from the McDonald’s.  I was boxed in, so I couldn’t get out of the line.  I tried to stop, but the cars behind me honked, anxious to move.  I drove ahead, climbing the hill, looking back toward McDonald’s.  No Gary.  Up I went, away, farther and farther.  No Gary.  Just as I was about to crest the hill I spied him running toward the car, drinks in hand.  I opened the door and he collapsed into the car seat.

“What the hell?” he said.  “Every time I came close to you, you moved.”

“I couldn’t help it,” I said, reaching for my drink.  By then I was parched.  I took a drag on the straw and got that slurpy empty sound along with a tiny drop of watered down Coke.  I gave it back to Gary and reached out for him to give me the other one.

“It’s empty, too,” he said.  When I glared at him, he said, “I guess I was a two-fisted drinker, running all that way, trying to catch up to you.”

The bloom was beginning to fade from our Rose Bowl day.  We rode in pinch-faced silence the rest of the way to the stadium.  Parking attendants directed us to the far end of the lot, then past that to the far end of the adjacent golf course.  The week’s storms had turned turf into mud and we slogged through it until finally we stood at the Rose Bowl entrance.  Our bad moods left us as we looked up at the words Rose Bowl on the wall.  We were actually at the Rose Bowl!  This was so great!

We showed our tickets and got directions to our seats – at the exact opposite end from where we stood.  We walked and walked and walked some more.  The game had already started, so we hurried to find our seats - in the end zone.  Okay, these weren’t the fifty-yard line seats of my dreams, but so what. We were at the Rose Bowl. 

Down the steps toward the field level we went, looking for our seats, but even when we got to our row, we couldn’t see where they were.  That’s because other people were sitting in them.  We had the usher boot them out, and finally, we settled in to watch the remaining three quarters of the game.  But we couldn’t see past a big fat photographer and his cohorts who lined the end zone waiting for their money shots.  It didn’t really matter, though, because all the scoring happened at the other end of the field.  At half-time I discovered that you can’t read the OSU band’s script Ohio when you’re sitting ten rows up in the end zone.  What I got a good view of were the backsides of the USC band waiting in the end zone for their turn.

After the game we slogged back through the mud to the car in silence, tired and disappointed.  For an hour we jockeyed for position as we tried to get out of Pasadena.  Once we were cruising on the freeway again, Gary finally spoke.

“Well, I don’t ever have to do that again.  You can see the game better on TV, and you don’t have to fight the traffic or run a mile uphill to catch up with your ride.”

That’s when we started laughing about our Rose Bowl adventure.  We’re still laughing about it.  It wasn’t at all what I’d dreamed of back in the Elmhurst den.  Dreams seldom pan out just the way we expect them to.  But, boy, that was some memorable day.  It was the Rose Bowl, after all.