I have given up paying for football tickets.
Weather: Snow. Last night it dipped down to -7 degrees. Yup….
CD: KGSR Live — I love that station!
The Mini-Version ——> New Pictures Uploaded
Chance called me on the 30th of December, the night before we planned to set out. His car wasn’t going to make it, neither was his fiancee, but that wasn’t going to slow us down in the least bit. It was just going to be us, a rental car and a considerable less amount of money in my wallet headed for Pasadena, California, as we were joining the University of Texas Longhorns in their quest for a national championship in the Rose Bowl. After watching the TCU Horned Frogs thrash the ISU Cyclones in the Houston Bowl (the first of three bowl games attended in a 5 day period), I spent a surprisingly sober New Year’s Eve in Austin, then hit the road without a map or a Rose Bowl ticket: direction West. The first evening we crashed with Kristin’s family in Midland, who should be held as a model for hospitality. They fed us, they entertained us, they even offered to clean Chance’s dirty, cut-up feet. By 5.30 the next morning we were back to doing our thing, reaching the sweet scents of Mexican freedom by 9.30. A little excursion into Juarez led to a healthy walk, cheap alcohol and a mystery-meat-like substance that sustained us for lunch and contributed to no unwanted aftereffects.
Back in the car, direction: West. We screamed through the deserts of New Mexico looking for any talk radio we could find on the AM. The fruits of our labor brought static and spanish talk shows meshed within the static. There was no time for boredom however, as billboards announcing “The Mystery of the Desert” piqued our curiousities until we were finally in the presence of The Thing?. A buck later and my life was dramatically changed for the better due to the wisdom in which “The Thing?” imparted on me.
Once again, back headed West. We reached Phoenix by dark and Tempe, site of the Fiesta Bowl featuring Ohio State and Notre Dame, by the fourth quarter. Chance looked out and saw the beacon of lights that was the stadium—we followed that trail to a parking spot about two blocks away from the roars of the crowd. A few Lone Stars later and we were out searching (unsuccessfully) for a passage into the stadium. Though we missed the game, the on-field award’s ceremony was ours and it stoked our excitement for our own game just two days away. We continued with the celebrations by following the revelers into the local pubs and bars. Our burnt orange clothes gave our allegiences away but noone really seemed to mind our presence. In fact, we were treated like rock stars with just about everyone in the bars coming up to personally wish us luck against the Trojans. I found out I can’t hate either the Notre Dame fans, nor the Ohio State fans, despite my desires, due to the unusual level of good will leveled at us throughout the evening. By midnight, I had found myself in a stale conversation with a moderately unattractive girl from ND and Chance was trapped in football discussions with two meatheads from OSU. We made contact briefly and both cut-out while we still could, once again headed west, this time looking for a place to sleep. We found a nice spot on the side of Cotton Lane, (convieniently located next to several cotton fields), just outside of Surprise, Az, a purported prison area, and parked the car for an overnights furlow. After another Lone Star and (three!) sandwiches, we settled in for a nice evening’s slumber. Don’t worry though mom: the doors were locked, the windows were cracked and Chance left the keys in the ignition, ready to ignite the engine on short notice, should anything happen.
Chance had the car going by 5.30 the next morning. He simply pulled his seat up, turned the key, and we were off. About 40 miles down the road, he realized his drowsiness probably wasn’t contributing to a safe environment and thus pulled off into a rest stop. I woke up at 7.15, noticed we were in a markedly different place than the cotton patch I remembered, but didn’t give it much thought. I simply pushed Chance out of the driver’s seat and got that car moving West once again. We arrived in Santa Monica, California at mile point 1456.3 of the journey. There was no more going West. After picking up Clint at the airport, we retired to Clint’s hotel room, who graciously allowed us to stay with him during our time in Los Angeles (Club Level of the Sheraton no-less). We showered. We shaved. We slept. We felt like new men. Then met up with Nate and Dave to celebrate our arrival. To the Sunset Strip: where phonies reign and it doesn’t matter what you think, as long as you look good thinking it. Man, I HATE LA. We finally found a little pub that was rather gracious on the alcohol content of the mixed drinks and settled into telling stories and other tales that were absolutely true. It’d been over a year since I’d seen those guys and it was fantastic jumping back in the groove with them. Nothing too late that evening however, as the big game was the next day.
A LONG journey via train to Pasadena. A seemingly longer shuttle bus ride. And there we were: on the grounds of the Rose Bowl, surrounded by oranges and cardinals and cartoons of all flavors. I found the atmosphere to be a bit subdued however, there weren’t near as many “Texas Fights” as I’d anticipated, not much yelling and very little friendly trash talking. I blame the nerves. We found our tailgate and commenced drinking. By 2.30 I was drunk. I slowed things down and prepared for a sober game. And began the unrewarding search for tickets. The black market was dead on this patch of ripe capitalistic enterprise. Calls for $2000 couldn’t part people from their tickets.
We considered our situation as kick-off approached. A favorable string of events had granted three tickets between the four of us. We began scouring the grounds of the stadium, looking for weakpoints in the defenses which we could penetrate. Several scenarios were considered, three seperate plans were drawn up, but as it were, only one would be needed. Plan A was the brain-child of Clint and I considered it the least likely to succeed.
We pushed our way through the charged throng of people demanding entrance into the stadium. Clint observed each ticket-taker and zeroed-in on the least attentive of the group. Amidst the rush, the four of us packed into a small group and Clint handed her the three tickets and immediately walked into the stadium. She fumbled with the tickets, Chance followed Clint without giving her much of a thought, leaving me and Nate to collect our three tickets. “Hey!” I yelled out, at this point thinking only this word of mine would enter the stadium. The ticketlady handed the tickets back to us without a word or a thought and Nate and I casually strolled into the stadium. I kept walking however, fearing the hand that would surely grab me by the shoulder and ask for my ticket. No hand appeared and we dissapeared, jubilant, into the masses. We beat the system.
Nate and Chance found their seats on the other side of the stadium. I snuck into a bleacher with Clint and his family. The neighboring fans were cool with the arrangement “so long as we don’t block the view of the little guy”, a 12 year old kid who kept us on our best behaviors. LeAnn Rimes belted out the National Anthem and a B-2 buzzed the stadium, leaving chills on my skin and moisture in my eyes. What an incredible sight! The stadium was split about 60-40 in favor of USC, which should come as no surprise considering SC was playing essentially a home game. The Texas fans certainly provided more bang for the buck when it came to the decible level though. Not a single Texas fan dropped to their seats for the entirty of the first half (or second for that matter), allowing me easy access out to the concourse area during halftime to make a couple of cryptic phone calls confident of our 16-10 lead over “the greatest team… EVER”. And I maintain that Reggie Bush should lose the Heisman due to stupidity stemming from his lateral-fumble bone-head play.
The third quarter began with a bang, a score, another score, and I started to get nervous. The last thing you want is to get into a shoot-out with USC and this was exactly where things were headed. Pino missed his field goal. Then we were down by 12. 6 Minutes left. Clint and I looked down at Vince Young on the sidelines, the confidence flooding out to the kick-return team that was on the field, and we both knew at that point that we would win the game. Texas scored. Then The Stop. 2 Minutes left, Texas ball, and to tell you the truth, it was all a bit anti-climactic for me. I simply knew, without a doubt, that Texas was going to win this game. 4th and 5 from the 9 with just under 30 seconds to go. I looked out and saw lineman Jonathon Scott dancing in a Vince inspired manner just before the hike. Vince took the ball, scurried to the right and absolute chaos ensued. Bodies flew over strangers, hugs and kisses and beer, all showered through the air flung in absolute bliss. I looked up to the scoreboard and briefly saw “USC National Champions” flash out to the masses as time expired, a presupposed error that was corrected within seconds. The band kicked into overdrive, the stadium loudspeakers playing “We are the Champions” (I cannot stand Queen) attempted to drown out the overtures, but the band played on. Strangers hugged, friends embraced, and I, like the rest of the fans there, just couldn’t pull myself out of the stadium.
At least thirty minutes went by before we finally made our way to the exits. Before actually leaving the stadium, we purchased the “USC National Champions - Threepete” T-shirts that had been printed in a Dewey beats Truman anticipation and were now selling for $2.50 a pop. For the rest of the evening, our entire group would be sporting those shirts like the jackasses we were/are. Clint even went so far as to get his signed by Casey Stoddard and David Thomas, members of the Texas team. Dancing continued all the way to the pubs in Pasadena where we savored our victory in a fit of exhaustion by commemmorating the win with a pint of beer and a bottle of champagne. Another pint followed and we were suddenly at a round table with 20 other guys cheering the highlights on TV and breaking into random chants along the way. I couldn’t think of a more appropriate celebration. Bars close at 1.30 in LA, which left us out on the streets relatively early that evening. The festivities continued back in the hotel after a euro-dance-party taxi ride lead by the Willey boys.
The next afternoon included the obligatory In-N-Out Burger stop and a recounting of the jackassery. Sometime late that afternoon, Chance and I were on the road again, this time following any road that lead East. Non-stop through the night took us past the General Patton Museum shortly before midnight and had us in El Paso with daybreak. A friendly pause in Pecos, Tx (highly recommended) prepped us for lunch in Midland, where the incredible hospitality of Kristin’s family once again shined through. The final jump lead us to San Angelo and a visit with my family, where Chance and I parted ways. A plane ride took me home the next afternoon, followed by another journey the day after through Paris and into Berlin.
An event I can’t wait to tell my grandkids about. A story for the ages… what a helluva life… The University of Texas Longhorns: Football National Champions. When Mack held that trophy up, I remembered thinking: I never imagined I’d see this day come. And there I was. Hook ‘em Horns!