#scoducks

Growing up, New Year’s Day signified a bittersweet reality. On one hand, it usually meant either the next day or a couple days later marked the return to school from Christmas break. But the prevailing silver lining was that the annual Rose Bowl game would be played that day, and as long as there was a functioning television in my family’s sitting room (which thankfully there always was), I’d cement myself to the couch and soak in all the pageantry from beginning to end. To say sports occupies a unique nook in my heart is an understatement. As much as they are casual entertainment to some they’ve been thick wires, which have not only connected me closer to those I love but also served as faithful conduits whereby commonalities and companionship could flourish. For in my house, sports wasn't something you half-heartedly viewed and then walked away from unbothered, but better yet it was a ritual of sorts where the primary chore worth sacrificing was the needless noise from the outside world for 3-4 hours.  

I find it ironic the Rose Bowl is commonly referred to as “The Granddaddy of Them All” and deservedly so. After all, it is the oldest bowl game currently going. However, when I think of this iconic contest between the Pac-12 and Big Ten powerhouses, I can’t help but reflect on the man I spent many New Year’s evenings with watching some memorable clashes with: my grandfather. I can still smell my grandmother’s black-eyed peas and the sweetness of candied yams floating all through the house as my grandfather and I would finish off what was left of the Christmas candy on the coffee table. We’d eat right there in front of the TV, and the thought of returning to school didn’t bother me as much. It wasn’t as if we circled the date on our new calendars, yet somehow it was “our thing.” 

The Rose Bowl symbolized everything I wasn’t. Here was a game being played in sunny Pasadena, CA, and outside my window lie the perfect canvas for falling snow, wind and ice in Buffalo, NY. I often dreamed of being able to one day attend that game, and still do. The thought of sitting down in the stands and scanning the Southern California skyline just before kickoff is a daydream often revisited annually in my mind. I’d say of all the games played, I come back to the 1995 duel between Penn State and my Oregon Ducks. I can still see Ki-Jana Carter running wild, and my grandfather asking me in his signature South Carolina drawl, “Who that boy for Penn State? Damn...he running!” 

The afternoon of the Pac-12 title game, I posted on my Facebook page how my #1 sports travel goal is to be in attendance at Rose Bowl Stadium, more specifically with the Ducks representing the Pac-12 Conference. Ironically so, Justin Herbert and the guys would go on to defeat Utah in the conference championship a few hours later- the angry running of CJ Verdell all but shattering the Utes playoff dreams right on the grass in Santa Clara. While I can’t be there today to root on my beloved squad led by Coach Cristobal, anybody who knows me will assure you that I’ll be there in spirit while tuning in from my couch 2,500 miles away. Of course, I’ll be thinking of my grandfather who passed away in 2014 after a fourteen-year battle with Alzheimer’s Disease. Quite possibly, on the other side of town, the aroma of beans and yams is apparent in my granny’s kitchen as I’m writing this. Tradition is funny like that- it has an inexplicable way of weaving its self through us rather quietly.