I’ve made it to an age when I’m not sure if I have actual memories or whether I’ve concocted them all in my head as I’ve gone along. But I know my dad gave me a lot of cool stuff, concepts to live by mostly, but one of the grooviest things he turned me onto was USC football.

He took me to a game at the Coliseum in 1969 versus Georgia Tech, I think I remember that. Now that team is called the Yellow Jackets, but then they were called the Ramblin’ Wreck, something about “I’m a ramblin’ wreck from Georgia Tech and helluva an engineer …” We bought a program and USC won and all was right with the world.

We saw a lot of USC-Notre Dame games. More than one included heavy rain and fat white Irish fans who had painted their entire bodies green. There was a decent amount of boozing and my dad seemed to have friends that were rooting for Notre Dame. He’d invite them into our spread outside of Tunnel Nineteen just like they were normal people – I never understood that – but my dad would really like to cavort with the enemy, I think he believed partying with the devil would make beating the devil that much sweeter. The ND guys he knew seemed to be fairly good-natured, but we encountered tons of other Domers that were righteous pricks, who thought they were related to the Pope. Anyway, we were at the 1988 game when both Notre Dame and SC were undefeated, and my dad didn’t cry but I did when Tony Rice made a mess out of the Trojans, fuckin’ Lou Holtz! I remember thinking that Raghib Ismail was the best college football player I ever saw (that was before Reggie Bush).

We were there when SC put it on Stanford 49-0 in 1977 when it rained so hard that my underwear was soaked, and we saw number one SC beat number two Oklahoma in the final seconds in 1981 when it was 900 degrees outside. Through it all, I don’t remember my dad getting wet or breaking a sweat.

We saw USC beat UCLA in many delightful and unexpected ways, including George Achica blocking a UCLA field goal try in the Coliseum on the last play of the game. My dad, rightfully so, believed that UCLA always was and always will be a basketball school. He thought they were new money (as opposed to superior old money), and that they were forever looking for a pedigree and tradition that didn’t exist, still, he’d always welcome them to our tailgates, if only to stick to ’em about their homely cheerleaders or embarrassing powder blue uniforms.

We saw Heisman Trophy winners and too many All-Americans to count. Together we witnessed some of the epic moments in college football history, storied teams, storied coaches, Rosebowls and road trips, motorhomes and fight songs, empty beer cans and overflowing toilets. My dad provided a gateway to it all and the lessons that emerge from the stadium tunnels of my mind, from the memories, real or imagined, aren’t really about football. My dad used football as a vehicle, a mechanism, a catalyst, to create human bonds and family traditions, to cement friendships, to reinforce values in the same way football practice reinforces fundamentals. The competition on the field, if observed with diligence, can yield instructive insights about competing in life.

It’s quite possible that I recall much of life with a storyteller’s imagination, but what is a father if not an encouraging voice, wise counsel and a fond memory.

If Trojan Football is a gift from the Gods, then my dad is a heavenly gift giver. Thanks, pops.