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Time in Memorial It was 1947 and I was a junior in high school when my Dad suddenly said to me one afternoon: “I’d like to take you to see Cal play football on Saturday. They got a kid named Jackie Jensen they say is retty good.” “I’ve never been to Berkeley,” I replied. “That would be neat.” Dad was a first-generation immigrant from Italy, and he embraced anything “American,” including football. Although he never attended Berkeley as a student, Dad chose to pull for Cal because it represented the “common man” – as opposed to Stanford, which he viewed as the “aristocracy.” On Saturday afternoons in the Fall, Dad would glue his ear to the radio and cheer on Brick Muller and Vic Bottari, All-Americans of the Wonder Teams. On crucial plays, he would get into a three-point stance in our living room, then plunge into the nearest sofa. His enthusiasm began to rub off on me when I entered Memorial Stadium for the first time. We sat high in the south end zone. “You can see the extra points better from here,” said Dad, trying to rationalize the cheap seats. I was awed by the view and by the Cal Band. I barely blinked trying to catch all the action on the field and in the rooting section, while trying not to ogle the coeds. Before the kickoff, Dad told me about his first Big Game at Berkeley. “There were no bridges then. You had to take the ferry to get here. Most of the fans on board were from Stanford; amidst all the red and white pom-poms, my blue and gold stuck out like a sore thumb. I ignored the cat-calls until someone said ‘Let’s toss him overboard.’” “Did they?” I asked incredulously. “They did,” he said. “The ferry had to execute its man overboard drill and swing around to pluck me out of the water.” His broad smile told me only his feelings were hurt. But his next line was: “If you ever go to Stanford, I’ll kill you!” One of Dad’s happiest days was when I told him that I had been accepted at Cal. Beginning in my freshman year, 1948, Pappy Waldorf and his Cal teams won every conference game over the next four years. On every game day, Dad and I hiked together up to the east rim, carrying our salami or prosciutto sandwiches. I would sneak him into the student rooting section so we could sit together. He loved participating in the card tricks. We rooted for my All-Americans now: Rod Franz, Les Richter, and Truck Collum. Our ritual continued beyond my graduation, even when Cal’s gridiron fortunes slumped. Soon, my three sons were old enough to join us, and Dad delighted in sharing nostalgic tales of past games. After his first heart attack, Dad began to have difficulty hiking up to the stadium. Following the last home game of 1979, as we waited for the crowd to clear, Dad scanned the perimeter of the stadium, the emptying seats, and the field below, before saying, “OK, let’s go.” I think he knew he might not be around the following year; in fact, the next spring his second heart attack was fatal. My boys and I continued the tradition. Since 1948, I have been true to Dad’s passion, attending every Cal home game, even though it takes me longer every year to reach my seat. I do not defend my fetish. It has just been an enjoyable discipline to spend a fall Saturday in familiar, historic, and emotional surroundings. God knows, Cal’s football prowess is not the lure. In the last fifty years, they have suffered too many defeats. All the more reason to cheer them on, I say. I stay alive in the hope of another Rose Bowl. My first grandchild is one year old at this writing. When I am assigned the bedtime lullaby, I carry little Catarina to her crib, softly singing, “Here we go, Bears, here we go.” By the time I’m half-way through the song, the baby is usually asleep. Dad would be proud. Like him, I believe you can’t start too early if you’re going to transfer a passion. -- By Roland Bianchi We invite alumni to write about their Cal experiences for “Recalling Cal,” California Monthly, Alumni House, Berkeley 94720. Contributors will be paid $100 upon publication. |
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