Losses, Wins, and Remembrances

On Saturday the Oregon Ducks laid an egg in the Los Angeles Coliseum and waddled to a devastating 44-10 loss to the USC Trojans, 44-10. Thoroughly dominated, smacked backwards and passed silly, Oregon lost to a better team with better coaching and a better game plan.

The game started well for the Ducks. They took the opening kickoff and drove for a touchdown with a brilliant mix of runs and passes, going for it on fourth down to sustain the drive, taking a Trojan penalty for running in to the kicker on a successful field goal try and cashing in when Jeremiah Johnson squirted in from the two for a 7-0 lead. They held SC to a field goal on the Trojan's first possession, recovered a Mark Sanchez fumble and kicked a field goal to lead 10-3 after one quarter.

The rest of the game was all USC, and agonizing for me. I dream Duck football year round, follow the news about recruiting and spring practice and player development. I have an eight-inch "O" sticker on the trunk of my car. I wear an Oregon tee shirt every other day, and will probably one day die of heart attack screaming at a missed tackle. But I watched the game with a sinking sense of inevitability. They were overmatched, outplayed and outcoached. The defense was predictable and inept. USC marched down the field and made first down after first down, with long pass plays to wide-open receivers and dazzling cutback runs. The Trojan defense swarmed over the Duck running game and harrassed inexperience third-string quarterback Jeremiah Masoli. The hosts scored 41 unanswered points, and the visitors had a long plane ride home.

Now 4-2 for the season and 2-1 in conference, Oregon has a home game with UCLA next weekend, and the test will be whether they respond with pride and determination or fold. The home crowd will be raucous and eager for a recovery, knowing the team can still go to a bowl and even compete for a share of the conference title, but in the words of the immortal Joaquin Andujar, all of sports can be summed up in just one little word, "youneverknow." I'll grieve the loss for three days, then start thinking and reading about UCLA and a fresh opportunity. Imagine if I gave all that time and energy to a more worthwhile interest.

Yesterday I met an old football player. I was walking home under the overcast skies from breakfast at The Gateway Breakfast House, and across Weidler street a stooped, kindly looking man shouted out to me, holding an umbrella in two hands. There are several retirement homes in my neighborhood, and the residents often take their morning walks along the strip, although there is far too much traffic there. They would do better to head north through the neighborhood where there are parks and schools and quiet streets. I suppose they like being where there is more activity and more to see.

I couldn't hear what he was saying in the traffic, but he was holding the umbrella out like he needed help of some kind, so I cut across the street to find out what he wanted. It was a black umbrella covered with yellow smiley faces, and the man held it out to me. "I can't work the thing. I can't get it closed," he said. He was small and frail, covered with age spots. His eyes were rheumy but he had a kind smile.

We walked along and he told me some of his story. His name was John and he grew up in the Carolinas. "I'm older than you," he said. "I'm 91 years old." He had two daughters, one of them is 62. "She lives out that way, I can't remember the name of the town but it starts with a C." He pointed toward the Columbia Gorge. "Corbett?" I suggested. "No, that's not it." Cascade Locks? "No. My other daughter lives other that way. I go over to the main street there and take the bus. The lent me this umbrella the other day at the Kings Omelettes, and I'm bringing it back, but it won't close."

We walked along. He didn't hand me the umbrella and I didn't reach for it. I sensed he wanted company more than umbrella maintenance. I told him my name was Dale and I lived down the street on a 106th. He told me he grew up near Greenville, the oldest of seven children, that his father died when he was 13 and they went to an orphanage.

"They treated us pretty good there. I played football and I won a scholarship to Ogelthorpe University. A full ride, the whole deal."

What position did you play? I asked.

"Oh, I was in the backfield."

"Do you still watch football?"

"I do, but back then I was crazy about it. After that I went to flight school. I was in that war we had, in the Pacific."

"World War Two. Do you go to flight school in Alabama?"

John still had a slight drawl in his voice, a quiet way of speaking, genuine and charming. "Noooo, it was there in Geor-gia."

We talked a little longer and came to the parking lot of Kings Omelettes. "I have to leave you now," he said.

I told him it had been nice talking to him and wished him a good day. The old football player shuffled his bent body and stuck umbrella across the parking lot of Kings. I wonder if in Heaven he'll be allowed to run and score touchdowns again. I can't imagine what that is truly like, or what it is like to reach the age where you can remember 13 but can't remember where your daughter lives. It will happen to us all. Treat your daughters well, so they will come and find you.