SPLIT PERSONALITY: Born into a Cal clan, the author now studies journalism at Stanford. (Photo: Rod Searcey)
Editor’s Note: This story appeared in the November/December 1997 issue as part of a collection of stories celebrating Big Game’s 100th anniversary.
Being a Cal fan is serious business in my family. As a member of the class of 1990, I was the 15th to don the blue and gold. My license plate reads GO BRS. One cousin flies up from L.A. to attend Cal football home games. Three generations of my family know all the words to “Hail to California” and the Cal drinking song.
Of course, being a Cal fan means hating Stanford. Cal students collectively chant “Take off that red shirt!” to anyone wearing cardinal in Memorial Stadium. My father refuses to buy a red car because—insert sneer—“that’s Stanford’s color.”
My one cousin (by marriage, I should add) who did go to Stanford invariably slinks out of Thanksgiving dinner early to avoid being eaten for dessert by family members hot with post-Big Game fever. Without fail, someone kills the classical music playing softly in the dining room and pops in a tape of The Play—calling up images of lateral passes and a downed trombone player—with commentator Joe Starkey incredulously screaming, “The Band is on the field!” until he’s hoarse.
So when I decided to pursue a master’s degree at Stanford this fall—which just happens to be the season of the 100th Big Game—I risked committing the eighth deadly sin. My new health care coverage would be Cardinal Care. Ouch.
Soon after receiving my acceptance letter from Stanford, I got up the nerve to head across the Bay to enemy territory and check out the program with still-skeptical eyes. At the edge of campus, a billboard loomed above me, shouting “Support Stanford Athletics—Call 1-800-BEAT-CAL.” What self-respecting person would call that number? I wondered. It took all the strength I had not to whip the car around, dart over to the East Bay and hand deliver a hefty contribution to the alumni office.
But during my first couple of days as a—gulp—Stanford student, a grudging respect for my new school seeped slowly through my inbred loyalties. Here, faculty and staff helped me navigate every administrative issue—unlike Cal, which is overwhelmed by 50,000 students and completely reliant on computers. With the sun warming my neck and bicyclists cruising gently by, walking to class through the mission-style campus was utterly soothing.
Sipping coffee by the Oval from an oversized Stanford mug, I watched volleyball and Frisbee games and felt like I was at camp. (This is a major reason Cal fans hate Stanford.) I’m thinking of taking horseback riding next quarter.
I can’t help liking my new digs. I just can’t. While Cal is like family, Stanford is like that new friend you suddenly can’t imagine not having in your life.
Don’t get me wrong. No four years could be as exceptional as those I spent at Berkeley. Only 30 miles from my parents’ house, Cal was light-years from my sheltered, suburban upbringing. I learned to fend for myself, to find a niche among thousands of diverse and fiercely intelligent colleagues. Cal is not for the faint of heart. But I’ve never met anyone who said “I went to Cal” without affection.
So, like my father, I won’t be caught driving a red car. And my Cal mug, filled with blue and gold flowers, has pride of place on my desk. It reads, “Once a bear, always a bear.” There’ll be no slinking away from Thanksgiving dinner for me.
Leslie A. Gordon, an attorney and freelance writer, is a graduate student in communication.
