GRIDIRON GRIN: Wong, who made the game’s greatest defensive plays, knows his number’s lucky. (Photo: Art Streiber)
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.
The day began at 4 a.m., when trucks started watering the dirt parking lots to keep the dust from flying. It ended some 22 hours later, when the tap ran dry at the Sigma Chi victory party.
October 4 was in many ways a typical Saturday at Stanford Stadium. The day’s rhythms were familiar: the tailgating, the traffic, the Band, the game itself, more Band, more traffic, more tailgating. But nothing is normal when your opponents are the Fighting Irish, a legendary football powerhouse. On this Saturday, thanks to a great running game and stellar second-half defense, the Cardinal chalked up a convincing 33-15 win, increasing its chances for postseason Bowl play.
But the score doesn’t tell the whole story. To really understand the richness of Game Day, you have to stop by the tailgaters, follow the Band, sit in the press box, walk with the vendors and celebrate with the winning team in the locker room. We did just that.
THE PLAYER: Kailee Wong sees himself sacking the quarterback—and making the pros.
It’s four hours until kickoff, and Kailee Wong is wolfing down his traditional pregame breakfast: two chicken breasts, potatoes smothered in maple syrup, two bananas, apple juice and water. “As I eat,” he says, “I visualize how I’m going to defend their plays, and I see myself making big plays.”
Wong, a senior defensive end and the Cardinal’s best prospect for the pros, clearly has impressive and prophetic visualization powers. By the end of the day, he’s proved himself the game’s dominant defensive player, sacking Notre Dame’s quarterback, forcing a fumble and deflecting a second-half field goal attempt with his left pinkie, which gets fractured in the process.
After the game, Stanford Coach Tyrone Willingham praises the performance of the defense in the second half: “We call that Kailee Wong time.”
Wong’s day begins with a rigid adherence to pregame rituals. He wakes at 7:30 at the Palo Alto Hyatt Regency, where the teams stays before home games in order to reduce distractions. He skims the Notre Dame scouting report and joins teammates in prayer. After breakfast—the same feast every Saturday, and he always sits by himself—Wong retreats to his room to watch ESPN’s College Game Day. He cringes when he sees himself interviewed: “I look like an idiot.” Then he puts on his game-day outfit—a blue suit, a white shirt and blue tie with a flower pattern—and joins the team for the short bus ride to the Stadium. Still keeping to himself, he listens on his Walkman to a special game-day tape featuring Ice Cube, Westside Connection and other artists who get him in the mood to do what he does best: pummel quarterbacks, running backs and offensive linemen. “Music to pump me up,” he explains.
Wong learned mental preparation exercises from his parents as a high schooler in Eugene, Ore. His father is a native Hawaiian, his mother German-Scottish. Their son is a 6-foot-3-inch, 268-pound economics major who is as polite and poised as Cary Grant off the field and as ferocious as a pit bull on it. A First-Team All-Pac-10 selection last season, Wong is vying to become the first Stanford defensive lineman to earn All-America honors since Duncan McColl in 1976. Scouts figure he’ll be a first- or second-round draft pick to the National Football League. His backup plan is to work as a Silicon Valley venture capitalist.
“Like most of my teammates, I chose Stanford because it excels in both sports and academics,” says Wong. “I remember last season the team was debating the economic ramifications of Proposition 187 in the locker room. I guess that was unusual.”
There’s no debating how Wong feels about today’s victory. As he jogs off the field, he makes a detour to the student section. Towering above the members of the Band jamming in their postgame show, Wong takes off his helmet and pumps it rhythmically over his head. The fans cheer wildly. This, too, is Kailee Wong time. —Jackie Krentzman
TOP BRASS: “Life’s too short not to have fun,” says Bacher, the Band’s assistant manager. (Photo: Art Streiber)
THE TROMBONIST: Forget chemistry. Claire Bacher has joined the Band.
It’s 7:30 a.m., and breakfast—the traditional beer and doughnuts—is already laid out on a table in the Band Shak’s cavernous rehearsal room. But as the Stanford Marching Band’s assistant manager, Claire Bacher needs to stay alert today. So while the first arrivals to the Shak grab a pastry and a Weinhard’s Ale, Bacher chugs a glass of orange juice and heads off to the Dollies’ dressing room to check in on the Band’s five dancers. Because she watches out for them on game day, the Dollies refer to Bacher as “Mom.” Or, says Dollie Emily Roley, putting an arm around Bacher’s shoulders, “Sometimes we call her the Dollie Mama.”
An hour later, the 180 members of “the world's largest rock ’n’ roll band” are well into their field rehearsal when one of Bacher’s fellow trombonists arrives in the Stadium. “Excuse me,” she says. “I have to go chase someone.” And she takes off running, barefooted, with a half-dozen other horn players. They tackle the latecomer at the 40-yard line and pile on top of her. Three more stragglers get “piled” before the rehearsal ends. Even in the country’s most unconventional marching band, there’s a penalty for showing up late.
A fifth-year music and chemistry double major, Bacher joined the Band as a sophomore just for the fun of it. She learned to play the trombone, soaked up the Band’s ethos of whimsical nonconformity and rose to become one of its leaders. The experience has changed her ideas about the future. “I don’t think I’m going to become a chemist after all—much to my father’s disappointment,” says the soft-spoken 22-year-old from Bloomington, Ind. “Life is too short not to have fun.”
Bacher’s moment in the sun comes during “The Walk,” a traditional serenade of the players as they head from the locker room to the Stadium. Bacher is assistant manager—“Ass Man” as the holder of the post is always known—and so she gets the honor of filling in at the baton for the drum major.
5: songs played by the Band at halftime
Once the game gets going, Bacher can relax as Band members settle into their role as a soundtrack to the action. Whenever there’s a successful play, they stand and blast a song snippet. Bacher leans back, blowing the trombone and waggling the slide left and right, up and down, in sync with her Bandmates. For touchdowns—and there are four this afternoon—they break into “All Right Now,” the team’s unofficial fight song.
Today’s halftime show—a typically tasteless 7-minute 30-second riff on the Fighting Irish that includes the Band spelling out the word “POTATO”—goes smoothly and gets its share of laughs in the student section. But, true to form, the routine offends many of the Notre Dame fans with its cracks about Catholicism and jibes at the “parse cultural heritage” of the Irish. The next day, a group of Catholic school administrators will denounce the performance as “bigoted” and demand an apology. The Band will issue a lukewarm mea culpa for the anti-Irish insults, but that won’t be enough for Athletic Director Ted Leland, who will decide to banish the Band from Notre Dame games until 2001.
120: doughnuts served at the Band breakfast
Back in the stands for the second half, Band members strip off their red coats and start inventing cheers. With the home team on defense, they chant, “Blood, blood, blood makes the grass grow!” When the clock runs out, Bacher cheers the team’s victory. But after playing at almost 30 games, she confesses that she still isn’t that interested in the action on the field: “I think I’d like football more if I understood it better.” One thing she does understand is the Band. And she loves it. —Mark Robinson
PASS THE PATE: Madigan enjoys playing host. Just don’t get barbecue on his binoculars. (Photo: Art Streiber)
THE TAILGATER: For Dick Madigan, the pregame party is at least half the fun.
Dick Madigan has been tailgating in the same place near Stanford Stadium for 20 years. But this morning he discovers a boisterous bunch of newcomers in his spot. “I wasn’t very happy about it,” he says a few minutes later. “But now I’ve moved into Chuck Taylor Grove where I’ve always wanted to be anyway.” He adds puckishly: “This is going to be much better.”
Cars are forbidden in the grove, and that leaves plenty of room for table after table of food and drink set up under multicolored canopies. The scene gives the beguiling impression of a medieval jousting field surrounded by tented pavilions. Madigan and his wife, Jean, both class of ’46, have driven down the road from Woodside to host some 20 or 30 friends and family.
The Madigan table overflows with guacamole, plates of páté, fresh-cut vegetables, crackers, nachos and chips. Bottles of Cutty Sark, Tanqueray, Bacardi and Jack Daniels vie for space with Snapples, orange juice, Cokes and Calistogas.
Everybody in the grove has a different style. At one end, about 100 thirty-somethings mill around a table set with crystal and china, chardonnay and brie. Nearby, a spread of fruit salads and pita bread spills out on a table next to gas burners warming tri-tips, chicken and ribs. Madigan sniffs the pungent barbecue sauce. “I don’t like anything messy,” he says firmly. “I like to use my binoculars. I want to concentrate on the game.”
72,548: paying fans
Madigan has been concentrating on the game for 50 years now. A guard on the 1942 football squad, he joined the Marines and was shipped off for training to faraway Berkeley, where he played for Cal and earned a Big C. When he returned from the South Pacific to play for Stanford again in 1946, he played in the Big Game against many of his former teammates. Then he graduated to a job in real estate investing—and to the status of an Indian (and now Cardinal) fan.
His daughter Nancy recalls tailgating here when she was eight years old. “It was 1959, and I think we had a station wagon, a woody. It was something I grew up with; it was always something we did.”
4,300: spectators in the student section
Twenty minutes before kickoff, Madigan starts toward the Stadium. He enjoys playing host, but he’s undeniably here for the game.
Some four hours later, Madigan charges back through the grove like a man 40 years his junior. He yanks bottles and cans from boxes under the table and quickly pours drinks for his friends who are abuzz with game analysis.
35: dollars asked for a scalped ticket
By late afternoon, with the smell of barbecue and victory fading into the dusty air, Madigan begins cleaning up. For him, it’s been a great day. “There’s the camaraderie of the people that you know,” he says as he sips his soda water and flashes an infectious smile. “But the excitement of the game is number one.”
On this hot fall afternoon in the eucalyptus grove, Madigan feels he’s got them both. —Raymond Hardie
RADIO DAYS: “I’m not Mike Wallace,” says Murphy, who aims to entertain listeners. (Photo: Glenn Matsumura)
THE ANNOUNCER: For 33 years, Bob Murphy’s been talking a good game.
“Let’s take the stairs,” says Bob Murphy, motioning to a doorway on the third floor of the press box. “It’s faster.” With 90 minutes until kickoff, Murphy wants to take a little time to “survey the provinces,” he says with a laugh.
He stops by the ABC trailer in the parking lot to welcome an old friend who’s producing today’s nationally televised game. Slipping into a side door of the ticket office, he gets an estimate on the size of the crowd. Then he works his way through the tailgaters, always ready with barbs and banter. “Hey Howard, looking good,” he calls out. “Hey Thalboy, nice outfit,” he shouts to a former baseball teammate wearing red shorts. At one point, Murphy stops to chat with Esther and Phil Duffy, ’36, who are watching the pregame commotion from the shade of an oak tree. Esther points at Murphy and says, “Your voice is so mellow and sexy.”
Ah, the voice. At the Stadium, everyone seems to know Murphy, ’53. But thousands more recognize his voice. For 33 years, he’s been reporting Stanford football—and, more recently, basketball—on the radio. His first gig, in fact, was a Stanford loss to Notre Dame in 1964.
185: credentialed journalists covering the game
Even before his on-air duties began, Murphy had strong ties to Stanford. In 1947, at 16, he worked as a ticket-taker at the 50th Big Game. As a student, he was a star pitcher and was named most valuable player of the 1953 baseball team, the first Stanford squad to compete in the College World Series. He served a decade in sports marketing and information at Stanford before leaving to direct pro golf tournaments. These days, at age 66, he’s in demand as a quick-with-the-quip master of ceremonies for Stanford athletics functions.
Back in the press box, Murphy settles into the KSFO booth to prepare for the 30-minute pregame show. On the air, he and partner Ted Robinson stand and chat amiably—just two guys wearing headsets having a casual conversation about college football. After kickoff, Robinson handles the play-by-play, leaving Murphy free to offer insights into the subtleties of the game. Peering at the field through binoculars and sipping a Diet Pepsi, he gives credit to the unsung lineman who threw a key block and describes changes made in the Stanford defense from one play to the next. Explains Murphy: “I try to give an insider’s perspective.”
34: Stanford first downs
He also aims to entertain. “This isn’t 60 Minutes, and I’m not Mike Wallace,” Murphy says. After Stanford fullback Jon Ritchie plunges up the middle for a gain in the third quarter, Murphy declares, “Ritchie’s just a load. He kind of resembles a very large bowling ball.” When tennis great John McEnroe drops by the booth during the second quarter, Murphy suggests, on the air, that tennis is a “sissy game.” McEnroe shoots back: “Yeah, it doesn’t hurt as much as football—and it pays better.”
2: Cardinal running backs who gained more than 100 yards
Near the end of the fourth quarter, with Stanford winning 31-15, it should be time to relax. That’s when the Murph shoves a headset and microphone into a canvas bag, bolts out of the press box and half-trots to the Cardinal locker room. A minute later, he does a live postgame interview with Coach Tyrone Willingham. In the background, jubilant Stanford players burst through the door. “C-House, C-House,” they chant, for “Cardinal.” Murph asks the coach about the defense. “C-House, C-House.” He asks about future games. “C-House. C-House.” The noise is distracting, but Murphy is unflappable.
2,250: feet of athletic tape used on Stanford players
A few minutes later, the adrenaline rush over, Murphy walks across the now-empty field back to the press box. He dismisses the suggestion that his job is surprisingly hard work. “Game day is like a day off,” he says. “It’s what I look forward to all week.” —Bob Cohn
CROWD PLEASER: Arnolfo doesn’t see much of the game—but does sneak peeks at the scoreboard. (Photo: Glenn Matsumura)
THE VENDOR: Want a Big Kahuna bar? John Arnolfo is out there selling.
John Arnolfo rarely misses a Cardinal home football game. But as a stadium vendor since 1971, he never gets to catch more than a glimpse of the field.
Arnolfo doesn’t mind having his back to the action. In fact, he once took a six-year break from vending and found going to games as a mere spectator made him edgy. “There’s a psychological dependence on selling,” he says.
Today, Arnolfo and a partner will sell cold drinks and ice cream, taking turns in the stands and at their base near a Stadium entrance. Arnolfo arrives at 8:30 to set up the ice-cream coolers and three huge tubs for bottles and ice.
Waiting for supplies to arrive, there’s time for shop talk and gossip. Bill, a 30-year veteran, wanders by, and the discussion turns to the Dream Team. Not Jordan, Pippen and Johnson, but the legendary vending trio who ran a hectic World Series stand so efficiently that nobody ever had to wait in line. Bill also praises Arnolfo and his partner. “Stick around and watch these guys,” Bill says. “They’re the best. They’re fast.”
24,000: pounds of ice delivered to the Stadium
The Pepsi and ice trucks arrive. It’s only 9:15, but there’s a rush to get bottles into tubs because the drinks won’t be perfectly chilled until the ice melts. “When people are paying two-fifty a drink, it’s got to be cold,” Arnolfo says.
420: barrels of trash filled
Piles of bills and rolls of quarters arrive, and Arnolfo arranges the paper like a deck of cards: one side, dollar bills; the other, larger denominations. When he makes change, he doles out ones, then flips the stack for instant fives and tens. Without a cash register, the vendors do the math in their heads and have every move down to a science. Arnolfo wears an old-fashioned metal changeholder strapped around his waist. Instead of fumbling in his apron, he flicks out the exact number of coins needed.
At 11, customers start buying on the way to their seats. Once the game starts, Arnolfo goes up into the stands with Haagen-Dazs and Big Kahuna bars. He likes carrying just a few items: “The rule of thumb is, give ’em no choice.” He points to a buddy hawking frozen lemonade and says, with envy, that’s the most lucrative gig of all.
31: items turned in to lost and found
Things get hectic in the stands toward the end of the second quarter, and Arnolfo steals a quick peek at the scoreboard so he can update his partner when they team up for the halftime crush. Back at the base, the line builds. Arnolfo is nonstop motion and patter. “One Pepsi, one Diet Pepsi, one water. That’s seven dollars. Out of twenty. There’s ten, fifteen and twenty. Thank you. Who’s next?”
4: planes pulling advertising banners
Business slows down in the fourth quarter, but Arnolfo is pleased with the day’s take: $3,100, of which he and his partner each keep 10 percent, after sales tax.
6,700: hot dogs sold by Stadium vendors
By the end of the day, Arnolfo, 47, has probably done as much crouching, passing and receiving as some of the players on the field. “You hit a rhythm,” he says. “It’s athletic.” With the Stadium empty and the tailgaters thinning out, he treks to his car in a distant parking lot. There are three more home games this year, and he’ll be there for each of them. But like everyone else—if for a different reason—he looks forward most to Big Game. —Ginny McCormick
