I want to see the Bruins annihilate the Cardinal this weekend. I
want a bloodbath. You remember that scene in “Fight
Club” when Ed Norton punches Brad Pitt right in the ear? When
you could just FEEL how much that hurt? I want that, only with more
football.
A simple victory won’t suffice; this game needs to be a
blowout. All my aggression, though, doesn’t come as a result
of school spirit. Instead, it has more to do with a simmering
hatred of the enemy.
Simply put, I am a bitter, hateful, spiteful little man.
I wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time I was a high
school senior, fresh-faced and with the whole world ahead of me. I
was sublimely confident that I would soon be attending my school of
choice: Stanford, the Harvard of the West.
I thought I had it all. There was the bloated GPA, the sick SAT
score, tons of extra-curricular activities, a best-selling novel,
the cure for cancer, and an internship with the Dalai Lama. I was
the perfect candidate.
It helped that my girlfriend was applying to Stanford as well.
She and I had nearly identical college resumés. From top to
bottom we were essentially the same candidate. We even edited each
other’s entrance essays.
And then the thin envelope came. Just a cursory, impudent little
note telling me I wasn’t good enough for Stanford. Five
little words caused my whole world to crumble faster than the
ratings for “Saved By the Bell” when they tried that
“The College Years” spinoff.
“We regret to inform you…”
Needless to say I was incredulous. I felt like Jim Mora after a
poor performance from his teams: Rejected? Rejected?! I immediately
called my girlfriend to inform her of my impending suicide by
self-immolation.
I needed a shoulder to cry on. I expected sympathy, compassion
and most of all, empathy. Surely she would be feeling my same pain.
What I heard on the other side of the line, however, was giddy
laughter. She got the thick envelope.
Well, in the words of Derrick Coleman,
“Whoop-dee-damn-do!”
What academic sin kept me outside the pearly gates of Palo Alto?
I searched my soul for answers. It just didn’t make any
sense. Two equal candidates; one accepted, one rejected. As Robin
once said to the Caped Crusader, “Holy toilet paper Batman,
I’ve been flushed!”
Wise words my friends, wise words.
So I was left to choose between Cal and UCLA, and I made the
easy choice to be a Bruin. After all, I actually bathe and believe
in capitalism. But I’ll never forget or forgive Leland
Stanford Jr. University. Games between the Cardinal and Bruins hold
a special significance for me. I want Stanford to lose even more
than I desire UCLA to win.
Last year’s game was one of the more painful experiences
of my life. The feeling of rejection was still lingering in my
black heart. Before the game, I left obscene phone messages on a
few of my so-called friends that attended Stanford. (A color is NOT
a mascot you bleepy bleep!)
My hopes were high. Remember, our team was 6-0 and ranked third
in the nation. But somehow we managed to blow that game, and our
season in general. Luckily, my roommate threw an asbestos blanket
over me before all of Hedrick Hall was burned to ashes.
Now imagine my glee as our mighty football program stands poised
to thrash my most hated of foes. Surely this year, despite a dunce
of a head coach and freshman starting quarterback, I will have my
revenge.
Barring any last minute decisions by Bob Toledo to start faking
extra point attempts, the Bruins should win this weekend. Stanford
is a pathetic 2-4 after all. But of course, UCLA could lose, and in
that case I’ll have to go find a book of matches and light
myself on fire.
Not that I’m bitter or anything.