It has often been said that sports is a microcosm of life itself.
For a young man such as me, struggling to find to find myself as I grew distanced from my parents, sports, especially Trojans football, was the glue that bound the relationship between me and my father when all other components of life left it irrevocably frayed at the edges.
We had always shared USC sports, my father and I.
When my youthful dalliances, most of which were harmless but some bordered on slightly destructive, threatened to drive a wedge between us, Trojans football would always bring us back together.
For those three hours or so, he could forget that I was a stubborn kid, determined to chart my own path in life, and I could set aside what I perceived as the constant criticism of a parent whom I could never seem to please.
That time for us was golden. Or should I say, "cardinal and gold."
And so it was on that day in November 1976 when our beloved Trojans, ranked No. 2 in the country, met No. 3 UCLA at the Coliseum in a game that was as highly-anticipated as any in the legendary rivalry.
I hadn't intended on watching the game with my dad, but other plans fell through and I found myself back where I had spent so many days taking in USC football games.
As usual, my dad gave his obligatory remarks about how "cute" the Bruins looked in their "Robin egg blue" uniforms, inferring that the color scheme was somewhat less than manly.
Then he would ask me what I thought the keys to the game were but when I would try to respond, he would cut me off dismissively to tell me what he thought was really going on.
It was always the same routine. My dad assumed his rightful place as the knowledgeable football patriarch, and I was the kid in training.
It probably was the same father-son routine that played out in thousands of living rooms, but it always felt uniquely different in mine.
In any event, Trojans games would act as a momentary "safe haven," where our parent-child roles were well-defined and we could just enjoy the game for what it was.
My dad was always a huge Ricky Bell fan, but in this game the big Trojans tailback was nursing a sprained ankle and not much was expected from him.
Instead, the Bruins were focused on Trojans quarterback Vince Evans and his big arm.
Big mistake.
Though the years have clouded the memories, I can still recall Bell running wild on that bum ankle while my dad and I screamed ourselves hoarse with delight.
I also remember the stout Trojans bottling up the "cute" Bruins with a stifling defense that barely allowed them room to breathe.
When it was all said and done, USC had won 24-14.
The Bruins were deprived of a chance to go to the Rose Bowl, and my dad and I had one more memory to help soften all of the angst that life throws at a father and son.
A week later, my father was dead, the victim of a heart attack at the young age of 50.
Ricky Bell, the object of my father's admiration, would die just a few years later, also far too young at the age of 27.
But on that day in 1976, Bell would provide the motivation for one last father and son memory, though neither of us had an inkling at the time that this would be our last.
Though I was just a kid when my dad passed, I always understood how special USC football was for me and how it provided a bridge in a parent-child relationship that had grown strained because I was determined to be a knucklehead.
And looking back, I can see now how that game brought my dad joy because he could revel in a Trojan victory with a son for whom he held such high hopes but was, in his eyes at least, embarking on a disastrous path.
I couldn't tell him at the time that I would be okay, because I didn't know that myself.
So he worried, and we would fight.
But not on that Saturday.
When he died, at least he held the memory of our last Trojans victory over the hated Bruins and smiled because he spent it with his son.
And I will cherish that memory too, for all of the right reasons.
Have there been better USC-UCLA games?
Probably, but none that will ever mean more to me.
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