It was the kind of crisp November day I slurp like soup.
As you may know, tailgate parties suit nearly all my lumberjack impulses — my lust for danger, woodsmoke and pie.
At one point, I pass around little sips of honey bourbon to our guests, a warming amber drink on Thanksgiving weekend, in the surreal dark of 4 p.m., the night about to wrap us like a velvet cape.
Drink up, everyone. This is the Pac-12’s final regular season game. Ever.
You know me, I shun sentiment and nostalgia in any form. I find it weak and not so appealing. But even my sassy 2-year-old granddaughter senses something ain’t right about this lousy Pac-12 finale.
See, college is all about regional rivalries, and now the elites of the Pac-12 are marrying the brutish Big Ten for money. Hey, it’s as good a reason as any, I suppose. Yet, what kind of price do you put on your soul?
For sale: Everything we cherish. Must go now.
Inside the stadium, UCLA is playing Cal, a match-up that has happened every fall for 93 straight years. That’s right, Buttercup. The two teams have played every season since 1930.
There is a wistfulness to the moment. We’ve even brought a coffin to amplify our disgust, propped it up against an oak tree, offered a heartfelt eulogy or two.
Here’s to the great Pac-12: Born Dec. 2, 1915. Died Nov. 25, 2023.
And this is its very last regular season game. All so that the rich can get richer.
Causes of death: ineptitude, stupidity, greed.
To me, it’s like the end of the Jazz Age. Or when the Beatles broke up. Or Cronkite went off the air. Honestly, this may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.
Of course, life will go on. Perhaps even a better life. Who knows? For all the history of this matchup, only 25,000 folks show up for the final UCLA-Cal game, about the same turnout they get for a high school game way down thar in Lubbock.
Seriously, something had to give. On its rosy mountain perch, daylight fading, the Rose Bowl looks like the edge of Oz itself. The grand old ballyard deserves a decent crowd.
Here’s the good news: the tailgate keg worked. Miller sold out of his famous margaritas. Huggy-bear Bittner made everyone feel super welcome. Suzanne’s kids met my kids and they all got along OK.
Hugs. Smiles. Punchlines.
Anne and Randy celebrated the Thanksgiving engagement of their spectacular daughter, Jessi. Bob brought the grandkid. Nathan brought Kevin. Jeff brought Lydia. Kim brought her to-die-for chocolate chip cookies.
You know, I don’t know how many more tailgate seasons I have left in me…schlepping the kegs…lugging fat sturdy tables into my son-in-law’s truck.
The next day, my joints pop like bubble wrap. And there’s that lightning in my lower back again.
Hey Smartacus, run me a nice ice bath, would you?
A good tailgate is part cult, part Belushi prank. We played that craaaazy Aussie game with the quarters and the cups, noshed on deli sandwiches and scarfed Dean’s Onion Dip, then gathered around the TV to watch Alabama steal one from Auburn in the waning seconds.
It was like calligraphy, that looping winning pass. It was like something the French do with sugar and cream.
Why was that win extra thrilling? Because Auburn and Alabama have been tussling like this for about a billion years. Because there is skin in the game – my kid against yours. Because of bravado, bragging rights and regional pride.
Just remember, you can’t manufacture resonance. And you can’t duplicate the flutter in your fingertips that you get when old flames meet.
You think Pac-12 commissioner Larry Scott was bad? You’re right; he was. But just wait till the good ol’ boys of the Big Ten are done with you.
In a few years, the Pac-12 will feel like the One That Got Away.
We have about 10 spots left for Saturday’s Happy Hour Hike in Calabasas. If you’ve already replied, you’ll get details later today. If you’d like to be added to the list, please email Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com . It begins at 2 p.m., with beverages to follow at Sagebrush Cantina.
Also, please join me and co-author Steve Searles as we chat about “What the Bears Know,” at the Santa Monica Main Library, 6 pm, Tuesday Dec. 5. It’s the life story of Searles, Mammoth’s “Bear Whisperer.” {Pages} book store will be selling the book at the library, and we’re be glad to personalize your copies. In these troubling times, we hope you’ll find our book makes a soothing and compelling holiday gift.
Cheers!
The Pac-12 was even older than my father. He was born July 1919 & died January 2020. Thank God he didn’t live to see its demise but he & his 8 brothers (all grew up in California) I know are crying in heaven now.
It was so nice to meet you at the wake. I knew it was going to be the best part of the day. I just didn’t know it was going to be that much better… Go Bruins!
Hi Richard, the pleasure was all mine. Thanks for stopping by. We’ll always have a spot for you! Cheers
I will!
Alas, PAC 12, you will be missed. It sure was a blast while it lasted. Larry Scott, don’t get me started, ugh. And as we say in our house, once a Trojan, always a Trojan. Fight On!
I wish I would have found you tailgating. We were at the game and it was a fun one. RIP Pac 12, but as a Cal fan, what a way to go out. The Rose Bowl may not have been full, but the Cal section was packed and loud.
Have ya heard? They’re planning on tearing down the Rose Bowl to put up a parking lot!
She has yet to slip off this mortal coil, but were it that she’d already opted for the Big Sleep, Joni Mitchell would be rolling in her grave! No more PAC-12 makes those of us thoroughly ensconced in “old school,” well,
blue …
“It’s money that matters. Hear what I say. It’s money that matters in the USA” Randy Newman had it right years ago. I look forward to watching USC, UCLA, Washington or Oregon try to beat any BIG 10 team in the mid-west in late November. My money is on Michigan, Ohio St., Penn St. – hell, even Iowa.
Things will be VERY different at the end of all the sports this coming spring…it’s all about the $$$.
This boisterous narrative has led me to appreciate how the tailgate ritual can lend meaning to Fall afternoons; and the pictures of the event glow like ambrosia in a crystal bowl. Love is all around. My limited experience of tailgates made them feel more like brief sandwich picnics, which they were. We were students, and no one had a car, let alone access to the tailgate of a truck. Your pictures show a tented affair of richness and diversity, with something for everyone, and resources and logistics we could not then have conceived of having. Yet, I remember those elemental communal celebrations, before the great games in the thunderous confines of Folsom Field, with great fondness. We had little, but I loved every moment…..
Ritual And Requiem
I think I finally understand
That a Tailgate is a grand
Celebration of a love of friends
On those late Fall afternoons
When sounds of bands,leaf spice,balloons
Are released like prayers into air
Of a vast stadium—a punch bowl where
The nectar of life is consumed
Life’s sweet delirium presumed
How could such visceral elan be doomed?
The name Tailgate seems profound
Has an ending and beginning sound
Conceived, perhaps, on a pickup truck
You partied there, and the name stuck
And now it’s become a society
Of loves, familiars, and insobriety
A ritual of sheer autumn pleasure
Like the kickoff ahead, a thrill to treasure
As the party tails off, receiver at the gate
Takes a ball in a roar, distant sound opiate
As the great game begins, with joy innate
In the fall of the ball—a mortal shove
Of your tail to the gate of the bowl you love ;
The Pac—12 has sunset, but the Tailgate—like the sun
Seems forever, like love, ‘cause it’s so much fun !!
Love it!
…and the game that it attends…
4th line left out, above. @&&$&&!!!!!! Text editorsill Will AI take over this? And that?
Aaaaannd how would AI attend a tailgate, let alone enjoy it ?
We will miss the Conference of Champions(tm), and Bill Walton rambling and pontificating during UCLA basketball games. Maybe the rest of the sports will establish west coast leagues similar to water polo and volleyball.
What is it about cornhole boards and little kids? I love the picture of the two cuties on the board, and it reminds me of what happens whenever I find myself playing a very serious and high stakes game of cornhole. But with the right training, they can learn to stay off the board while being very helpful with picking up the wayward bags. #highqualityparenting
Mike, they’d be like golden retrievers. I like how you think!
“…you can’t manufacture resonance.” Damn, is that ever true. Which is why I have steadfastly refused to see any of the Fast & Furious series.