Harper's Rules 1 & 2

Chapter 28: Jake

Football was ingrained into the University of Southern California as much as academic learning. Traditions, superstitions, and rituals traced back decades, longer than I'd been alive. While I projected the expected cocky, confident quarterback and leader persona, internally I felt blessed, even humbled, with my temporary place in the Trojans' football history.

USC's home games started days before Saturday. The team's Fridays before game days were pretty chill in comparison to some fan rituals like the rallies on campus near the iconic Tommy Trojan statue. I had no idea where some of the traditions came from, like 'kicking the pole,' or one of the three flag poles outside Exposition Boulevard leaving campus towards the Coliseum for the clanking sound effects that erupted just as much as stubbed toes.

Our pregame routine was much more low-key, a light practice, team dinner, and our house movie night. Each game day, unlike most home teams who showed up individually and met in the locker room, our home game approaches were more like away games. Instilled since Head Coach Pete Carroll's dynasty days, once the entire team assembled outside of various hotels in downtown Los Angeles, we boarded chartered buses and arrived collectively at the Coliseum together for the 'Trojan Walk.'

Face-to-face, once we arrived from today's location of the Radisson Midtown, the whole team passed through the parking lot crowd of early arrival spectators. From kids to students to lifetime fans, everyone got arm's-distance access to the players for a fist bump or high five on our way under the Olympic torch, across the field, down a set of red painted stairs, through the club suites, and backwards into the tunnel towards the locker room.

Like every time I stepped onto the Colosseum's turf, even before the pregame warmups, a rush of indescribable feelings surged through me. Behind my cocky expectations that we dominated Stanford on both sides of the ball today, a thrill of anticipation mixed with the awe and humility from how I played my favorite childhood game for my dream team, like thousands of kids only dreamed of.

Just like the tradition that no player's name was put on their jersey, only their number, I knew my USC experience here ended at some point. So I made damn sure that I made the most out of every experience and left my mark to the best of my abilities and maximum efforts.

Before every home game started, I took one moment and disconnected myself from my job on the field and savored the moment. The reality that I attended my university of choice, on an athletic scholarship, and played on the same team I dreamed about since I was seven years old was both a blessing and huge responsibility, both of which I welcomed and took more seriously than any other aspect of my life.

From the midday sun that warmed the top of my dark-haired head, the warm early fall breeze that flowed over my neck and cheeks, the constrictions from my uniform, the warmth in my back, shoulder, and arm muscles, the dull hum of pregame conversations, faint smell of concession stand foods, the rough leather of the ball over the pads of my fingers, I took in the environment that surrounded me.

In my own weird tradition, I put on my helmet only right before we took the field for the game start. During a few pregame warmup tosses to Griff, Evan, and Zach, I paused and took a visual tour of the sea of red seats to the second row, middle aisle pair within Section 121B, near the forty-five yard line and behind USC's bench.

Every cell in my body was beyond grateful that my parents had occupied both those seats during every home game, even the first two years when all they watched was I rode the bench as the backup. The distance and long miles on both their cars and bodies went beyond any words of appreciation that I knew of.

Twenty minutes before the teams took the field for warmups, Mom always sat in seat 13 on the left and Dad in 14 on the right, which sat empty every home game after he passed away. Dad had been my biggest supporter, taught me the first catches of the pigskin, and Mom draped his number 7 jersey over the back of the seat as a somber reminder.