The Ballad of the 100<sup>th</sup> Big Game

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the hundredth Big Game, this time last year.
The day was historic, so listen full well
Though, of football glory, there’s little to tell:

One yard if by running and two from a pass,
And our quarterback, with his head up his ass,
Unfailingly managed to screw up each play
And we watched as the last of our pride slipped away.

We stood there, an angry mob in blue and gold
Pissed off past sound reason, a sight to behold.
Bored with bad football, we searched all in vain
For something to liven the listless refrain.

We were trailing at half-time, when out of the blue
Two liquored-up frat boys came to our rescue.
Our heroes decided to scale the huge fence
And rush Stanfurd’s Tree, in good Cal’s defense.

Our spirits, just briefly, were lifted with glee
As each of us cheered the attack on the Tree.
But the frat boys were thwarted by three burly men
So we Cal fans resumed our vast boredom again.

Until, through the stadium, through that bleak pall
Echoed the sound of a penalty call:
“Unsportsmanlike Conduct,” it cried, “Stanfurd sucks.”
And that got us cheering like horny woodchucks.

By fourth quarter’s end, our team had a chance
To actually win, so we cheered their advance.
The score had drawn close and the tension was thick;
Cal wouldn’t go down easy like a sorority chick.

As the seconds ticked down, we all started to howl,
As crazy as Yoshua out there on Sproul,
Until finally the time had been fully exhausted
And we saw that by one measly point we had losted.

We stood dumbly there, wond’ring what would ensue,
Much like ASUC Senators do.
The air was abuzz with a ominous silence,
As Cal students thirsted for sheer mob violence.

Stanfurd rushed the field, thrilled with their status,
And called us their bitches, and lobbed bottles at us.
I, in my Cal Band uniform, valiantly took
A wound from a beer bottle thrown by some schnook.

But then, standing there, filled with rage and dejection,
Something snapped in the Cal student section.
They tore down the fences, they rushed to the field
Grabbing whatever blunt weapon they could wield.

They ran toward the victors, as rioters would
And Stanford retreated, as damn well they should.
And then, what occurred, I recall with regret
Was one of Cal’s most embarrassing scenes yet.

Overcome with mob lunacy, Cal wanted blood
But since Stanfurd bolted, the Cal student flood
Turned on the thing that pissed them off the most
So they pulled out and hauled away Stanfurd’s goal post.

And finally, once they were all satisfied
With the mayhem they’d caused, the Cal student side
Meekly retreated back over the Bay,
Convinced that they’d certainly won for the day.

And now, one year later, as I recall fondly
The Big Game that turned out as ugly as Chelsea,
I urge you to follow, in this year’s Big Game,
That time-honored slogan, Cal’s own claim to fame,

Our proud battle-cry, from a great history
Of memorable Big Games: “Let’s kill the damn tree!”