Move-In-Day at U.S.C.

Disgusted with my boring stay in Huntington Beach and my awful hay fever, I decided to b-t it to Howard Jones Field to watch the Trojans workout. Oh yes, b-t means bus and train it. Since I have written a chapter on Howard Jones, the greatest U.S.C. coach from 1925 until 1941 until his untimely death due to cigarettes, I decided to visit the campus.
  The homeless staked out each blvd to ask for handouts from the parked cars at each intersection. The  rest staked out a place on the bus. I got off in Westminster and took the 560 bus to arrive at the Long Beach Metro station after the 91 shuttle deposited me there.
   I bumped my tap card thirty cents and bummed a ride on the Blue Line, headed for Los Angeles. I knew I must have been in Long Beach since many of the idle riders rode bikes and a lady outside the windows showed off her right breast that leaned out her worn out bra. She was screaming a few obscenities while each patron played their rap music. One threw a cigarette lighter at me and I forgave this misfit.
   I switched to the EXPO line downtown and headed for U.S.C. I wished to see their workouts at Jones Field. I had downed a peanut butter sandwich sandwiched in with a warm Idaho potato. Of course I had to meet my budget.
 Hot, yes hotter than hell it was when I dismounted the EXPO line. Everywhere I looked were students and their parents. Before I walked across the U.S.C. campus to visit my mentor Mr Zachary I had a few moments to enter their student store. It resembled the old May Co on the day after Christmas.
    "Are you a new student? The young thin kid was filling out papers and sat down next to me.
     "It is move-in-day at U.S.C. and my room is over there."
     "Are you from  India?"
      "Yes, how can you tell?"
      "I smell curry on your breath and also you are so tan and quiet."  
Inside the store, the happy faced parents bought shirts, pants, and even fans for their little urchins.Each face beamed with smiles as they must have felt proud to have taken their sons and daughters to the promised land and good old U.S.C.
   I gave a kiss to Russ Sanders, a statue at U.S.C. and hightailed it to Jones Field. I had not taken in a practice in years. My floppy hat fell off somewhere so I tried at best to shied my head on another roasting day at U.S.C. Oh yes, Russ Sanders played his football at U.S. C and his picture can be seen inside the San Diego High library in the alumni section. An by and by, Gregory Peck also played his J.V. football there.
Without my hat, my head felt like a hot boiling egg as i made it to the field whose name sake, Howard Jones' football teams had put the Trojans on the same page as Notre Dame. Footballs were flying everywhere. I could not get over how high the trajectory of each kick was. Why the two kickers sent them high, and long. A man dressed in U.S.C colors and watched with glee the practice interested me.
    "Sir, is this the varsity?"
     "Yes it surely is. See number seven, that is my son. He is a wide receiver. His number is seven."
     A pass was thrown his way from a coach and he clasped it in his hands the way a set of pliers would.
      "What High did he go to?"
      "Went to Bishop Almaney in Pasadena...What you got there in your hands?"
   It is about Amby Schindler, a greatest of them all under Howard Jones in the thirties. By the way, name is George, what is your?"
       "Name is Mr. Mitchell, and that is my son, Steve. He is a two year letter varsity letter man.

Hot, hungry and thirsty, I said my good-by's to Mitchell and went to the EXPO line back to West Los Angeles. The line passed off to the 501 and Pico line where I then went to my daughter's apartmetn to watch her dog for the day