That Old School Spirit

There, for the first time in his life, he had felt he belonged to something important and grand; there he had earned the privilege to use that magic word, the word he craved: we. There he had discovered the joy and pain of sacrifice, surviving with his bride on 19� boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese in order to make it through medical school. Janet, poor gal, had gone to UCLA, but it was a Trojan frat brother who had made the introduction, and through the power of the doctor's passion, by god, he had made her a Trojan. The truth, now: Who and what else—in an age when people jettisoned jobs, homes, cities, spouses and friends—had made the long trip with him from skinny undergrad to 58-year-old multimillionaire but his wife and USC?

His own family, for goodness' sakes, how much more of a family it had become because of the Trojans. Everybody might run off in a thousand directions from Sunday through Friday, but on Saturdays in autumn everything had its place, everyone had his or her role: Chuck brought the chips and the salsa and the beer, and his brother Jay had those three-foot subs with the Trojan peppers, red and gold; Janet packed the cookies and sodas and cheese and arranged a bouquet of flowers for the picnic table—and always asked her husband, no more than 3� seconds after they got on the road, "Did you remember to bring the tickets?" The doctor would roll his eyes and say, "Yes, dear."

Third tree in from Menlo Avenue, that was where they would meet the old gang, 15 or 20 of them, easy friends to have, the sort you could laugh and drink and joke with from Labor Day weekend through New Year's and then not see again until the Trojans gave them a reason to get together the following fall. All of them scrambling to clean up the tailgate party when they heard the drums thumping, hastening to their seats just in time to see the band, 267 pieces strong, come thundering into the Coliseum. And then, after they had wrung themselves out cheering for 2� hours, it was back to the tree to pop the three bottles of champagne and analyze the game, to heat up the pasta inside the motor home, then to head back to the house and pull into the driveway at dusk, feeling tired—a good tired, a winner 115 times at home in the last 25 years—and then to sprawl out on the couch and watch the day's big plays all over again on the 11 o'clock news. Repeating it over and over until it became ritual, as automatic as which side he slept on, moments and smells and scenes so inseparable from a man that it was difficult for him to truly believe that all of it would go on and on and on even after he was gone.

"I didn't do it for plaques or publicity," says Elerding. "I did it because I feel good about what this school provided me. Most of the people in this world are takers. They stay on the sidelines and then wonder why life passed them by. Who wants to be in the audience all the time? No, I'm not on the outside looking in anymore."

A startling thing occurred in April. Elerding suddenly became better. Pneumonitis, they finally called his illness, then, after 10 days, detached him from the tubes and sent him home. In June, he wrote a check for the Dr. Charles E. and Janet R. Elerding head football coach, and he knew he was doing the right thing. He pledged his legacy to the Trojans.

Within a few months, on a trip to northern California, his left arm went dead. Stroke? Tumor? The nightmare commenced again. An abscess in the brain, they finally called it, and then, through massive doses of sulfa drugs, the side-effects of which made him ultrasensitive to sunlight, he began to recover from that, too.

And now, of course, it is a glorious Saturday afternoon, midseason, the last seconds ticking off on a 28-27 war with Washington, the Dr. Charles E. and Janet R. Elerding punter salting it away with a majestic 51-yarder. The Trojans have survived. And although he can no longer join his friends for the pregame picnic or sit out in the sun with them, just a few rows from the band, Elerding has survived, too.

"That champagne is sure going to taste good today," he says. "We've earned it."

He puts on the sunglasses, gloves and wide straw hat he now wears as a precaution to protect his skin, leaves the shade of the press box and files out with the crowd. Old friends spot him and point. What do they say to the man who has recently made what may be the largest contribution to a football team in history, the man who has endowed the head coach and punter until the end of time?

"Nice hat. How's the migrant work, pal?"