Ah, it could have been different but for one fourth-and-one-foot-from-the-goal-line play in the final seconds of the first half. Trailing 17-0, Illinois had toiled its way 69 yards on a nail-biting, 17-play drive, converting two third downs and one fourth along the way. Finally came the moment of truth. Trudeau rolled right, rolled and rolled until he came nose to nose with decision: Dive for the end zone or throw it. This is Illinois. He threw it. USC linebacker Garrett Breeland swatted the ball away, and Illinois fans were left with the greatest non-climaxes since the '84 Cubs. And just where is Aid when you need it?
All USC had to do was Bogart the ball behind its San Gabriel Mountain offensive line, and that it did, keeping possession for almost 22 of the 30 remaining minutes. Illinois' passing machine was so out of whack that its only touchdown—an 83-yard pass from Trudeau to Cap Boso—came on a broken play.
Such are the fates, it seems, whenever some Pac-10 Mr. Sluggo and Big Ten Mr. Bill intertwine. In the last 39 games between the two conferences, the Westerners have won 25, including four of five Rose Bowls. White is the new master of Pac-10 disaster, having been thrashed 45-9 by UCLA in the '84 Rose Bowl—"That still feels like a death in the family," he says—and then having lost to his former employer, lowly Stanford, last September, 34-19. Now this.
"Maybe we want it so bad we just try too hard," says Trudeau, who is one of 24 Illini White trucked in from California. "Or maybe it's a jinx. I hate to say it, but maybe it is."
Jinx or not, Trudeau should kiss the next NCAA official he sees in thanks for the TV ban. He fumbled three times, and his four interceptions don't leave him much room if he expects to stay under the 10 he threw all last year. Two of them came on passes so iron-poor that one had to wonder if the thrower's first name wasn't Margaret. Much of Trudeau's difficulty arrived in the form of USC noseguard Tony Colorito, a premed philosophy buff who quotes Nietzsche (Friedrich) but plays like Nitschke (Ray). "A formula for my happiness," Colorito says, quoting the former. "A yes, a no, a straight line, a goal."
Colorito's formula for Trudeau was a straight line to his face: countless harassments and enough pressure to allow USC's secondary the luxury of setting up in a nickel pass defense for most of the game.
Of course, weeks earlier Trudeau had unwittingly added to his own heap of bothers when he gave Salisbury, a longtime friend, a bit of helpful advice that the USC quarterback has used to change his fortunes. Trudeau recommended that the naturally high-strung Salisbury consult a "creative image" psychologist, like the one the Illini team uses, to help him learn to relax. Convinced, Salisbury found Marielle Fuller—a teaching therapist at UCLA, of all places—and began relaxing at the rate of $40 an hour. And it worked. The kid who came out of Orange Glen High in Escondido as the No. 1 quarterback in the country ( Brigham Young wanted Salisbury first, Robbie Bosco second) had suffered three years of frustration and failure—two knee blowouts and a 4-6-1 season in 1983, his only full year. "I'd get so depressed that I would walk around campus with my Walkman on my head but no music playing," he says. "I just didn't want to talk to anybody."
Now Salisbury stares at or tries to visualize things colored light blue when he needs to calm himself (he used the sky on Saturday), and thinks of an inspiring image when he needs to excel (he pictured his father's face). He ended up completing 10 of 15 passes for 164 yards, two touchdowns and zero interceptions. Said USC coach Ted Tollner, "Sean has paid dearly to be where he is now, and I think we on the team have more respect for him than the public does." Says his tutor, the Canadian born, French-speaking, 76-year-old Mrs. Fuller (she has never been to an American football game), "He is a very sensitive boy. He is not just a big bunch of flesh and no brain."
Thankfully, in front of Salisbury was one of the bigger bunches of flesh extant, USC's offensive line, which is larger, at an average of 273 pounds per man, than the L.A. Raiders'. The Trojan linemen went through Illini defenders as if they were late for supper. "I think we could've run on 'em all day," said tackle James FitzPatrick, who stands 6'8" and weighs 285 pounds. Said tailback Fred (Four-Yard Freddie) Crutcher, who had 18 carries for 74 yards, "I know we could've. I kept wondering, 'Where are they all?' "
Where they were was under the cleats of such All-America candidates as FitzPatrick and Jeff Bregel, who have come a long way since the days when they would vie to make the largest hole in their dorm-room wall—using their heads. "There is only one level of linemen in football better than these guys," says Salisbury. "And they're all making about $200,000 a year."