College football, a game this time of mostly yellows and greens; some red in the stands. The referees are bugs in the air.

The USC Trojans, kings of college football, will murder lowly Stanford. An immediately unstoppable march. Time rushes behind the scores. Cheerleaders bend slowly to the echo.

Band music mists the scent of bloodshed: think the Stones at Altamont.

The board shows the rattle of hometown points. The spread is pined over, the mob is gluttonous.

My bunch does its wagging hand signal, as the defense does not let up.

Stanford is agonized, its players not just moribund but like corpses stripped.

The man behind me bets loudly with the other man behind me; prophecies belched by bores.

One last time, famed former running back Sam "Bam" Cunningham shunts himself quickly afield, there to be honored, punctuating half-time celebrations -- soon swept away, asunder -- his legacy a silent ghost. Stanford band members piecemeal recreate the slo-mo freeway chase, "O.J. in Bronco." A jab at the former Trojan great. It matters not that poor Nicole was jabbed and jobbed, what matters is the joke. Evidently. Collegiate zeal. Administrative ad hominem.

This night at the Coliseum bears the imprimatur of a one-sided nation. Enthusiasm's hollow core.

Nothing is close. Stanford does wriggle up to the SC end zone -- stopped just short at the one-yard line, first and goal -- but the Cardinals' quarterback was winged, comes out. His lesser doppelganger trots out, huddles: freezes, wheels, congeals. Hand over hand, moment at hand. Ball pops free. Glory lost. Involvement unforgiven. Life deadened, he will leave. Teams change units, offense to defense and defense to offense, while the cheerleaders and bands tile the night with layers of affect.

Outside, by one of the restrooms, a young man leans, in metallic Trojan garb and feathery helmet, lit cigarette drooling smoke from his lips. The game hastens over.

The followers -- they did not descend on the Coliseum; they ascended, in fevered glory, to witness triumph and rollick in its ease -- now reverse course, head home. These are the many young, who often have already coupled implicit in the night, in their motions and lockings and cries, their shrill sounds and shriller clothing. And their parents and grandparents, the single or doubled elders, those who still come, they are there too. And one supposes, they have never really left.