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The Big Game Package:

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A Bear on the Farm Below , a Stanford grad student grapples with her Cal roots.

NO LOSER: Despite a winless season, the world saluted Schwartz.

Seldom has losing seemed such a triumph as it did for Stanford in the fall of 1947. It all began the previous spring, with football coach Marchmont "Marchie" Schwartz happily contemplating a roster of talented players as he planned his second postwar season. In 1946, the Stanford team had a 6-3-1 record, including a heady 25-6 demolition of archrival Cal. The outlook for 1947 was auspicious.

Even before the first sign of autumn, however, tragedy struck when two first-stringers died in accidents over the summer. Then two other players signed pro contracts, while two who were eligible to stay on for an extra year decided to graduate.

Instead of dwelling on the team's ill fortune, the 38-year-old Schwartz told an alumni rally, "I think we can win with the boys we have." He knew what it meant to give the game his best shot: Twice named All American at Notre Dame and a collegiate Hall of Famer, Schwartz was one of the greatest running backs in football history.

But as if the loss of his players weren't enough, a series of injuries plagued the team from the opening of practice through the first few games. Three first-stringers suffered broken bones. Half a dozen other players were seriously hurt; they were lost for the season or never reached peak form. When the game against hated California arrived, Stanford was 0-8. The Bears were in contention for the Rose Bowl.

Stanford students built their traditional Big Game bonfire higher than usual that year. A California Bear was burned in effigy, fireworks were set off and the songs and yells reflected genuine enthusiasm for what seemed a hopeless cause.

The pregame rally was "so different from what you'd expect," an alumnus reminisced with me years later, "what with all those depressing losses. But everyone seemed to sense how good it must be making the coach and the players feel."

During the rally, Schwartz predicted that Stanford would win that 50th Big Game. Everyone regarded it as obligatory bravado, but the coach later told me that he'd really believed it. For one thing, Coach Lynn "Pappy" Waldorf was new at Cal, and Schwartz didn't think he appreciated the weightiness of the Big Game or how teams rose to the occasion.

Moreover, Schwartz had a secret. A friend had told him about a football scout, Frank Pierson, who had moved to California and still scouted as a hobby. Schwartz arranged for Pierson to see nearly all the California games. "It looked like it was the only way the season could be salvaged," Schwartz said.

Before the Big Game, Pierson had two sessions with the Stanford squad, explaining every California strategy. "Never in my life have I received a report so thorough and complete," Schwartz said. "He gave the team a tremendous amount of confidence."

Armed with this knowledge and fired up by the hoopla, the defiant Stanford 11 lined up before 85,000 spectators at Berkeley. They fell quickly behind, but held Cal to a 14-6 lead at halftime--and then stormed back to dominate play. Two electrifying advances gave Stanford an 18-14 lead with little more than three minutes to go and the desperate Bears back on their own 20-yard line. Shaken Cal fans faced the prospect of an unbelievable upset.

But then Berkeley's superstar halfback and captain, Jackie Jensen, took a lateral pass from his quarterback, ran to his right, and uncorked a long, diagonal pass across the field to his left. Halfback Paul Keckley, in the clear, ran to catch it, then turned around and sped 80 yards for a touchdown, making the final score 21-18 in favor of Cal.

The Bears had been outplayed by Stanford for 53 of the game's 60 minutes. Coach Waldorf admitted after the game, "The Stanford team deserved victory without a doubt." He told Schwartz, "Your team had the finest spirit I ever saw anywhere."

For Schwartz, there was the bittersweet reward of losing gallantly. But he didn't expect to be treated like a hero. When he finally emerged from the team dressing room, a host of fans drowned him in appreciative cheers and boosted him onto their shoulders in front of the stands. Said a Daily editorial in an understatement: "It's not so dark in the cellar."

At the regular football writers' luncheon in San Francisco two days later, Schwartz received a standing ovation from fellow coaches and the sportswriters. When he rose to speak, his voice broke and he couldn't get beyond "Thank you." Later in the meeting, he revealed the secret of his special scout and gave Pierson much credit for the near upset.

A stream of congratulatory telegrams and letters proclaimed the star-crossed team one of the greatest in Stanford history. Marchie Schwartz had fashioned a winless season into a memorable triumph.

The following Tuesday, students converged for a postseason rally. As reported in the Daily, student president Tom Martzloff presented the team with a plaque inscribed: Nine times defeated, they never lost the will to win. And the crowd began the chant that lasted long into the night, "We want Marchie, we want Marchie . . ."

Rice Odell, '50, an author and journalist in Washington, D.C., worked for the Washington Daily News and the Conservation Foundation.

SPLIT PERSONALITY: Born into a Cal clan, the author now studies journalism at Stanford.

Being a Cal fan is serious business in my family. As a member of the class of 1990, I was the 15th to don the blue and gold. My license plate reads GO BRS. One cousin flies up from L.A. to attend Cal football home games. Three generations of my family know all the words to "Hail to California" and the Cal drinking song.

Of course, being a Cal fan means hating Stanford. Cal students collectively chant "Take off that red shirt!" to anyone wearing cardinal in Memorial Stadium. My father refuses to buy a red car because--insert sneer--"that's Stanford's color."

My one cousin (by marriage, I should add) who did go to Stanford invariably slinks out of Thanksgiving dinner early to avoid being eaten for dessert by family members hot with post-Big Game fever. Without fail, someone kills the classical music playing softly in the dining room and pops in a tape of The Play--calling up images of lateral passes and a downed trombone player--with commentator Joe Starkey incredulously screaming, "The Band is on the field!" until he's hoarse.

So when I decided to pursue a master's degree at Stanford this fall--which just happens to be the season of the 100th Big Game--I risked committing the eighth deadly sin. My new health care coverage would be Cardinal Care. Ouch.

Soon after receiving my acceptance letter from Stanford, I got up the nerve to head across the Bay to enemy territory and check out the program with still-skeptical eyes. At the edge of campus, a billboard loomed above me, shouting "Support Stanford Athletics--Call 1-800-BEAT-CAL." What self-respecting person would call that number? I wondered. It took all the strength I had not to whip the car around, dart over to the East Bay and hand deliver a hefty contribution to the alumni office.

But during my first couple of days as a--gulp--Stanford student, a grudging respect for my new school seeped slowly through my inbred loyalties. Here, faculty and staff helped me navigate every administrative issue--unlike Cal, which is overwhelmed by 50,000 students and completely reliant on computers. With the sun warming my neck and bicyclists cruising gently by, walking to class through the mission-style campus was utterly soothing.

Sipping coffee by the Oval from an oversized Stanford mug, I watched volleyball and Frisbee games and felt like I was at camp. (This is a major reason Cal fans hate Stanford.) I'm thinking of taking horseback riding next quarter.

I can't help liking my new digs. I just can't. While Cal is like family, Stanford is like that new friend you suddenly can't imagine not having in your life.

Don't get me wrong. No four years could be as exceptional as those I spent at Berkeley. Only 30 miles from my parents' house, Cal was light-years from my sheltered, suburban upbringing. I learned to fend for myself, to find a niche among thousands of diverse and fiercely intelligent colleagues. Cal is not for the faint of heart. But I've never met anyone who said "I went to Cal" without affection.

So, like my father, I won't be caught driving a red car. And my Cal mug, filled with blue and gold flowers, has pride of place on my desk. It reads, "Once a bear, always a bear." There'll be no slinking away from Thanksgiving dinner for me.

Leslie A. Gordon, an attorney and freelance writer, is a graduate student in communication.