Chapter 3: Rivalries
The Most Overrated Rivalry in College Football
USC-UCLA
As a native of Alabama who has lived in California, Texas, and now New
England, I’ve got a pretty good grip on regional biases. They have in
common the trait of ignorance. People dismiss what they don’t know.
But as someone who has covered college football for more than 20 years,
and as someone who has covered Alabama-Auburn, Ohio State–Michigan,
Texas-Oklahoma, USC–Notre Dame, Florida-Georgia, etc., etc., I want to
pre-empt criticism of what I am about to say. I might be wrong, but it’s not
from ignorance.
The USC-UCLA rivalry is the most overrated in college football. There
is a rivalry. There is some emotion. There is some dislike.
But, c’mon. It’s in L.A.
There are the sellout crowds at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum and
the Rose Bowl. There’s the delight the Bruins took in ending the Trojans’
national championship hopes in 2006 with a 13–9 upset. There’s the 1967
game, in which the No. 4 Trojans and their Heisman Trophy candidate, tail-
back O.J. Simpson, defeated the No. 1 Bruins and their Heisman Trophy
winner, quarterback Gary Beban, 21–20. The game turned on Simpson’s
64-yard, gravity-defying touchdown sprint in the fourth quarter. Dan
Jenkins, the best college football writer since Grantland Rice, has that ’67
game on his short list of all-time greats.
But, c’mon. It’s still in L.A. These people don’t know how to hate a
college football opponent. The weather’s too nice. There’s too much else to
do. College football is just not important enough.
The lifeblood of a college rivalry is the identity that alumni and fans
invest in their school. It is oxygen. It is all there is. UCLA may have lost eight
of the last nine to USC by an average of 21 points, but the typical Bruin
doesn’t feel a sliver of the angst that has taken up residence in the gut of every
Alabama fan. The Crimson Tide faithful awaken every day knowing that
they have to go into the office and face Auburn fans who will let them
know—every day—that the Tigers have won six straight Iron Bowls.
The laidback attitude of most Californians makes for a lukewarm rivalry between USC
and UCLA.
College football does not do well in urban markets, largely because of the
arrival over the last 50 years of NFL fever. Los Angeles is an exception
because there’s no NFL team, and because USC and UCLA have healthy fan
bases. But L.A. college fans don’t have the same allegiance to these two
schools that college fans around the country have. L.A. people are more than
their school. When their teams lose, they don’t riot. They just don’t show up.
USC and UCLA fans say that they work together uneasily. They say that
marriages between alums of the two schools are “mixed.” But you could
generate a healthy debate regarding whether UCLA is even USC’s biggest
rival. The Trojan players, and probably the fans, may tell you that they
would rather beat the Bruins than anyone else. They do have to live there.
The rest of the country pays more attention to USC–Notre Dame (which,
by the way, began in 1926, three years before the USC-UCLA rivalry).
If there is any doubt about the identity of your biggest rival, then by def-
inition your rivalry is overrated. The only place that doubt is allowed in any
rivalry regards the outcome. UCLA and USC are lacking here, too. UCLA’s
2006 upset of USC prevented the Trojans from playing for No. 1. But one
of the reasons that the upset made the earth move is that it was so, so unex-
pected. When one team consistently loses to the other by an average of three
touchdowns, that’s not a rivalry.
Bruin fans may counter that the rivalry’s heartbeat has slowed, not
stopped—UCLA trails USC 42–28–7 in the all-time series. In their defense,
the rivalry does possess one of the trademarks of any great rivalry: pranks.
Bruin fans traditionally defaced the Tommy Trojan statue on the USC campus
until the arrival of the Trojan Knights, 24-hour volunteer guards during the
week of the game, who annually encase bronzed Tommy in—we kid you
not—duct tape. This may be a case of the cure being worse than the illness.
The rivalry’s trophy, the Victory Bell, once belonged to UCLA. USC frat
boys stole the bell and hid it, and after the administrations of the schools
negotiated, they agreed that the winner would keep it for the following year.
The team that wins the Victory Bell paints it the appropriate color: UCLA’s
“true blue” or USC’s cardinal.
Not bad, although trophies themselves, while fun, aren’t necessary.
Many of the top rivalries don’t play for trophies, and if they do, the most
ardent fans couldn’t tell you what they are. In most top rivalries, the trophy
is the scalp of the losing coach. There is a hint of that in UCLA-USC. Karl
Dorrell went 1–4 against USC and 34–23 against the rest of the competi-
tion. UCLA fired him. John Robinson, in his USC sequel, went 0–5 against
UCLA, but neither athletic director Mike Garrett nor Robinson listed that
among the reasons he was fired.
Ask Texas coach Mack Brown about winning 10 games and being casti-
gated for not beating Oklahoma. Not until the national championship
season of 2005, when junior quarterback Vince Young had matured and the
Sooners were rebuilding, did a 45–12 Longhorns victory calm the faithful.
It is entirely possible that new Bruins coach Rick Neuheisel will do a Dr.
Frankenstein on the USC-UCLA rivalry and make it compelling again. It
is entirely possible that USC coach Pete Carroll will get bored with domi-
nating the Pac-10 and begin his third attempt to climb the NFL mountain.
I think Carroll is smarter than that and would rather continue being the
King of Los Angeles. But never discount the power of ego among head
coaches. Until one of those things happens, until this rivalry becomes com-
petitive, and until the schools move it to a smaller place where it will
consume every molecule of air for the week leading up to the game, you’re
going to have to find me a better rivalry than this one.
The Rest of the Most Overrated
2. NOTRE DAME–MICHIGAN
They may have the two greatest fight songs in college football. They may
rank 1-2 in all-time victories (Michigan 869, Notre Dame 824) and 1-2 in
all-time winning percentage (Michigan .745, Notre Dame .739). They may
have national fan bases, which means that even if they ranked 1-2 in all-
time losses, the television networks would beat down their doors.
They also have a dramatic history, on and off the field. When Notre
Dame wanted to join the Western Conference, the Big Ten’s original name,
Michigan blocked the doorway.
Michigan and Notre Dame have played 26 times since the birth of the
Associated Press poll, and in every game, at least one of the teams was
ranked. In eight of the games, both teams were ranked in the top 10. That’s
quality stuff.
The Fighting Irish and the Wolverines have given us great moments: Irish
kicker Harry Oliver, who had never made a kick longer than 38 yards, makes
a 51-yarder to win the game 29–27 in 1980; little-known Raghib Ismail
returns two kickoffs for touchdowns in a 24–19 Irish victory in 1989; and
Remy Hamilton’s 42-yard field goal with :02 to play to give the Wolverines
a 26–24 victory in 1994, a kick that lost some luster after Michigan lost its
next game, the 27–26 Hail Mary shocker pulled off by Colorado.
Good memories all, but they’re not enough.
For one thing, both have bigger rivals (and if I have to spell out that
Notre Dame has USC and Michigan has Ohio State, you have my permis-
sion to put this book down and pick up a romance novel).
For another, any rivalry that pretends to be serious has to play every year.
This seems as basic as making fun of the other team’s fight song/mascot/
cheerleaders/you name it. But it proved difficult for Michigan and Notre
Dame to grasp. They didn’t begin to play regularly until 1978. Before that,
they didn’t play largely because of ego. Michigan coach Fielding Yost, embar-
rassed by an 11–3 loss to Notre Dame in 1909, cancelled the 1910 game.
Knute Rockne always believed Yost had it in for the Irish because of anti-
Catholic bias.
Whatever the reason, Yost and Michigan led the opposition to Notre
Dame joining the Big Ten in 1926. They played twice during World War II,
when travel restrictions trumped ego, but the schools didn’t begin playing
regularly until 1978. Even then, Notre Dame and Michigan took two-year
hiatuses from each other in 1983–84, 1995–96, and 2000–01. It wasn’t until
August 2007 that the two schools guaranteed that will play each other every
year by signing a 20-year extension that will take them through 2031.
I hope they move the game to later in the season. It’s hard to take any
rivalry seriously that is played in September. How big can the stakes be?
3. TENNESSEE-FLORIDA
Tennessee and Florida play a game with championship ramifications most
every September. In 14 of 16 seasons since the Southeastern Conference
adopted the two-division format, the Volunteers or the Gators have won at
least a share of the East championship. That made it pretty easy for the
schools’ fans to learn how to loathe the other guys’ shade of orange. Former
Gators coach Steve Spurrier relished beating the Volunteers every season,
and given the nature of Steve Spurrier, he made sure that the Vols knew how
much he relished it. The Gators beat the Vols and everyone else in the
1990s, of course, but beating Tennessee and its Heisman candidate, quar-
terback Peyton Manning, in three consecutive seasons drove the entire Vol
Nation to distraction—and usually to the Citrus Bowl.
In 1998, the year after Manning graduated, Tennessee ignited its national
championship run with a 20–17 overtime victory over Florida. In 2001, when
the 9/11 tragedy forced the schools to postpone their game until December,
the fifth-ranked Vols made their season by upsetting the second-ranked Gators
34–32 to knock them out of the national championship hunt. The game
meant so much to Tennessee that, when all it had to do to play Miami for the
national championship was beat LSU in the SEC Championship Game, the
Vols had nothing left. The No. 21 Tigers beat them 31–20.
But there’s a difference between a rivalry based on hatred and a rivalry
based on results. In the former, it doesn’t matter what the teams’ records are.
Stanford finished the 2007 season 4–8, but by finishing 4–8 with an upset
of California, the Cardinal had a good season. If the price of beating Army
meant losing the previous 11 games, most Navy players would say, “Aye,
aye, sir,” faster than you could say “Annapolis.”
In the latter, the goal is to win a championship, not to win the rivalry. If
Tennessee and Florida fell to the bottom of the SEC East, would anyone at
either school care who won the game? No. And don’t snicker. It could
happen. If you don’t believe me, ask Nebraska. In the 1980s and 1990s, the
Huskers developed some friction with Colorado. From 1990 through 1997,
Nebraska and Colorado won or shared four of the eight national champi-
onships. The road to No. 1 for each school led them to the other.
But when Nebraska and Colorado both fell off the championship rails
in recent years, the rivalry lost its urgency. The rivalry didn’t have deep
roots. These days, the Huskers and Buffaloes don’t care about beating each
other as much as they care about beating anybody.
4. CLEMSON–FLORIDA STATE
Clemson and Florida State is a rivalry the way that Survivor is a competi-
tion. They are both made-for-TV events. To quote a TV star from the last
decade, and to defend my employer, let me be the first to say, “Not that
there’s anything wrong with that.”
But the Tigers and the Seminoles don’t play in prime time on ESPN
every year because they have a history. They play in prime time on ESPN
every year because their coaches have a history. TV can’t get enough of
emotion, and what could be more emotional than having the winningest
coach in the history of the game on one sideline and his oldest son on the
other? If that’s not made-for-TV drama, then Law & Order has never been
shown in reruns.
It’s nice that both schools are in the Atlantic Coast Conference, and it’s
nice that both are in the same division, which could be the Atlantic, unless
Clemson coach Tommy Bowden and his father, Florida State coach Bobby Bowden, have
created an overrated, made-for-TV rivalry between the two ACC foes.
it’s the Coastal—or the Pacific—and it really doesn’t matter. Outside of the
guys in the ACC office who split 12 teams from Boston to Miami into divi-
sions, and maybe the league’s coaches, no one can tell you which ACC team
is in which division.
But I digress.
Clemson and Florida State didn’t have much history before the
Seminoles joined the ACC, but what’s there is “cherce,” as Spencer Tracy
said of Katharine Hepburn in one of the most underrated sports movies of
all-time, Pat and Mike. In 1988, Florida State, trying to recover its balance
after opening the season at No. 1 and losing to Miami 31–0, trailed at
Clemson for nearly the entire game.
In the fourth quarter, with the score tied at 21–21 and less than 2:00 to
play, the Seminoles had a fourth down at their own 20. Clemson would
have good field position after a punt, and Florida State would have a good
chance of losing another heartbreaker. But Seminoles coach Bobby Bowden
called not just any fake punt in the shadow of his own goal line. He called
the puntrooskie. Blocking back Dayne Williams took the snap and handed
the ball forward between the legs of LeRoy Butler, who stood like a statue
until the Seminoles drew the Tigers to the right side of the field. Butler then
took off left. He ran 78 yards to the 1, and Florida State won 24–21.
Nothing that Clemson and Florida State have played since Tommy
Bowden arrived in Death Valley in 1999 has remotely compared to that,
and no game that the two teams have played under father and son has com-
pared in drama to the first one. Tommy’s 3–3 team nearly upset Bobby’s
No. 1, undefeated team before falling 17–14. The Seminoles won the first
four father-son games, but the Tigers have surged, and the rivalry now
stands at Bobby 5, Tommy 4. And the minute one of the Bowdens retires,
this rivalry won’t be rated enough to be overrated. It will carry all the excite-
ment of that other traditional ACC clash, Wake Forest–Boston College.
5. PITTSBURGH–WEST VIRGINIA
If only this rivalry reached the standard of its name—the Backyard Brawl.
The name speaks to passion and uninhibited battle. It implies a lack of
sophistication that flatlanders associate with the land of the Hatfields and
McCoys. Hah-vahd and Yale do not brawl, dear Reginald, and they would
never hold such an engagement in the backyard. On the veranda, perhaps.
Pitt and West Virginia are each other’s oldest rival, and there is merit
there. They are separated by 75 miles of I-79, so proximity, and all that it
means in recruiting out of the same pool, counts for something. It has been
12 years since either team won more than two consecutive games. And the
Panthers reminded everyone of the enmity this rivalry has held in the past in
2007. In the 100th game between the two schools, Pitt not only upset 11–1,
third-ranked WVU 13–9 on the last Saturday of the regular season, but the
Panthers knocked the Mountaineers out of the BCS Championship Game.
But that game crystallized in my mind what has been missing from this
game—relevance. A rivalry doesn’t have to mean something to be great. But
if it wants to avoid being overrated, it should mean as much as it promises.
The Backyard Brawl’s reputation exceeds its performance. It may have
something to do with both schools joining the Big East. Once they became
charter members of the league in 1991, winning the Brawl no longer meant
as much on its own merits. What did it mean for the Big East race?
Usually, not much. Only once in the 17 seasons of conference play have
both teams been ranked—in 2002, when No. 24 WVU upset No. 17 Pitt
24–17. In fact, it’s been rare throughout the history of this rivalry that both
teams have been good. The Panthers dominated through World War II,
winning 15 in a row beginning in 1929. The 1930s remain the glory years
of Pitt football. The Panthers claim four national championships in that
decade. By no coincidence, they shut out the Mountaineers in eight of their
10 games.
The upset by the Panthers in 2007 has given the Backyard Brawl some
momentum. The loss of Rich Rodriguez and promotion of Bill Stewart at
WVU has made the skeptical among us—that would be yours truly—
believe the Mountaineers’ hold on the Big East in recent years is coming to
an end. As Panthers coach Dave Wannstedt enters his fourth season with
expectations of greatness, he could continue to rebuild the relevance of the
Brawl. Playing for bragging rights is fine. But if the Panthers begin to play
for the Big East championship, the Brawl will reassert its primacy among
the nation’s top rivalries.
The Most Underrated Rivalry
in College Football
CLEMSON–SOUTH CAROLINA
Lord knows there are rivalries that have made more history than Clemson
vs. South Carolina.
Through 2007, the schools had played more than 200 seasons combined
and have eight 10-win seasons and one national championship (Clemson,
1981) to show for it. In seven decades of rankings, only seven times did
Clemson and South Carolina take the field when both were ranked.
There are rivalries that regularly provide more goose bumps per snap
than the Tigers and the Gamecocks. Only 33 of the first 105 games have
been decided by fewer than seven points, and the ratio is that high only
because the last three games have been decided by four, three, and two
points, respectively. Clemson has won 64, South Carolina only 37 (with
four ties). That is by a long shot the greatest disparity of any of the major
rivalries.
There are rivalries that have made a larger impression on the football
public. The average football fan couldn’t place Clemson in the state of
South Carolina any more than he or she could remember Frank Howard.
The state only produces about 10 to 15 Division I-A–worthy players per
season, including those—such as recent All-Americans Peter Boulware of
Florida State, Courtney Brown of Penn State, and Joe Hamilton of Georgia
Tech—who made their names without attending either school.
But if ever someone creates a machine to measure the passion generated
by a rivalry, Clemson and South Carolina will make that machine tap dance.
As early as 1946, when the South Carolina stadium seated only 26,000,
some 10,000 counterfeit tickets were sold. So many people took the field
that Howard, the legendary Clemson coach, recalled fans standing on the
sideline next to him suggesting play calls. That may be a big reason why
South Carolina won 26–14.
The Gamecock faithful are a study in determination. The school has
epitomized mediocrity in football, yet the 80,000 seats in Williams-Brice
Stadium are filled every Saturday night. Three football coaches who won
national championships came to South Carolina with great hopes of repli-
cating their success. Both Paul Dietzel and Lou Holtz left the school with
losing records. Steve Spurrier is barely above .500.
None of that frustration, however, has ever lessened the feeling that
South Carolina fans have for Clemson, and vice versa. It would be polite to
use gloved adjectives such as “fierce” or “relentless” to describe Clemson and
South Carolina. But the gloves have always come off in this one. South
Carolinians play for keeps, on the field and off. Whether the tools used are
physical, verbal, or merely humorous, the edges are always sharp.
Thus the phone message I once received from wide receiver Jerry Butler,
a former Pro Bowl player with the Buffalo Bills, the player development
director with the Cleveland Browns, and nearly 30 years removed from his
collegiate career: “This is Jerry Butler of the Clemson Tigers and the
Cleveland Browns, and I hate the Cocks!”
Thus the infamous stunt by the Sigma Nu fraternity at South Carolina
in 1961. The frat boys dressed as Clemson players, ran onto the field and
lined up for warm-ups. After a couple of exercises, that newfangled rock
music blared through the stadium speakers and the fans went slack-jawed as
the Tigers broke into dance steps.
A clever prank, worthy of the finest card stunts pulled by Harvard and
Yale, or the scientific shenanigans pulled by Cal Tech students at the Rose
Bowl. But the butts of those practical jokes didn’t run onto the field and ini-
tiate a brawl. Clemson fans did, and it took the South Carolina state
troopers to restore order.
“When I was at Auburn,” said Iowa State defensive coordinator Wayne
Bolt, a veteran coach who has worked at Clemson as well, “everybody
thought Auburn-Alabama was the only rivalry in the world. That’s true in
the state of Alabama. When you go to South Carolina, Clemson–South
Carolina is just as big as any rivalry in the country. There was a lot of ill
feeling. The ill feeling was among the fans, not the coaches and the players.”
What it lacks in size—South Carolina is the smallest state in the
South—it makes up for in a feistiness that stretches from the present day
back into the 19th century. The Civil War began at Fort Sumter, in the
Charleston harbor, in 1861. No one personified the spirit of South Carolina
more so than John C. Calhoun, the “Lion of the Senate,” the man who
defended his state’s rights with fervor.
When Calhoun died in 1850, he left his plantation near Greenville to
his daughter and her husband, Thomas Green Clemson. When Clemson
died in 1888, he willed his plantation to the state, on the condition that it
create an institution of higher learning. He saw it as a way to ratchet the
state out of the poverty of Reconstruction.
Not only that, Clemson demanded that admission to the college be
made available to the sons of agriculture, the farmers and mechanics looked
down upon by the gentry in the cities of Charleston and Columbia, the
latter the state capital and the home of the state university.
The governor elected in 1890, “Pitchfork Ben” Tillman, championed
the sons of the soil. Tillman rose to power as a populist and a virulent racist.
Pitchfork Ben wanted to provide education for the working man, as long as
he was white, and Tillman considered the University of South Carolina an
elitist institution.
Before Clemson University even existed, in other words, the seeds of the
rivalry had been planted. Clemson began as a military school, which only
heightened the esprit de corps generated by its status as poor country cousin.
“Clemson was founded in 1889, and it was only 12 years later when they
started playing South Carolina in football,” former Clemson president Phil
Prince said. “A lot of that animosity existed between people who supported
Clemson—there were no graduates to speak of—and thousands of South
Carolina graduates, and wealthy planters, and legislators.”
A near-riot after South Carolina’s 12–6 victory in 1902 resulted in a
seven-year suspension of the football rivalry. At that point, the schools
decided to play the game during the annual State Fair on a Thursday. The
rivalry soon became known as Big Thursday.
“This rivalry is really a humdinger,” Prince said. “It was even more so in
the days of Big Thursday. It was the only thing happening in college foot-
ball on a Thursday in October. It got a lot of attention nationally. The
women all dressed up and wore big hats, and men wore coats and ties. The
[South Carolina] governor always started on one side of the field and at half,
he ceremoniously walked over to the other side.”
After years of complaints, seething, and quiet negotiation, Clemson’s
resentment over playing in Columbia every year came to a head following
the 1956 season. Cooler heads at Carolina prevailed. On January 29, 1957,
the schools announced that they would cancel Big Thursday and play
home-and-home.
Tradition being what it is in the Deep South, this announcement went over
as if the schools had announced they had banned the use of the word “y’all.”
But in 1960, South Carolina came to Clemson. The Tigers won 12–2, and the
next day, the sun defied the predictions of Gamecock fans and did, in fact, rise.
The passions generated by the rivalry have deepened, if anything, over the
ensuing half-century. Sometimes, they electrify, as Butler did with his last-
minute, 20-yard touchdown catch that beat South Carolina in 1977. Some-
times, they go too far, as they did in the brawl in 2004, after which both
schools penalized themselves by not accepting bowl invitations. But always,
there is more passion within than is known outside the state. That’s why this
rivalry is the most underrated in college football.
The Rest of the Most Underrated
2. WASHINGTON–WASHINGTON STATE
The rivalry between Washington and Washington State, tucked in the
upper left corner of our nation, has had trouble gaining attention for
decades. It is not the most prominent rivalry in the Pac-10. It is not the
most prominent rivalry in the Northwest, having been overtaken by the
Civil War between Oregon and Oregon State (blame that on the name
“Apple Cup”: one sounds like a battleground and one sounds like it belongs
in a Happy Meal).
All of that is too bad, because what the Huskies and the Cougars do offer is
plenty of what makes other rivalries tick. There is the State U–Ag School rela-
tionship. There is the urban-rural component. Washington is in Seattle, which
is to the left on your map and to the left on your political spectrum. Washington
State is in Pullman, which is several hours from most of civilization.
“I’ve always felt being a Cougar prepares you well for life,” former
Washington head coach Don James once said. “You learn not to expect too
much.”
There is also grand history. They have played 100 times, and they have
played for the Apple Cup—the actual trophy—since 1962. But the rivalry
came of age in 1982. Washington came into the game 9–1 and ranked fifth
in the nation. Washington State had a 2–7–1 record. James had a 7–0 record
against the Cougars and a victory would send the Huskies to their third con-
secutive Rose Bowl.
However, Washington State had brought the game back to Pullman
instead of playing its “home” game in Spokane. The Cougars’ 21–20, fourth-
quarter lead teetered on the possibility that the Huskies’ All-American kicker
Chuck Nelson, who had made 30 consecutive field goals, would miss a
33-yarder. He missed it—narrowly, as if that mattered.
“Those are good at home,” Nelson said, “but we weren’t at home.”
The upset sent the Huskies to the Aloha Bowl and, all of a sudden, the Apple
Cup had a national reputation. A year later, the Cougars upset the Huskies
again, this time by a score of 17–6, denying Washington yet another Rose Bowl
and, in 1992, No. 25 Washington State stunned No. 5 Washington 42–23.
The acerbic tongue of James, and the never-resting tongue of
Washington State coach Jim Walden, added some bite to the rivalry.
“Nothing in my job—not the Rose Bowls, not the Holiday Bowls,
nothing—is more important than beating the University of Washington,”
Walden said.
“I’m a 2000-word underdog,” James said, referring to Walden’s inactive
mute button.
Beginning with that 1982 game, the rivalry has tilted much less toward
Seattle. Washington leads 16–10, with two of those victories coming in
overtime. Nothing makes a rivalry like annual doubt about the outcome.
3. FLORIDA STATE–FLORIDA
Florida has Tennessee and Georgia to climb over in the SEC East. Florida
State has Miami, both as an archrival and, since 2004, as an ACC rival. The
Florida State–Miami rivalry has the headlines and the national relevance.
Florida State and Florida have the one quality that every rivalry needs—
hatred. The emotions at the nexus of the of the Seminole-Gator rivalry are
rooted in the history of the rivalry. Florida is The University of Florida. It
expects the attention and the resources because it once got all of them.
Florida State started out as a women’s college. It didn’t begin playing foot-
ball until after World War II. Florida State had to play football for 11 seasons
before the game with Florida was scheduled, and it happened the way that most
such games are scheduled—at the point of a legislative gun. In 1958, after
Governor LeRoy Collins “suggested” the teams should play and Seminole-
loving state legislators “suggested” that they might get involved, Florida deigned
to play the newcomer.
The Seminoles needed seven years to beat the Gators (16–7 in 1964).
When Bobby Bowden arrived in 1976, the Gators had won 14 of 17 games,
with one tie.
And that’s when the rivalry began.
“I don’t know what a big-time coach is,” Bowden said when he was
hired, as quoted in The Book of Bowden. “But I know if I beat Florida, I’ll
be a big-time coach.”
Bowden immediately put the Seminoles on an equal footing. Florida
State beat Florida 37–9 in 1977, Bowden’s second season. When Florida
State won the next three, going to the Orange Bowl in the 1979 and 1980
seasons, the victories proved that the Gators would have to deal with the
Seminoles for good.
Miami became a national power in the early 1980s. Florida State joined
the Hurricanes at the top in 1987. Their rivalry produced games that have
been pressed into the sport’s family bible. In every season from 1987
through 1993, Miami and Florida State went into their game ranked in the
top 10. As feverish as the rivalry became, a mutual respect existed between
the two schools. They remembered their humble beginnings. Now that
Miami has joined Florida State in the ACC, the bonds between the schools
will grow. That doesn’t mean they will be lovey-dovey. Plenty of rivals are in
the same conference. But there will be a better understanding of each other.
But back to the 1980s: as Miami rose to the big time, Florida dropped
it from its schedule. Florida didn’t try that with Florida State.
Steve Spurrier lost only 27 games in 12 seasons at Florida. He lost eight of
them to Florida State. Bowden, in 32 seasons, is 17–16–1 against the Gators
(including two bowl games). That’s a rivalry. Florida State has earned respect
from Florida. But they remain two public universities going after the same
public resources. They remain two schools in separate leagues. More separates
Florida State and Florida than unites them. That is what makes a rivalry tick.
4. KANSAS-MISSOURI
When Missouri and Kansas played in November 2007 at Arrowhead Stadium
in Kansas City, college football fans across the nation reveled in the discovery
of two teams new to the top of the rankings. The No. 4 Tigers (10–1) played
the No. 2 Jayhawks (11–0), the last team east of Hawaii to remain undefeated.
Missouri won the game 36–28, clinched the Big 12 North champi-
onship, and rose all the way to No. 1.
Most of all, the ferocity of the game revealed what people who live
outside of a 200-mile radius of Arthur Bryant’s Barbeque did not know:
Kansas-Missouri is one mean rivalry. Fans outside the two schools don’t
know it because both schools have stunk in football for—let’s be completely
accurate here—eons.
The Kansas-Missouri rivalry is the oldest west of the Mississippi, but
that doesn’t explain the enmity. Suffice it to say that when the schools agreed
a few years back to change the nickname of the rivalry from Border War to
Border Showdown, most old-time fans didn’t like it.
Emotions run high whenever Kansas and Missouri renew their border rivalry on the
football field.
The reason is that the rivalry transcends football. It dates to the nation’s
oldest, fiercest debate, when North and South argued about slavery.
Guerillas from the slave state of Missouri raided Lawrence, Kansas, site of
the University of Kansas, and killed Jayhawk settlers. Bushwhackers from
Kansas traveled into Missouri and responded in kind.
The Civil War didn’t do much to ameliorate the hatred between the two
states. The football field provided a healthy outlet, beginning in 1891 and
proceeding uninterrupted for 116 games. Kansas dominated the early rivalry.
As the late Bob Broeg wrote in his history of Tiger football, Ol’ Mizzou, the
university got serious about beating the football Jayhawks in 1909. A
Missouri professor lured Princeton coach William W. Roper to Columbia.
When he got off the train, Broeg wrote, Roper addressed the 400 students
who greeted him with words sweet to their ears: “I understand you want to
beat Kansas.”
Those Tigers beat the Jayhawks 12–6 to finish the season 7–0–1.
Of course, Roper up and returned to Princeton because Missouri could
not double his salary to $5,000. That may be the story of Missouri football
right there.
In 2000, 91 years after Missouri hired Roper, it hired Gary Pinkel. “I
went to a reception at one of the hotels here,” Pinkel said the week of the
2007 game. “I think the first 10 people came up to me and said, ‘Coach
Pinkel, great to have you here, uh, but we better beat Kansas.’”
The more things change….
The enmity runs in both directions, of course, and so do the victories.
Officially, Missouri leads, 54–53–9. In Kansas, the Jayhawks lead, 54–53–9.
The school claims a 23–7 victory in 1960 that the NCAA later demanded that
it forfeit. When two institutions of higher learning can’t agree on math or the
meaning of the word “forfeit,” that’s a rivalry we all need to know better.
5. BOSTON COLLEGE–NOTRE DAME
When Notre Dame became a national football power in the 1920s, the uni-
versity did so in spite of the blatant religious prejudices of the day. That’s
why the Western Conference, which evolved into the Big Ten, blackballed
Notre Dame. Somehow, the Irish survived not joining the league. Instead,
it decided to become the most recognizable name in college football for the
rest of the century.
This country is long past the day when fans would greet the Fighting
Irish with the chant, “Mackerel Snappers Go Home.” The last time I recall
the subject of Catholicism being noticeable came at the height of the Notre
Dame–Miami rivalry in the late 1980s, when T-shirts promoting “Catholics
vs. Convicts” became big sellers. If there’s any prejudice there, it’s not
against the Catholics.
But religion lies at the heart of the on-again, off-again rivalry between
Boston College and Notre Dame. It’s not anti-Catholicism. This is a family
battle. Boston College is a Jesuit institution. Notre Dame is run by the
Congregation of the Holy Cross. Family battles can be vicious, which is
why, despite the fact that they have played only 17 times, this rivalry never
disappoints.
Notre Dame and Boston College didn’t play until 1975. Knute Rockne
didn’t believe in playing Catholic schools. He wanted Notre Dame to be every
Catholic’s favorite team (mission pretty well accomplished). The 1975 game
was only the second against a Catholic institution since the Rockne Era.
If that had been the only reason for Boston College to dislike Notre
Dame, that would have been sufficient. In 1941, however, the Irish hired
away coach Frank Leahy, who had just taken the Eagles to an 11–0 record,
including a 19–13 upset of Tennessee in the Sugar Bowl. Leahy, of course,
became one of the greatest coaches in the history of the game.
In 17 games since 1975, Notre Dame holds a 9–8 advantage. However,
the Eagles have won the last five, including a 14–7 upset of the 8–0, fourth-
ranked Irish in 2002, when Notre Dame, under first-year coach Tyrone
Willingham, came out in their famed green jerseys.
Not one of the all-time great motivational ploys.
Even that game pales before the 1993 game, when No. 17 Boston
College knocked off Notre Dame, which had just ascended to No. 1 after
stunning Florida State 31–24 in the Game of the Century. After a week of
celebration, the Irish fell behind the Eagles 38–17 in the fourth quarter,
only to rally with 22 of the most dramatic points in the school’s very dra-
matic history.
With 1:09 to play, Boston College quarterback Glenn Foley drove the
Eagles to the Irish 24, from where David Gordon nailed a 41-yard field
goal. Okay, “nailed” is inaccurate. Gordon kicked a ball that only Tim
Wakefield could love, a wobbly, floaty, left-footed effort that didn’t exactly
soar over the crossbar.
And the kicker, as they say, is that the kicker was raised neither Jesuit nor
in the Congregation of the Holy Cross. Gordon is Jewish.