National Signing Day has traditionally been the first day that a high school senior can sign a binding National Letter of Intent for a collegiate sport with an NCAA school. This isn’t the big deal it used to be; a lot of people sign in December these days, but it was still on the calendar of Days, so here’s a story.

I was not—am not!— an athlete. I was a complete clod in high school, and I was that girl who tripped over curbs because she was reading books while walking to class in college. I did rub shoulders with a few athletes, though. Most were nicer than I expected. Some were smarter than I expected. But who wants a feel-good story about that? Instead, here’s a story that reflects badly on everyone and is probably not even remembered by the lead character.

I attended the University of Southern California back in the late 80s/early 90s. I was in the marching band. One tradition the band had was to hold a pep rally the Friday before a game. (I think this tradition might endure, but I don’t know.) All the football players would break from practice and hike over to our field to take a break, listen to a few songs, get fired up by the band director and coaches saying nice things about them and not-so-nice things about the opposing team.

A mainstay of these rallies was that the flute section and the Silks (USC’s name for what used to be called the flag girls—I don’t know the generic name in these gender-fluid times) were all called upon to snag a football player and dance to one song. (I suspect this tradition has probably been DIScontinued, but those in the know can correct me. I do remember that as a non-dancer, it was more excruciating than fun. I also remember—maybe even correctly—that the one guy in the flute section during my time there generally grabbed a clarinet player to be his partner.)

Back in those days, the shining star of SC’s team was Todd Marinovich. If that name rings a bell with any of you, I bet you are already chuckling ruefully. At that time, he was a phenom with a history and backstory that the media lapped up. But this guy—he had his demons, as was somewhat apparent at the time and became all too clear later on. You can go look him up if you want his life story.

On this particular day, however, all that really mattered to me was that he was on the team, and he happened to be standing closest to me when we had to go out and do this little dance routine, so I dragged him out. 

I think the song we danced to probably lasted a minute and a half. In that time, the following conversation ensued:

Him: “Well, it’s a good thing you picked me.”

Me: “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

Him (in a very duh voice): “I’m the quarterback?? It wouldn’t look good for me to be left out.”

Me (blinking): “Oh. Well. I guess you’re welcome, then?”

He stuck his chin out at me, and that was the end of the exchange. The song ended, the dance broke up, the players went back, to their group, the band members to theirs. As my friend and I were walking back, I rolled my eyes and told her, “Well, he’s a bozo.”

A couple months later, football season was over and a new semester was starting. I wander into the giant auditorium for my 101-level art history class, plonk down, and proceed to space out waiting for the professor to start talking. Then, something flips my ponytail. I turn around, and it is Mr. Marinovich, leaning across a row of seats and wiggling a pen at me. I give him a “WTF” look and am about to turn around again when he says, “Oh, I just wanted to make sure you knew that you’re enrolled in the same class as a bozo.”

I wish I could say that was the start of a friendship, or even a cordial classmate-ship. It was not. I just rolled my eyes again and spent the rest of the semester avoiding him. I’ve thought about that exchange every so often in the intervening years, and it has occurred to me that maybe he was trying to joke around. But he came across as such a dick, I didn’t give it a thought at the time. He sounded pissed off, but maybe he didn’t mean it to be? Maybe that’s how he made friends, seeing who would put up with his noise? Or maybe he needed someone to shut down his noise? Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it in me. I kinda wonder if he ever found it in anyone. Signs seem to point to no, but hey, all the signs I get come from a distant remove, so who knows?