A Tale of Two Rose Bowl streaks

PASADENA — Reynolds Crutchfield is his name, and on Monday, New Year’s Day 2024, he attended the Rose Bowl game here in his hometown for an 80th straight year.

Which is remarkable and admirable and puts me 10 behind the 93-year-old Mr. Crutchfield, who was a high school teacher and basketball coach. 

Behind in games, not years. 

And while I wouldn’t mind catching up in age (I’m more than 10 back of him in that statistic), I’m sure I’ll never equal his number of Rose Bowls.   

Then again, all he’d do was show up, enter the stadium and watch.

My resume is a little more complex and includes the selling of programs, working as a press box usher and writing stories and columns for publications as varied as the late Santa Monica Evening Outlook, San Francisco Chronicle, San Francisco Examiner, Oakland Tribune and of late my very own non-profit (but semi-rewarding) web site, artspander.com.

Those courageous and you could say magnificent men who climbed Everest and other great mountains had a ready answer when asked why: “Because they’re there.”

So to my connection to the Rose Bowl. This was before the majors came west. Before the NBA expanded. For a kid growing up in southern California virtually the only sporting event of importance was, yes, the Rose Bowl Game.

My first was Jan. 1954, Michigan State-UCLA in beautiful weather. My father, who had a mom-and-pop grocery store in the Highland Park district of L.A ., near Pasadena, dropped me off. I wore a white shirt and signed up to peddle programs. I made $10.

I even went to the end zone and picked up a small piece of the goalpost, which in those days was wood and traditionally brought down by celebrating fans.

No cell phones, no ESPN. For a kid in high school, this was nirvana.

As opposed to the next year, 1955. Of course I returned, but alas, for the first time since Stanford-Columbia in 1934 (no I wasn’t there, I wasn’t even in high school), it rained—a steady downpour.

People literally were giving away $20 tickets but the tickets went unclaimed. Hundreds of seats remained empty. It was Ohio State against USC, and even though the Buckeyes won, 20-7, their demanding coach, Woody Hayes, was in a snit because the USC band performed on the soggy field at halftime.

I’m emphasizing that the references here are only the Rose Bowl games that actually were played in the Rose Bowl. I conveniently skipped the one in 2021 that shifted to the Dallas Cowboys Stadium in Arlington, Texas, because of Covid restrictions in California.

Not sure if Crutchfield was there or not, and if he smartly avoided traveling to deep in the heart of what we know as Jerry‘s (Jones) World, whether he now really has gone to 80 in a row or 79?  

Or whether in the great scheme of things it counts?

What counted for me on Jan. 2, 1978, was getting from Denver to Los Angeles.

I was the Oakland Raiders beat writer for the Chronicle, and the paper’s sports editor was only concerned with me covering the game against the Broncos that day.

Not with my string of Rose Bowls.

The Broncos defeated the Raiders that New Year’s afternoon, in part on the controversial call on the Ron Lytle non-fumble for a score.

I met my deadline and dashed to the airport, somehow arriving in time for the Monday, Jan. 2 Rose Bowl. I was relieved and elated. Until the sports editor found out and threatened dismissal.

Hey, you have to take chances when you’re on a streak.