Feel the hype, my friends. Don't be afraid. Let it run amok through your veins; through your being. It's football season, dammit. Let's go.
On the eve of this kickoff, the talk has long left the station of hopeful bowldom, of predictions couched in "ifs" and "coulds".
The talk, of course, now revolves around one word, and one word only: "time."
Time -- for rebuilding and inexperienced to drop their long-despised prefixes; for that stockpile of promise and potential to be realized; for a once in a generation quarterback to carve out his final masterpieces at Strawberry Canyon; for those seasons of waiting and losing and waiting and losing to finally pay off; for postseason to find its way back into the Berkeley lexicon; for a return to respectability, and a rocketing past that low bar.
Time -- for us to have plans on New Year's Day for once; for dreams of Pasadena to last for longer than four dates a season; for a break from the tier of the mediocre and a trip to the conference penthouse, which has a brand new vacancy, ours for the taking....if we are ready.
Time -- for the return of the Victory Cannon's boom, too long unheard; for a half century on the scoreboard; for drunken revelry and full-throated shouts of Bear Territory long into the evening air; for CMS and Telegraph and Frat Row and Shattuck and the whole goddamn campus to swell with bodies blue and gold; for the chants we know so well already to stir anew; for CAL BAND GREAT!; and U-C! and BLUE! and GOLD! and HEY ALUMNI! and ROLL ON! and FIRST AND TEN, DO IT AGAIN! and GO BEARS!