I was genuinely worried.

Here I was, on the eve of one of the most significant moments in Penn State football history, and I wasn't even sure I was gonna be able to enjoy myself.

Damn Hurricanes.

I shoulda known that our vagrant friends from southern Florida would go out of their way not to help clear up the whole national championship picture. And because Miami wouldn't just beat Nebraska at home like they always do, I found myself in the same slump shared by the rest of the Penn State faithful.

Bummin'.

But, like a half-cocked hangover, my blues were forgotten with a good night's sleep and I woke on the second day of the new year with smile on my face.

Hell with the polls, man. How can I be down when the Lions are about to win their first Rose Bowl and cap off an undefeated season?

But first the Parade, at which I learned quite a bit. I learned what celebrities do when they're washed up -- they sit on floats and wave like idiots. Witness former world heavyweight champ Ken Norton, who spent his morning strapped to one rolling boutique, waving and hoping someone would recognize him.

I also learned that Oregon fans, beside being unreasonably optimistic, are also annoying as hell. Even if you saw the game on TV, you probably heard the deafening, nervous-twitch-inducing hum that was the Duck Call.

It's these bright yellow duck bill-lookin' things that they string around their necks and blow on to voice their enthusiasm for their team. Beside doing it throughout the game, the Oregon backers also employed the call of the mild when the Duck cheerleaders and band came by in the parade. It sucked, and I was starting to get pouty again.

Thankfully, the Blue Band came by, and I got cheery again, even though the Lion almost got run over by a float. I'm serious. You can ask him.

Fast forward to pregame festivities, because, frankly, the rest of the parade was pretty drab. As we made our way toward our gate, we passed an array of fans from both sides who, in the excitement of the moment, were tossing harmless insults back and forth.

While Penn State fans jabbed with "We're No. 1!" and "How do you lose to Hawaii?" the Oregan backers countered with . . . not much. I mean, what do you say if you're a Duck fan? The only thing I got, as a U of O fan walked past me, was a subtle "bite me." Inside, things were a little more civilized, although the Oregon folk still managed to get their fowl-sounding tools of torture past security.

The Rose Bowl itself is far cooler than television can show, and until the usual SoCal haze set in, it was a gorgeous setup for football. The stands were parted like the Red Sea, as a neat line ran down the middle of the end zone extended, bushy, bright yellow and green pompons coloring one side, a paler white and blue shading the other.

The Oregon fans were admittedly more lively, and it isn't hard to see why on a such a rare occasion. Oregon is a state whose public universities don't often play football in January, especially not in Pasadena. A T-shirt, donned by a typically hippie Duck booster, best expressed the sentiment surrounding the team's Rose Bowl visit: "Every 37 years . . . just like clockwork."

As game time approached, I started talking to my neighbors in the 74th row of the massive arena. Three local residents from the Orange County suburb of Fullerton, the trio didn't have a real allegiance in the game, but rooted for Oregon anyway. Out of pity, I guess.

Turns out sitting next to these guys was a plus, because they offered the only unbiased opinions I'd heard on the contest in weeks. Among other snippets of knowledge they offered: that Ki-Jana was the man, that Danny O'Neil, despite a 3,600-yard passing day, still sucked and that Oregon's cheerleaders, a good half-mile away through their binoculars, were better looking than Penn State's.

Oh, yeah, and there was the game. You already saw it, so you know what happened. It was close, then it wasn't. The good guys won.

Afterward, I waited with a throng above the Penn State tunnel, snapping pictures and spending what was left of my diminished voice as the victors made their exit.

As the stragglers made their way into the bowels of the stadium, I spotted a classmate whose spent much of his non-academic hours in the fall as a student manager for Paterno's charges. As he lugged a Gatorade container or some other piece of equipment off the field, I yelled and caught his eye.

Expecting nothing more than a "Hey!" or a nod of the head, I instead watched as he stopped, pulled out a pair of sweaty, grass-stained Nike gloves and tossed them up to me.

I talked to Kirk yesterday, and he told me the gloves belonged to Ki-Jana Carter, the same tailback who will today declare his intention to enter the NFL draft. Kirk, if you were lying about the gloves, everybody knows now.

If you weren't, I have a favor to ask of Ki-Jana: can I get those babies signed?