Dad took the two of us and later on the three of us to watch football live at Stanford Stadium, nine miles away from the house on Eastbrook. In my memory those games were always sunny, and the stadium almost always mostly empty, and Stanford almost always losing. We watched John Brodie the star quarterback. Dad left late for the game, parked innovatively in the unmarked parking in the sparse eucalyptus trees around the stadium, and usually left the game early, with Stanford losing, to beat the traffic.
I do remember what Dad says, that when I was little at those games, like in first, second, and third grade, my attention focused almost entirely on the vendors walking around with hot dogs, cokes, candy, and popcorn.