Dear John David,

John David, I know there have been some awkward moments between us. But as I left the greatest sight in all of sports Tuesday, the Rose Bowl, I found myself acknowledging something I had denied for far too long.

John David, I love you.

Granted, I love all things Trojan, as anyone who has ever heard me broadcast a USC game can tell. But, John David, there's a reason that I can only bring myself to say your first two names. The other word just has with it a ... well, I might blush if I used it, and then pardner Kirk might notice, and then all bets would be off. And then they'd stick me off in the SEC backwoods with that Blackledge fella, and I'd have to listen to him talk about what local concoction he ate at the Cracker Barrel or whever the hell he eats.

It would be enough to drive a man to drink.

Even more.

The apple of Brent's eye.

John David, how many times I've walked away from one of your games, my face glowing in pride at your achievements, almost as if they were my own. Or those of the one I love.

I realize that nothing will come of this, John David. You'll go on to play Sunday football, like the other 84 scholarship players for USC, where those cheap hussies will throw themselves at you like you throw perfect passes to your receivers.

But, if nothing else, at least join my reading club. I already hawked two of my choices, the LA Magazine profile of Pete Carroll and the book Meat Market, during the Rose Bowl broadcast.

Who knows? Maybe you and I will end up discussing them one day in a little Barnes & Noble in Pasadena, not far from where you showed that the Trojans should once again be No. 1, as you are in my heart.

Love,

Brent