Kruse passed along this Bill Plaschke column: History died cruelly, unusually, extinguished by a killer who didn't even lose his breath.
Shortly after 9 p.m. Wednesday, Vince Young sprinted across the wet Rose Bowl grass as if skating.
There was no apparent sound. There was no visible sweat.
As the Texas quarterback ran toward me on the sideline, I heard nothing. As he cut past me into the end zone, unhurried and untouched, it was as if he were in slow motion.
He did not hoot. He did not howl. He did not even gasp. He crossed the faded white line, ran through the soggy red paint, and disappeared into a crowd in front of the stands as the referee threw up his arms.
Scott Ware, the USC safety, stood slumped over in a wordless daze. Frostee Rucker, the USC linemen, collapsed face-first into the turf without a whimper.
In the distance there were bands playing and a crowd roaring. But at the precise spot and exact moment it all ended for the USC Trojans, there was nothing.
The loudest college football era in Los Angeles history had died in silence.
"Look at me," the Trojans' Darnell Bing said later, still glued to the bench in his dirt-stained uniform 15 minutes after the game ended. "I'm still stuck here."
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