Wassup Dawg
(NOTE: This column ran as a "Letter to the Editor" in the Sept. 25, 2008 edition of The Stanford Daily)
I did not know Super Dave. I never met him. I never shook his hand. I never told him my name.
And yet he was my friend.
He introduced himself with a high-five with such reckless abandon that I assumed we were old friends suddenly reunited. I thought we had met before – that I must have just forgot our first encounter – but I knew that couldn’t be the case. How could you forget this man? How could you see the backwards Stanford hat, the Stanford jacket and the beaming smile and not recognize him? Walking through White Plaza during my freshman year, I high-fived Super Dave – and I felt great.
For four years, I walked, rode, ran and occasionally danced through the paths of Stanford University. As a soccer player, I spent a good amount of time in Arrillaga. As a senior class president, I spent a good amount of time in Tressider. As a Stanford Student, I spent a better amount of time wasting time – stopping to talk along the arcades, the lawns, and the classrooms. And always, with what seemed to be an endless supply of red clothes and high-fives, there walked Dave. Super Dave.
I call myself an extrovert, but Tom Cruise atop a couch would seem shy next to this man. Everyone was his “dawg,” a slightly elongated form of the canine nickname, emphasizing the “aw” as if to lend a little masculinity to his call – a little strength – a little sense of empowerment. For what everyone seemed to get from Dave – whether through chance encounters, drum sessions, or longer talks – was empowerment.
For three years of my Stanford career, I was a sports columnist for the Daily. For many of those columns, I bemoaned Stanford Athletics. I railed on Ted Leland for having a mediocre club and intramural sports program. I decried the yell leaders. I even said that I was metaphorically dating the entire women’s field hockey team, and that they emotionally broke my heart.
But I never wrote about Dave. I never wrote about the consummate Stanford fan – the man that looked forward to every home game with more fervor than an ME grad student looks forward to a date (my brother is a Stanford ME grad student so I know that’s true).
I constantly bemoaned the fans – the lack of tailgating – the uninspired cheering – the yell leaders’ off-beat chants. But I never celebrated Dave.
He was our best yell leader. He was our best fan. He was our best home field advantage – a man who made himself a part of the game in a 90,000 seat stadium.
He stood out from the crowd.
I should have written about Dave. I should have talked about his high-fives. I should have found all the stories that have come pouring in over the last few days. I wish I hadn’t waited until now to finally reflect on what it means to be the perfect fan. I wish I had his enthusiasm for life.
If yell leaders ever do come back to Stanford, if they can find a way to find their place among the milieu courtside, I do hope they take a cue from Super Dave. I hope they find that optimism, that endearing quality that empowered all the dawgs out there. I hope they name their captain not some pun, nor “czar” nor anything that rhymes with “Coho” – I hope they give their captain the title of “Super Dave.”
It would be a fitting tribute, making it certain that Stanford’s biggest fan will always be Super Dave.
I live in Los Angeles now, and my Stanford Athletics contact is limited. I have the internet, I have Fox Sports West, and I have the recollection that I’m still owed a letterman’s jacket.
But I also have my memories of my time at Stanford – and everything I truly miss about the school that gave me so much. And now I’ve found I have one more thing to miss.
I did not “know” Super Dave, and that’s my loss. But now he’s gone, and that’s our loss.
David “Super Dave” Hahn passed away on September 16. Spencer Porter ’05 is a former Daily sports columnist.
I did not know Super Dave. I never met him. I never shook his hand. I never told him my name.
And yet he was my friend.
He introduced himself with a high-five with such reckless abandon that I assumed we were old friends suddenly reunited. I thought we had met before – that I must have just forgot our first encounter – but I knew that couldn’t be the case. How could you forget this man? How could you see the backwards Stanford hat, the Stanford jacket and the beaming smile and not recognize him? Walking through White Plaza during my freshman year, I high-fived Super Dave – and I felt great.
For four years, I walked, rode, ran and occasionally danced through the paths of Stanford University. As a soccer player, I spent a good amount of time in Arrillaga. As a senior class president, I spent a good amount of time in Tressider. As a Stanford Student, I spent a better amount of time wasting time – stopping to talk along the arcades, the lawns, and the classrooms. And always, with what seemed to be an endless supply of red clothes and high-fives, there walked Dave. Super Dave.
I call myself an extrovert, but Tom Cruise atop a couch would seem shy next to this man. Everyone was his “dawg,” a slightly elongated form of the canine nickname, emphasizing the “aw” as if to lend a little masculinity to his call – a little strength – a little sense of empowerment. For what everyone seemed to get from Dave – whether through chance encounters, drum sessions, or longer talks – was empowerment.
For three years of my Stanford career, I was a sports columnist for the Daily. For many of those columns, I bemoaned Stanford Athletics. I railed on Ted Leland for having a mediocre club and intramural sports program. I decried the yell leaders. I even said that I was metaphorically dating the entire women’s field hockey team, and that they emotionally broke my heart.
But I never wrote about Dave. I never wrote about the consummate Stanford fan – the man that looked forward to every home game with more fervor than an ME grad student looks forward to a date (my brother is a Stanford ME grad student so I know that’s true).
I constantly bemoaned the fans – the lack of tailgating – the uninspired cheering – the yell leaders’ off-beat chants. But I never celebrated Dave.
He was our best yell leader. He was our best fan. He was our best home field advantage – a man who made himself a part of the game in a 90,000 seat stadium.
He stood out from the crowd.
I should have written about Dave. I should have talked about his high-fives. I should have found all the stories that have come pouring in over the last few days. I wish I hadn’t waited until now to finally reflect on what it means to be the perfect fan. I wish I had his enthusiasm for life.
If yell leaders ever do come back to Stanford, if they can find a way to find their place among the milieu courtside, I do hope they take a cue from Super Dave. I hope they find that optimism, that endearing quality that empowered all the dawgs out there. I hope they name their captain not some pun, nor “czar” nor anything that rhymes with “Coho” – I hope they give their captain the title of “Super Dave.”
It would be a fitting tribute, making it certain that Stanford’s biggest fan will always be Super Dave.
I live in Los Angeles now, and my Stanford Athletics contact is limited. I have the internet, I have Fox Sports West, and I have the recollection that I’m still owed a letterman’s jacket.
But I also have my memories of my time at Stanford – and everything I truly miss about the school that gave me so much. And now I’ve found I have one more thing to miss.
I did not “know” Super Dave, and that’s my loss. But now he’s gone, and that’s our loss.
David “Super Dave” Hahn passed away on September 16. Spencer Porter ’05 is a former Daily sports columnist.
posted by Spencer at 10:10 PM
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