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Letter from the Axe: A slice of history


Far too long ago, an ominous individual created the universe, scattering six infinity stones and one magnificent 12-inch blade to wrap them together. As that blade, I bound the universe together. Ultimately, however, my hold on the universe came to an abrupt end. For many years, I was missing, lost from the world until one historic year: 1899.

As fate would have it — or maybe it was just an axe-cident — I was found by some of the most forward-thinking individuals in the world. At least that’s how it seemed after an incident a few days later.

My world was flipped upside down when I was seized from the Farm by unruly individuals. In the act, my handle was stripped from me, never to be seen again.

I was deprived for 31 years, held in an unkempt fraternity and eerie bank vault until being saved by the Immortal 21. This valiant and triumphant effort led me back to the Farm.

And now all is well. Ever since my return, I have reclaimed my identity. I have a new handle and have made a home for myself with the Axe Committee at Stanford.

However, things aren’t so simple. As an axe of kindness to settle an old dispute, I agreed to an ultimatum with both sides. Following the annual Big Game, I will reside for the following year with the winners of the momentous game.

Thankfully, I’ve spent the majority of my time on the Farm. And despite infrequent water curtailment, I’ve grown accustomed to this place that I now call my home.

So why am I writing to The Daily? Well, let me unpack this. This game has been a decade in the making. It is a big deal. And to be completely honest a few games this season have me slightly concerned. I don’t want to leave my home.

But nervous? Never. I couldn’t be. At least not about us.

So long as there’s no 1982-like kerfuffle, there is nothing to worry about. Cal will come here to play football, but I am here to stay.

I don’t belong in Berkeley. An axe just simply doesn’t belong with bears. They can’t handle me. Their paws can’t properly wield my grip, and they’ve broken me before as a result.

An axe belongs with trees. An axe belongs on a farm. This axe belongs at Stanford.

I wood be nothing without trees. They’ve become part of my identity — my home. With trees is where I belong. With trees is where I will stay. Forever and always.

Freshly chopped,

The Axe

Contact Daniel Fishman at dfishman ‘at’

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