One for the TIPPER

A week before the big game and the kitchen floor is sparkling.

“I do the mopping around here,” Eric McNeal says.

A week before the big game and the bathrooms are shining.

“That’s also my job,” he says.

A week before the big game, and Eric McNeal is sitting at the dining-room table of the modest Carson home he shares with his parents, figuring out his work schedule.

Today, clean the house.

Tuesday through Friday, report to a nearby warehouse to drive a forklift.

“Maybe I’ll add Saturday to my schedule,” he says idly.

Saturday?

“Oh, wait,” he says, smiling. “That’s right.”

Oh, wait. That’s right.

Four words, two sentences, forever describing the author of one of the biggest moments in USC-UCLA football lore.

Only once in this rivalry’s 76-game series has one man made one play to keep the other team out of the national championship game.

Only once has the winning play been made by a man who started one game in his college career.

Only once have circumstances so forgettable flared into something so memorable.

The man was McNeal. That play came last season when, with 1 minute 10 seconds remaining, the UCLA linebacker tipped and intercepted a John David Booty pass to seal a stunning 13-9 victory.

A couple of hours later, McNeal was walking two anonymous miles along Pasadena streets to find his ride home.

“Longest walk of my life,” he remembers.

A couple of months later, he was being ignored by the NFL, Arena League, every league.

“When you didn’t play that much in college, it’s hard,” he says.

Today, out of uniform and out of scholarship, he is working as a forklift driver to help pay tuition for his final quarter of college.

To save money, he lives in his childhood home, his game ball wrapped in a plastic bag and buried under some clutter.

To save sanity, he watches the tape.

“Watched it maybe 30 times already,” he says, plopping it in the VCR in the spotless family room -- yeah, that’s also his job.

On the big screen, there is powder-blue No. 2, charging on a blitz . . . then stopping . . . then leaping . . . then tipping . . . then diving . . . then celebrating.

In an easy chair, there is McNeal, pulling up his shirt to reveal goose bumps across a giant Capricorn symbol tattooed on his biceps.

Oh wait. That’s right.

Same guy.

Down the road a day later, Pete Carroll is asked about Eric McNeal.

“Of course I remember the play,” he says. “But what was his name again?”

The USC-UCLA football rivalry is special not because it is so giant, but because it is so small.

It makes heroes out of neighbors. It makes legends out of friends.

It’s not about the Coliseum or Rose Bowl, but about a dying field in Duarte, a scrap of grass in Compton, a living room in Carson.

Its stars are not from the heavens, but from two blocks down and one block over.

The game, it seems, is not played only by guys from two schools, but by everybody who cares.

Some say Eric McNeal was one of the most unlikely heroes in the rivalry’s history.

I say he’s among the most perfect.

“When you look back on it, it really couldn’t have happened more perfectly,” says his mother, Denice.

Both of McNeal’s parents are UCLA graduates.

He loved UCLA so much, he committed there during his junior year at Gardena Serra High.

He loved it so much, he didn’t transfer when every coach who recruited him departed with Bob Toledo.

He loved it so much, even when he was forced to move from big safety to undersized linebacker, even when it became obvious that he would never start under Karl Dorrell, he refused to leave.

After not playing one down against Oklahoma two seasons ago, he wept.

Then he decided he would never say another word.

“I love the school and I wasn’t going to do anything to hurt it,” McNeal says. “I was going to keep my mouth shut and stick it out.”

Even that didn’t work. By the time he took the field for the final home game of his career against USC last fall, he was playing only in passing situations.

“You tell children to work hard and things will turn out all right . . . well, that’s not always the case,” says his mother.

And then, this being the USC-UCLA game, they did.

“He never complained, he never asked for more time,” says linebackers coach Chuck Bullough. “Then he finally had his moment.”

It was the final minutes, the Trojans didn’t have the lead, but they had the momentum, having driven more than half the Rose Bowl field toward a seemingly inevitable winning touchdown.

On a second-down play from the UCLA 19-yard line, Booty just missed a hobbled Chris McFoy in the end zone, a play that probably would have resulted in a score if Dwayne Jarrett had been lined up properly and been the target.

It was third down and four and even McNeal was worried.

“I have to tell you, I was like, ‘Oh no,’ ” he says. “We all knew we were the better team, but we always knew what they could do.”

The ball was snapped. For the umpteenth time that day, the Bruins blitzed. Only this time, with the offensive line wrapping itself around Booty, McNeal stopped short.

Says McNeal: “If I tried to get around the blockers, I would not have been able to contain the quarterback, and we’re always taught to contain.”

Says linebacker coach Bullough: “He did exactly what he was told.”

USC saw it differently. For months, various members of the Trojans would explain that they were beaten by a linebacker who got lost, a kid who was out of position and lucked into the flight of the ball.

“I won’t say that,” Carroll says when asked about the play this week. “I’ll just say he found himself in the path of the ball and made a great play.”

It was a basketball play made by a former basketball player. It was a desperate play made by the most desperate of players.

It was the play of a lifetime by a guy probably playing the last downs of his life. A leaping tip, a quick spin, a dive, a cradle, a victory.

“Even watching it today, I’m like, ‘Did my body really do that?’ ” McNeal says.

Not being a star, he was not used to the attention, and spent the next five minutes running in a daze around the field, pointing to his parents, talking to no one.

“I was numb, I couldn’t say anything, I couldn’t feel anything,” he remembers.

Late that night, after finding his friend’s car and eating a fast-food burrito dinner, it finally hit him.

For the second time in his career, he cried.

“Driving to a party, I thought about all I had been through, and I felt tears coming down,” he recalls. “How in my life could I have dreamed of a better ending?”

The ending was just the beginning.

When he attended his first UCLA basketball game after his heroics, fans chanted his name. When he walked across the stage at spring graduation ceremonies, the cheers were louder.

“Think about it,” a family friend told him. “They never wanted to play you, and now they’ll never forget you.”

He still travels quietly and anonymously through the city as he finishes his degree and figures out his future. Not even his warehouse bosses are aware of his past.

But once they hear the story, everyone knows.

He was hanging out with some friends at a clothing store recently when the clerks began talking about USC-UCLA.

“UCLA got lucky last year,” one of the clerks said.

“Hey, this is the guy that made it happen,” said one of McNeal’s friends, pointing to the hero.

“Oh, wow,” said the stunned clerk.

Wow, indeed.

And if loving something for five years until it finally loves you back is luck, well, we should all be so lucky.

Saturday will mark the 40th anniversary of O.J. Simpson’s run, the 20th anniversary of Erik Affholter’s catch and, oh wait, that’s right, the first anniversary of the wondrous Eric McNeal.

Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Plaschke, go to latimes.com/plaschke.