The locker room where Oregon and Ohio State played in the College Football Playoff quarterfinals is now a command center and briefing room. Outside, firefighters and the National Guard were busy around the vast plaza where more than 90,000 football fans gathered less than three weeks ago.

The vast grassy area, which recently hosted dozens of tailgating parties, now houses hundreds of small puppy tents.

For more than a century, the Rose Bowl has hosted some of the world's most important sporting events, from five Super Bowls and two World Cup finals to the College Football Playoff and two Olympic Games.

Now, a different kind of history is being made at this historic stadium.

Hours after the Eaton fire first broke out, the area around the stadium was transformed into a staging area that nearly 4,000 first responders now call home.

"This may not be the most iconic event we've ever had. But it's probably the most important," said Rose Bowl CEO Jens Weiden.

Overnight, the stadium and surrounding parking lots became a small city. There are large trailers with private sleeping areas, portable showers, laundry, medical facilities, therapy trailers and two kitchens that provide thousands of meals a day. There's an area to refuel and repair fire trucks, a peer counseling center, a McDonald's, a coffee kiosk and even a place to check in and receive mail.

And everything is free.

"We always say we're in the events business, and this is an event. Our team just leans into that," Weeden said.

Pasadena Fire Department Deputy Chief Tim Sale said the Eaton Fire broke out so quickly that within hours his department was unable to accommodate the first fire at Charles Farnsworth Park in Altadena. A command post. But the 200 acres of open space surrounding the Rose Bowl, already equipped with power, water, lighthouses and bathrooms and less than 10 minutes from the fire, were perfect.

So he called his friend Weeden and asked if he had room for hundreds of fire trucks and thousands of firefighters.

"The command post starts on the hood of the (Chevrolet) Tahoe," Weeden said. "They have maps in place, they're doing their own thing, we're opening bathrooms and making sure they have access to water and everything they need.

"It's getting to the point where they're becoming a self-sufficient city."

If that city had a mayor, it would be Serge.

"Did they tell you that was my nickname?" the deputy fire chief said with a smile. "Because I know all the people at the Rose Bowl and we plan all the events here, I know the capabilities here. So when they say, 'Hey, we have this problem,' I know who you need to talk to. "

Still, even Sale -- who didn't sleep two days before the fire -- was surprised by what he and the men at the Rose Bowl accomplished under difficult circumstances.

"I've never seen anything like this," he said. "I don't know of another place like the Rose Bowl that has such a flat footprint and multiple lots where they can set everything up. It's just a blessing."

On Friday afternoon, tents lined up in the shadow of the stadium were surrounded by colorful red, green and yellow fire trucks and water tankers from a dozen states and Canada. Twice a day, dozens of trucks line up in front of sand-colored Humvees and police cruisers, winding out of the parking lot as another line of vehicles returns, marking the end of one 12-hour shift and the beginning of another. .

"It puts a lump in your throat," said Brian Brantley, vice president of development for the Rose Bowl Heritage Foundation, who lives in a house overlooking the stadium. "All these people come There’s a collective effort here to fight this.”

For those who came back, it wasn't quite like coming home. But they didn't really do it hard either.

"They've been really good at taking care of us and taking care of our logistical needs, from the sleeper trailer to the kitchen," said Steve Wallace, an Oregon firefighter who has been on the front lines since Monday. “They really made sure they checked all the boxes to make sure we were taken care of here.”

"You don't need absolutely anything while you're out here," added Rob Bardossy, interagency resource representative for the British Columbia Wildfire Service, which has 22 firefighters in Pasadena. "For small fires, you don't need something this complex. But obviously with what's happening and the number of different agencies responding, you have to scale up."

As a result, as Whedon walks in tents and trailers over the past 12 years, the parking lot he passes every day on his way to work has become unrecognizable. Honestly, he shouldn't even be here. With the Rose Parade and Rose Bowl game over, he should be in Sandpoint, Idaho.

“I’m usually on vacation,” he said. "But it doesn't matter. I'll find another time."

Hours after the fire, Weeden's family was warned they might have to evacuate nearby homes, so his wife packed his suitcases. More than a week later, he still had no idea what was inside because he hadn't had a chance to look.

"It's like a time capsule," he said.

But he's not the only one putting the needs of his new Rose Bowl city ahead of his own. Weeden said about 60 people went to work every day, although some were fire victims themselves. For them, work has become personal.

Dominick Correy, the stadium's director of community relations, was helping set up a command center at the Rose Bowl the night of the fire while his daughter's house burned a mile away along with thousands of others.

"This affects my community. I was born and raised in this town," he said.

When security guard Bobby Childs rushed to the stadium to open the gates, his house in Altadena burned down, leaving only the uniform he was wearing.

"It was a nightmare to wake me up. To pinch me," said Childs, who buried his wife in September. "Do you believe it?"

But he remained at his post. He said he found solace at the Rose Bowl, where he was surrounded by people fighting to save other people's homes.

"That's why I came back," he said Friday. "I'm not supposed to work today."

Neither should anyone. But Spark and Wind had different ideas.