Mark Few is not a sandbagger in the Lou Holtz vein, where every Gonzaga opponent is the second coming of the Dream Team and land mines lurk beneath every dribble. But there’s a healthy respect for every opponent – in relative doses, of course – and a healthier respect for cautionary tales.
When John Stockton is solicited for some enduring moments of his college basketball days at Gonzaga, the memory train’s first stop is hardly a surprise.
Ask the 5,000-odd people who made up the crowd they marked down again as 6,000 at McCarthey Athletic Center on Tuesday night what happened after Rui Hachimura’s latest Ruination of the laws of physics and they might not have an answer.
In the dues-paying that attends any professional sports career, glamor is a no-show. Minor league bus rides. Scout teams and practice squads. Satellite tour golfers do get to play tournaments at country clubs, but often within earshot of grumbling members surrendering their tee times for a week.
Surely it’s taught in history classes at Washington State by now – that dark day back in 1970 when Stanford was rubbing the Cougs’ noses in it in Spokane and a good and loyal soldier named Terry Smith made the most resounding hit in school history.
Once upon a time long, long ago in college basketball, there was a pretty uniform look to recruiting: junior college prospects to fill instant needs, freshmen for “program players.” There was also, with the enrollment of each recruiting class, a sense of plotting toward a grail.
The West Coast Conference has already seen its Upset of the Year. It came in October when nine of the league’s head coaches made Saint Mary’s their pick to finish atop the regular-season standings.
Jerry Vermillion, Gonzaga’s all-time rebounding leader – with an eye-popping record that won’t be broken – died over the weekend at age 85, another underappreciated pioneer gone. The program’s outsized accomplishments of the last two decades tend to lay waste to a history that’s modest, but meaningful.
Normal is underrated. The proof was in the long week at Washington State that technically started a few hours early with the berserk unraveling in Berkeley – the by-now-almost-annual inexplicable face-plant that is as much a part of the Mike Leach era as his manufactured idylls on space life and boat-naming.
In 1994, athletic director Jim Livengood departed for Arizona and Bill Moos – an assistant to three different Cougar ADs who’d detoured to Montana to apprentice at running his own store – thought he’d be the front-runner to replace him. He wasn’t even a finalist.
The most remarkable thing about Washington State’s not-ready-for-even-subprime-time play in getting beat 373-3, or something along those lines, on Friday night wasn’t the 17 turnovers or the 29 sacks or the 12 Cal students who stuck around to, uh, storm the field. It was the muted reaction.
A perverse obsession with the next thing became sport’s designer drug some time ago, lapping the passé high of getting off on something as mundane as today’s game.
Dead last, no playoffs, coaching change, new regime. So when do the Spokane Chiefs hoist that next Western Hockey League championship banner to the top of the Spokane Arena? Why not next year?
Four distinct generations of players from each of his coaching stops, coaching protégés from near and far and a slew of his Spokane friends did their best to capture the life of Jud Heathcote on Saturday afternoon – their stories as funny, generous and true as the man himself.
Faced with the prospect of starting the season 0-2, Seattle drove for the go-ahead touchdown on Russell Wilson’s 9-yard pass to Paul Richardson and held on to defeat the San Francisco 49ers 12-9 on Sunday at Century Link Field.
The first pass covered a cool 14 yards, but then there was a bubble screen that went nowhere, a sack – by a team that had sacked nobody all season – and finally a medium-deep ball swatted away at the last minute. This was Washington State’s start on Saturday afternoon, worse even than the Cougars’ start last Saturday. Which tells you a lot about how much gravitas to attach to “starts.”
Having worked overtime all week, the gray haze smothering the region took Saturday off, for the most part – the air on the Palouse no worse than if it was just combines kicking up dust in the distance near Albion.
The five stages of grief have nothing on the college football fan’s emotional dance with the starting quarterback. Often as not, those reactions – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance – become a freeway pileup, cleaned up and towed away by halftime.