John Blanchette

PULLMAN – As at every other campus Neverland, there’s an odd cocktail of ironic whimsy, chutzpah and why-the-hell-not good cheer that often carries the day at Washington State. On Saturday afternoon, it was distilled into one small handmade sign being toted through the civilian Cougs whose storming of the field was more trickle than tsunami, though undeniably sincere.

Just in case we needed one, college basketball delivered a reminder Thursday night that there are no absolutes. In the matter of Gonzaga and Washington State, that means that as much as we’d like to believe otherwise, geography and passion do not automatically make for drama.

There are those Gonzaga Bulldogs over the years who have had to grow on the team’s many acolytes. Players like Mike Hart, David Pendergraft, David Stockton – lunch-pailers or walk-ons whose special gifts could be subtle and not instantly appreciated. And then there are the fall-in-love-moment Zags.

Eliminating the ridiculous flying-out-of- bounds timeout a few years ago seemed like the last turn of the wrench before college basketball could be declared perfect in every way. Now the fun police want to snuff the wildfire of storming the court, so Mike Krzyzewski can go back to cussing out student reporters instead of opposing fans that invade his space.

PULLMAN – The New Breed Commissioner was in town Thursday night so he could be thanked for funding the five-story treat under construction rising above the east end zone at Martin Stadium, as well as the Larry Scott Endowed Coaching Chair for Going For It on Fourth Down. See, that’s his money from the Pac-12’s kajillion-dollar TV deal footing the freight for the big-ticket items at Washington State these days. It’s odd that just 20,617 showed up to pay homage.

SEATTLE – Just how desperate for a hero is the baseball community here? This much: By default, civic sentiment awarded the gold star for character this weekend to a manager who lost 91 games, hitched up his principles and quit.

SEATTLE – Not only is the shine off this Seattle road show, the rust is on. Well, an inch of rain will do that.

With the pass- ing of every inning, it seems, new algebra attaches itself to baseball – much of it useful, some of it inscrutable, maybe a bit of it much too much. Relax. None of it will be on the quiz.

Camp is for kids. So the critical eyes at the Spokane Chiefs’ annual August hockey orientation were being trained on the 14-year-old draft picks, new European imports and prospects hoping to make an impression – and a spot for themselves on this year’s roster.

Over the years, as his football career progressed through Washington State and into the NFL and even after retirement, Steve Gleason would send letters to his old team at Gonzaga Prep as another season began. Not so unusual. Depending on the depth of their attachments, players often try to give back in ways that go beyond a donation or a new set of uniforms. Gleason had even coached defensive backs at Prep one fall in the limbo after being cut from one NFL team and before he and the New Orleans Saints changed one another’s lives.

Here is the thing about golf: It takes itself very seriously. Dress codes. Arcane rules. Violations of arcane rules spotted by anal-retentive snitches watching on TV and phoned in to tournament officials.

No, Ken Griffey Jr., the Seattle Mariners and the Pacific Northwest have never shared in so much as a single World Series. But they’re the New York Yankees of reconciliation.

If it seemed like forever since a playoff party had broken out on the turf inside Spokane Arena, well, forever it was. By Arena Football League standards, anyway.

The anything-goes days of mixed martial arts are long gone, at least inside the octagon. There are rules, if not something so dainty as an etiquette. Outside? Not so much.

Whatever the town, whatever the team and however incredulous the teammates or the fans, Joe Jackson inevitably must perform a baseball ritual that to him must now be as ingrained as oiling a glove. He has to say it’s so.

Unpaid interns are going all Joe Hill on America these days. Which is to say they’re hitting The Man where it hurts, in court. A judge in New York just shame-shamed Fox Searchlight Pictures for exploiting freebie help, and now a couple ex-interns are suing Conde Nast after living out a “The Devil Wears Prada” existence, only without the trip to Paris and the designer hand-me-downs.

The charity golf events he hosts and plays in are a joy for Mark Rypien. The causes are close to his heart, someone’s swing is bound to be source of high comedy and the company can’t be beat, whether he’s teeing it up with friends from his high school days at Shadle Park or former Washington Redskins teammates or, especially, NFL legends he’s long admired.