Your Mother Doesn't Love You
In honor of college basketball season starting back up, here's a fun story about how I almost got thrown out the 2004 NCAA tournament.
This coming Monday, November 4th, is Gonzaga Christmas. Merry start-of-the-basketball-season to those who celebrate. It’s the most glorious time of year. I can hear it now: the screaming crowd, Zombie Nation, and the deep soulful voice of Jay Bilas telling the world how great your team is. Gonzaga Basketball is magic. It’s been magic since the Elite Eight run in 1999 and when I started undergrad in 2003, it was about to blow up. We didn’t know it then but by 2006, Adam Morrison would be battling JJ Reddick for "Player of the Year” honors, putting up 40 points a game and captivating the country. He was on the cover of every sports magazine you can think of and the campus buzzed with his celebrity. College basketball was never better.
And I was on the cheer squad (you can read more about that here). The 2003/2004 season was the last year the team played in what we call the “old kennel” and it featured legends like Ronny Turiaf, Blake Stepp and Erroll Knight. The old kennel is still standing and now used for rec games. It’s smaller than my high school gym, which was fine when Gonzaga was just another mid-major in a low tier conference with no fans outside their students. But from 1999-2004, the old kennel was standing room only and it was LOUD.
It was so loud when us cheerleaders were standing on the sidelines trying to communicate, we couldn’t hear each other. Even if someone was literally screaming into your ear, there was no way to hear them. Our squad was made up of 8 girls and 8 guys. We stood along the side of the court opposite the coaching staff with the captains in the middle. The cheer calls came from the captains and were passed down the line to the lowlife freshmen (me) who were on the ends. Instead of being able to say “Shoot for Two” (what a dumb fucking cheer that is, by the way. Why are we encouraging the lower-point shot?), or “Big D” and run that down the line, we created hand signals. We also had all of our timeout and half-time routines written down on athletic tape, strapped around our wrists. There was no way in hell we were going to be able to verbally communicate with each other in the old kennel, so we got creative and worked around it. It was truly a thing of beauty.
Back in those days, Gonzaga basketball was good but had a bad habit of muffing the NCAA tournament. We were 27-2 that season and after routing the WCC conference, Gonzaga was given it’s highest ranking ever: No. 2. This meant an easier road to the Final Four and a preferred location for the first two games. We would be close to home and playing in Seattle.
Seattle was great for the fans but it sucked for me. I wanted another adventure. The WCC tournament that year had been in Santa Clara and we flew down there in a private jet (“PJ” for those in the know). I wanted more of that. More swanky bullshit to feed my ego, please and thank you. With our seed in Seattle, the team wasn’t going to spring for a flight. We bussed the 7 hours. Talk about disappointing. It was whatever though because after the first two games, we would be getting on a PJ to St. Louis, Missouri. A nice long flight on a PJ. The private entrance to the airfield. The catered meals. The in-flight shenanigans. I was already looking forward to it. We just had to get through these first two games.
We played Valparaiso in game 1, squeezing out a victory against a team that we should have destroyed. The cheer squad was also victorious simply because the Valpo colors are yellow and brown. I’m sorry: what? Who looked around the board room and said, “I just love the colors of yellow and brown together. Reminds me of my morning bathroom break”? And then who agreed and signed off on that dumb idea? I bet the answer is Men. A man did that and then a bunch of other men agreed. If there had been a woman in the room, Valpo wouldn’t be stuck with poop and pee uniforms. I digress.
In Game 2 we faced Nevada. Their team travels well and the stands were equally split between the navy and white of the Wolf Pack and the royal blue and red of the Kennel. I was nervous for that game. I wanted so badly to get to be flown around on a private jet. I wanted more time on TV. I didn’t want my season to end. I wanted my goddamn team to win!
And we should have. Nevada was a 10 seed. They played in the Mountain West conference. We were the better team. But they were coming off an upset to Michigan State and we were coming off a poor performance against poop/pee Valpo. The Wolf Pack had momentum.
They also had the refs. There were so many bad calls that game and as someone who had a really good view of the court, I was getting increasingly pissed off. I could feel my temper rising, my body tensing, with each bad call. And sometime in the second half of the game, I starting cussing.
During these bigger games, our squad was seated under the basketball hoop closest to our team’s bench. And I was again on the far end, closest to the sideline ref every time he jogged down to our end of the court. Taking advantage of this close proximity, I told him what a piece of shit he was every time he got close enough to hear me. I was slamming my pompoms down on the hardcourt, letting him have it. This guy needed glasses. He needed to be taken out behind Key Arena and beaten to an inch of his life. He needed to be punished.
*Look, I’m not proud of threatening violence but if you come between me and a trip on a PJ, all gloves are off.
It was late in the second half and we were on defense. Ronny Turiaf, our best big man and key to our offense, was playing with four fouls. We were trailing Nevada and Mark Few had to keep him in the game, no matter the risk. The guy Ronny was guarding got the ball and put up a three. The shot was no good but then I heard the whistle and I absolutely lost it.
I was sitting right there. Ronny was straight up. No contact. No foul. I was irate. I could hear my best friend Erin, sitting right next to me, also losing her mind. The two of us were really giving it to this guy. A barrage of insults and threats of violence spewed form our lips, littered with curse words. I’ve always been a big fan of “fuck” and I’m sure whatever I said to this referee was fucking sprinkled with what a fucking idiot he was.
*Listen, in my defense, it wasn’t a foul.
When the crowd was roaring, I wasn’t certain that the ref could hear me and I needed him to know that he was truly an asshole and deserved to be fired. So I waited until the crowd noise subsided and the Nevada player readied his shot on the free-throw line. As the entire Key Arena hushed with anticipation, I yelled as loud as I could: “YOUR MOTHER DOESN’T LOVE YOU!” Erin immediately thought this was brilliant and our voices joined in unison for the proceeding two shots: “YOUR MOTHER DOESN’T LOVE YOU!” We were delighted. What a clever and fun insult. You know that person who raised you and is supposed to love you no matter what kind of fuck up you become? Well, hate to break it to you, but she doesn’t love you. LOL.
The ref that I had been abusing did not think that this was funny or clever. During the next dead ball, he marched his happy ass over to my coach, who wasn’t too far away from Erin and I, and told him that if he heard another word out of me, he was going to kick me out of the game.
I saw the ref talking to Steve and then look back at me. Shit. Steve looked pissed. He marched over to me and told me to shut my mouth. Steve probably also told me he was disappointed in me or something like that but honestly, I was too proud of myself to listen to what Steve was saying. I was so tickled that I had gotten under the ref’s skin enough that he was threatening to have me removed by force. Maybe a normal human would have been ashamed but I was delighted. How fun. The next trip down the court, I said to Erin, “imagine being bothered by a couple of cheerleaders. What a pussy.” Just loud enough for the ref to hear me.
We lost the game and I managed to not get thrown out. The next time we played Nevada was the Battle in Seattle, 2006. A Nevada fan who thought he’d bought tits seats, right under the basket, was super pissed that cheerleaders, who kept standing up to cheer for the opposing team, where right in front of him. Blocking his very expensive view.
He guzzled beers and yelled at me throughout the entire game. Toward the end, when his team was clearly going to get the best of Gonzaga once again, he spit in my hair. This grown ass man literally hocked a loogie into the back of my head. You can imagine what I yelled at him. Something similar to the abuse described above. But when I reflected back on that incident, I wasn’t mad at the guy. I mean, let’s face it. Karma is going to get you eventually.
Remember, stay difficult and always question authority.
I’ll forever going to look at cheer squads from a slightly different perspective. Thanks.
Well, that’s 2 for 2.
Enthralled by your words, and the way you made the pj the focus was downright brilliant!!