Home&Harvest May June 2021

I enjoyed my status as a boy’s basketball cheerleader and played volleyball. My name rarely appeared on the local sports page, but there were a few volleyball matches that I received notation in the actual story. I never aspired to do anything collegiately in sports; I took my stint in high school athletics as more of a social endeavor than an opportunity for scholarships. However, because of that lack of ability (or interest), I was afforded the luxury to never feel the deep sense of the agony of defeat. Even when we lost volleyball matches where I played my heart out or basketball games I cheered my lungs out, I never felt like that skier must have felt when he finally stopped bouncing off the snow. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love watching sports, oh, on the contrary.

My entire life, I’ve held a deep affection for college football and basketball. I loved my University of Idaho Vandals as they took the field or court in the Kibbie Dome. My parents took us to Vandal football games, and my love for the sport grew when Dad took the time to explain the different positions and plays. My sister had a stint with the Vandal Marching Band as a flag twirler, and I was allowed to go with her to the games. I was in junior high, and sitting with the twirlers and marching band was the coolest thing I’d probably done up to that point in my life. I listened to every game on the radio when not in attendance, leaning in close to the speakers to hear Bob Curtis talking about plays, stats, and about “a good-lookin’ kid from…”

I begged to go to the Homecoming parade and game each year, even though it always hit smack dab in the middle of fall work. When I finally hit college and achieved official Vandal status, I attended many games and cheered wildly GO VANDALS! Sometimes the thrill of victory sent us celebrating to The Corner Bar; sometimes, a twinge of the agony of defeat sent us home thinking, “We’ll get ‘em next time.” But I honestly didn’t feel the actual agony because it wasn’t me who left her blood, sweat, and tears out on the field or court.

Speaking of blood, mine runs silver and gold, and I’m forever proud to be a Vandal, whether it’s in sports or academics. But I’m admitting here that I’ve found admiration for another team, another school. Now sometimes my blood runs red and blue, and a bulldog named Spike melts my heart. Second only to the Vandals, the Gonzaga Bulldogs have won me over to the Zag side.

Marrying into the Kinyon family, there was an unwritten rule that you “should” be a Vandal fan AND a Zag fan. I wasn’t aware of this expectation prior to walking down the aisle, but it became all too clear the longer I stayed in the clan. And let me tell you, I started to enjoy watching the Zags play basketball. I learned the significance of the names Frank Burgess and John Stockton and held them in high regard. Any self-respecting Gonzaga fan does.