On the Road With Washington: Alicia and Molly Take on the Oregon PIT Crew

11:30 PM, Wednesday Night

It’s the night before I leave with my roommate, Alicia, for my long overdue first trip on the road with the Husky basketball team. We’re headed to Eugene, Oregon to witness a huge rivalry game against the Ducks, a team that is dead last in the conference. The Huskies are 2-1 in Pac-10 play and off to their best start since the '05-'06 season, which led them to the NCAA Tournament Sweet 16.

To give you an idea of the intensity I possess as a fan, consider this. Before the January conference home opener last year against Washington State, I camped overnight with three friends in a tent outside of Hec Ed. We made a sign that said “GIVE PULLMAN TO IDAHO,” which turned up on nationwide sports blogs and was discussed by anchors on Seattle news stations.

We show up to wait in line for a game anywhere from three to 15 hours before tipoff. We say no to any commitment that might interfere with a game day, regardless of its “importance.” We paint each other’s faces before every matchup. We sit in the front row of the student section, called the Dawg Pack, for every game. Our phones explode with texts from friends and family when FSN or ESPN shows us cheering on TV.

We’re there every game, front and center, purple and gold head-to-toe, ready to stand, trash talk, and cheer for over two hours straight, nothing less.

1:00 PM, Thursday Afternoon

The Huskies take on Oregon at Mac Court in Eugene in six hours. I just sped home from class, devoured lunch, and started pulling purple and gold accessories off a five-foot tall shelf my roommate and I have in the basement for the sole purpose of holding our endless supply of purple and gold accessories—including (but not limited to) hats, pom-poms, necklaces, headbands, nail polish, poster supplies, sunglasses, fabric, bracelets, hair ribbons, and face paint.

I put on my No. 40 Jon Brockman jersey (which I won last season for being Fan of the Game). Alicia and I hit the road in her VW Golf, double-checking to make sure we have our tickets and “HEY DUCKS—IS IT COLD IN THE BASEMENT?” poster.

5:30 PM, Thursday Evening

Carl’s Junior. A rare treat. After a four-and-a-half hour drive, we pull into this fine dining establishment, hide our poster in the back seat, and satisfy our craving for this regionally exclusive fast food. The fellow at the cash register offers the classic “we don’t serve your kind” line to us. We act extremely nice to avoid someone spitting in our food. This is, after all, Duck country.

After dinner we make it to Mac Court, park where we probably shouldn’t, and trek through a graveyard in the middle of campus to get into the game. The trash talking is less than prime. We’d prepared our egos for personal attacks and hoped for Oregon fans to dish out snide comments so we could snap back with superior wit. All we heard before the game were a couple of “0-12!”s, referring to UW’s dismal football record last season. “Wrong sport, Oregon fans! It’s 2009 now!”

We settle into our seats with 20 minutes until tipoff and make loud comments about the inferiority of Mac Court, the inferiority of the Oregon cheerleaders, and most of all, the inferiority of Oregon’s student section, the widely known but clearly overrated “Pit Crew.”

8:15 PM, Thursday Evening, Halftime

UW is up 40-37 at halftime. The surrounding fans are not amused by us. One woman is upset during the first half with our sign momentarily obstructing her view from a timeout taking place on the court. The couple next to me mutters, wondering who sold their tickets to two Husky fans.

I eye a helpless newborn baby adorned in green and yellow. (Or is it gold? I don’t care.) The men sitting next to Alicia admit that their team is terrible. The Duck mascot attempts a back flip and falls on his face.

9:20 PM, Thursday Night, Post-Game

The Huskies win it 84-67, and our road trip is instantly validated. We linger in the stadium to pick fights with Oregon students, but almost the entire Pit Crew left the stadium with about four minutes left in the game, when it was clear this was a blowout. The few remaining attempt a chant, “Let's-play-foot-ball,” but it’s barely audible and fails to catch on.

With two minutes left, we wave goodbye to everyone standing up and leaving their seats around us, obnoxiously wishing them a safe trip home. Deciding it would be wrong of us to leave graciously, we use the back of our sign to make a new one that reads “WINNERS GET THE RIGHT OF WAY,” an attempt at evading the long line of cars getting out of the parking areas. I hold it out of the window and sunroof, eliciting a few volatile exchanges with forlorn Oregon fans. Behaving ourselves at sporting events was never our forte.

We get very lost looking for somewhere to buy iced coffees (how Seattle can we get?) but the only option open is McDonald's, so we go for the golden arches. With caffeine, sugar, and the pure adrenaline that can only come from witnessing the team you love beat a rival in a blowout, we bypass our planned overnight stay in Portland and make it all the way home to Seattle at 2 a.m., retire our poster to the Wall of Fame, and hit the sack—heinously exhausted yet completely content.

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