And then came the piece de resistance, 1981-82: Sixteen straight wins to start the season. Going 4-0 against the Pac-10. Climbing up the Top 20 rankings. Nearly beating Notre Dame in South Bend. CNN sports anchor Fred Hickman openly rooting on air for the Vandals.
It was a crazy time.
At home, the Kibbie Dome was rocking, with gyrating belly dancers, taciturn nuns and thousands of nondenominational converts who had never thought it was possible and never thought it would end.
At the center of it all was Monson, putting on his own private show.
He’d lumber up and down the sidelines like a silverback gorilla, agonizing over every missed assignment and bad call. His face would often contort into one of a guy who’d just watched his dog get run over by a milk truck. He’d bellow at his players and opposing coaches so loud you could hear it in the stands.
Once, while covering a home game against Montana for the student newspaper, I watched Monson and then-Montana head coach Mike Montgomery trade “pleasantries” for 10 seconds at midcourt while their players blithely zipped past them.
Another time, he got so frustrated by what was happening on court that he stomped behind his team’s bench and threw himself so forcefully onto an empty seat that it toppled over, spilling him to the floor. It sent the crowd into hysterics.
Monson was the irascible ringleader of a raucous roundball circus, and we loved every second of it.
Frequently, after games, he’d ignore his filters and get real with scribes. No practiced hyperbole, no coachspeak. With his rumpled suits, flapping ties and shriveling hairline, he had an everyman quality. Himself a Vandal grad, Monson guided his “people” through the temporarily parted Red Sea.
It was the first (and IMO) truest golden era of UI sports, and when Monson chose to migrate to the University of Oregon in 1983, we in Vandal Nation were crushed.
He languished in Eugene, compiling a 116-145 record in nine seasons. Duckville was just never a good fit. But we all understood how the sports ladder of success worked: You climb until you finally reach the top, or you take a tumble.
But for those five glorious seasons in Moscow, Don Monson, stone tablets in each arm, gave us a shining beer can on a hill.
Beesley is a former sports writer for the Tribune who wears his Vandal colors proudly. His email is tribbeez@gmail.com.