LOS ANGELES _ With the sun descending behind the nearby Verdugo Mountains, painting a pink February hue over luscious green, another night of basketball is set to begin on the hilly campus of Glendale College.
"Welcome to historic Verdugo Gym!" the public-address announcer says. "These are your Lady Vaqueros!"
The enthusiasm for the Lady Vaqs has blossomed in recent years, reaching full bloom this season thanks to a touch of intrigue no one could have predicted for a community college women's basketball program that has no championship banners. The fresh fervor comes partly because they're winning lots of games, and partly due to the novelty factor attached to one of the team's starting guards.
"They always walk in and go, 'Which one is it?' " says Glendale athletic director Chris Cicuto. "They've heard the rumors, and they've got to see it with their own eyes."
So, which one is it?
"At guard, a 5-3 freshman out of Glendale High, No. 4, Vicky Oganyan!"
"At the other guard, a 5-3 sophomore out of Temple City, No. 12, Penelope Trieu!"
That the freshman is 21 years older than the sophomore can force a double-take, but one would have to be informed first to realize it. If you didn't know, it would be hard to figure, which is a credit to Oganyan, Glendale's 40-year-old freshman. Her age makes for a catchy headline, but there's much more to the tale of Vicky and the Vaqueros, who feel like they're on a march toward the school's first state championship.
Vicky wants only to blend in, not to be a distraction. Tonight, she and her teammates are wearing Glendale's home whites with maroon and gold trim. Vicky sports black ankle-high socks under black sneakers, and her dark brown hair is pulled back in a long ponytail. Aside from being the shortest player on the team, she fits.
Watch closely and you can pick out which of the Lady Vaqs grew up during the Reagan administration. The daughter of Armenian immigrants, Vicky is the lone Glendale player who puts her hand over her heart during the national anthem.
Then there's the way she plays the game _ with the know-how of a veteran coach.
"Thank you, Vicky Oganyan!" the P.A. announcer bellows after she steals the ball under the Glendale basket and flings it behind her back to Trieu for a layup.
"Bingo!" he says minutes later when Vicky makes a three-point shot.
"Way to sacrifice your body, 4!" a man yells from the stands after Vicky sets a pick and gets bulldozed, sending her to the floor.
Vicky would do anything to win, and now, as a player, she has reclaimed control over her destiny after so frequently feeling helpless as a coach. The 40-year-old freshman doesn't take any of the 40 minutes for granted. In this way, she stands out too.
But, despite the bombast of her athletic director's pronouncement, Vicky's performance here is not some kind of circus act _ although she has become an elite juggler, seamlessly moving between her job at Burbank Burroughs High as an anatomy and biology teacher and her position as the girls' basketball coach and her now-resumed role as college student, taking 12 online credits per semester to be eligible to play for Glendale.
"I'm like, do you have three of you, three clones?" says Lar Chouljian, marveling at her longtime friend from the bleachers.
Chouljian and Vicky grew up playing basketball together in the annual Armenian summer tournament, and while Chouljian went to College of the Canyons to play basketball after high school, Vicky did not follow that path.
"I always thought she should be playing college ball," Chouljian says. "I mean, she looks like she's in her prime now, but if she was 21, she might have gone even further, you know?"
This game against College of the Canyons is a routine whipping for the Lady Vaqs, 71-48. The P.A. guy alerts the crowd that Glendale has set a school record for wins with 23.
Afterward, Vicky rushes to her car and hightails it back to Burroughs, where her day started 12 hours earlier with biology class. The first round of the Southern Section playoffs is the next night, and this will be a crucial practice for her girls.
