The midday traffic on the freeway over to the Oakland Arena reminded me that driving on I-90 back home is practically like being on a peaceful country lane compared to some of what California has to offer.

At the arena, media folks were complaining about the drink selections that came with the free lunch being served. That prompted a woman in a "Staff" polo shirt to whip out her walkie-talkie and go into damage-control mode. "Kelly, could you find out about the beverages for lunch. I'm taking a lot of heat here."

I sat with Tacoma columnist Dave Boling, who used to work at the S-R. "Let me tell you about Gonzaga fans," he said.

He proceeded to describe some pretty shabby airline-boarding etiquette back when he was leaving Salt Lake City. (People offering and accepting cuts in line for a Southwest flight.)

Before GU's practice session, a KREM cameraman and I talked about the traffic implications of Wal-Mart building on the South Hill. (I think his name was Dan. Seemed like a good guy.) It struck me as sort of an odd discussion to be taking place here in Oakland.

Several hundred fans scattered around the big arena watched the Zags amble out onto the court and start shooting.

That's what today's practice was -- shooting. There wasn't much running. Jut a little quick-cut stuff.

At first, it's sort of neat to be really close to Spokane's athletic heroes. But after a while, watching a basketball practice is, well, watching a basketball practice.

One thing that was fun, though, was to keep my gaze fixed on the hoop and see it when five or six balls were being shot virtually simultaneously. These kids are so good that every once in a while there would be this rapid-sequence swish-swish-swish-swish-swish thing that was a sight to behold.

A big white "GONZAGA" was illuminated in eight spots around the electronic message board rimming an upper deck inside the arena.

As a service to you, the reader of this blog, I eavesdropped on the players during practice. But almost none of the dry humor and sarcasm would make sense out of context. These are conversations that started months ago.

One kid talked about the dark seats providing a good shooting background. Another deadpanned that he planned to pop a cap on a teammate's ass.

The players and coaches left the floor to a smattering of applause. And then as they were about to pass through the walkway leading to their lockerroom, the "Adam!" "Adam!" shouts began.

Morrison spent about 10 minutes signing autographs on everything from shirts and basketballs to homemade signs and magazines with him on the cover.

Some of the signature-seekers looked perfectly innocent and sincere. But a few struck me as likely eBay marketers.

The star forward appeared to say little during all this.

I followed some of the other reporters into the lockerroom. "Hey, Sliceman," said assistant coach Leon Rice.

We shook hands. He told me he read my column. And, remembering that his name had been mentioned in connection with some head coaching vacancies, I told him I followed his career opportunities.

In the dressing room, a cluster of reporters, cameras and lights faced a seated Morrison in one corner. And elsewhere throughout the room, other one-on-one interviews took place at the same time.

The players seemed utterly matter-of-fact about it all. Not one of them appeared to be the slightest bit dazzled.

Outside, on the court, UCLA was going through its own shooting drills.

Like the Zags, they seemed well aware that none of today's baskets count.