I spent my childhood in Tennessee but I never bled orange. I never saw Neyland erupt with a completion in the checkered endzone. I never sang Rocky Top at the top of my lungs, took a picture with Smokey, or experienced Knoxville on gameday. I never worshiped number 16.

To me, Big Orange was too big.

I lumped Pat Summitt in with the behemoth that was the University of Tennessee, not really appreciating or understanding how much of an underdog she was until later.

I grew up in the mid 1990s when it felt like women’s basketball was on the brink of something big. I played point guard on a team with Summitt’s niece just outside of Nashville. I watched Lisa Leslie front the women’s Dream Team in the 1996 Atlantic Olympics and I regularly rocked Sheryl Swoopes’ WNBA Comets jersey with a pair of Chamique Holdsclaw shoes.

After college in 2010 I moved north to the new women’s basketball Mecca – Connecticut. For a Tennessean I was in enemy territory and even though I didn’t have a loyalty to the Lady Vols, I felt a little bit like a traitor for falling in love with the Huskies’ efficient play. This time, I didn’t hesitate to root for the dominant team.

Even top teams like Summitt’s Lady Vols and Geno Auriemma’s Huskies are underdogs in the sports world simply because they are women’s teams.

What I realize now is that Summitt was so much more than the orange she wore. She didn’t just represent a university I wasn’t a fan of, she represented women’s basketball — scrappy, brash, and determined to carve out a place on the hardwood.

Summitt’s legacy can already be seen: in Brittney Griner, in Elena Delle Donne, in Breanna Stewart — players she never coached — and in every little girl who drains a jumper and then shoots skeptics a signature Summitt sideline stare.

Thanks Pat for being a trailblazer and an underdog and showing me that both can be powerful.