I grew up in Athens, Ga., the beating heart of Georgia Bulldog country. It’s not usually wise to don any shade of orange around town.

But when I started playing basketball at 5 years old, a family friend said to me, “If you want to be a winner, you watch Pat Summitt and the Lady Vols.’’

It stuck. In driveway pickup games, I was a Lady Vol. For Halloween, I was a Lady Vol (in full uniform, no less). I was convinced I would play for Summitt, even attending her basketball camp in Knoxville for three summers.

My mother took notice. We drove to SEC tournaments in Chattanooga and games at Thompson-Boling Arena in Knoxville. We went to Philadelphia for the 2000 Final Four, hoping to somehow, someway score tickets to either of Tennessee’s games. (It didn’t happen. Connecticut won anyway.)

When I was 9 years old, my mother, brother, and I went to Auburn to watch the Lady Vols play the Lady Tigers. It was the 1998-99 season, Tennessee’s chance to win its fourth straight national title. The era of “The Three Meeks.’’

A family friend was able to get us into Auburn’s arena that afternoon. Dressed in street clothes with a bright orange basketball worn from hours of shooting in our driveway — it belonged on a schoolyard court, not in a college arena — I began to shoot around.

Out of the tunnel walked Chamique Holdsclaw. Then Tamika Catchings. Then Semeka Randall and the rest of the Lady Vol squad. They all shot around with Tyler Summitt and me as if it were a normal part of the pregame routine.

After a while, the legendary coach walked out. Summitt was armed with a whistle and wore a light-blue Adidas warm-up suit. The whistle sounded and her voice soon filled the arena. “All right, let’s go!’’ And then, pointing at me, she said, “You sit down and watch. You’ll learn something.’’

The following summer, back to Knoxville I went for another Summitt basketball camp. One afternoon, the campers toured the Women’s Basketball Hall of Fame. After making my way through the museum, I spotted Summitt sitting behind a table, alone. I hadn’t seen her alone all camp.

I mustered the courage to walk over to her, backpack and bifocal glasses in tow.

“Coach, I don’t know if you remember . . .’’ I said before she cut me off.

“Of course I remember, Rachel,’’ she said. “And what did you learn that day?’’

I strung together an answer I am sure was unsatisfactory as I processed the fact that my hero remembered my name.

We then talked about camp and how I wanted to make it to the all-star game in my age group so I could play on the floor at Thompson-Boling Arena. She told me to keep at it.

We took a picture together. She signed something for me. I thanked her for her time.

By the time I turned to walk away, a long line of campers had formed to talk to the coach who changed the course of women’s basketball.

Though I don’t remember exactly what I said to her that day, I will always remember what I learned from her: If you want something, you have to fight for it and surround yourself with people who want to work just as hard as you to achieve it. That women matter, that women can be tough and gritty and great and break barriers and hold records.

Pat Summitt’s obituary, B7; coaches recall a leader, D5.