When it comes to the NBA, I’m a fair-weather fan.
Wait! you say. Don’t admit that! That’s stoopid!
Well, momma always said stoopid is as stoopid does.
Yep, I’m so fair-weather I need SPF-30 sunblock to watch a pro basketball game. That’s why, for most of Sunday afternoon, I rooted for the Blazers. And even if the Blazers lost, tattoo “Rip City” on my bicep, because I’m a Blazer convert.
I grew up in Golden State Warriors country, which means I grew up a football fan. Warrior players hated or simply choked their coaches, while on the other side of the Bay, Joe Montana lobbed passes through the crisp Candlestick air to Jerry Rice and won Super Bowl rings the size of Mack trucks. The choice was easy.
Nowadays, I consider myself a free-agent fan. I ignore the NBA for most of the year, and come playoff time, teams can bid for my loyalty through a complicated system of likeability, potential to win the big one and underdog status. Last year the Sacramento Kings were lucky enough to win that honor, and I cried with the rest of the Laker-hater club when the referees handed the Big Yellow Machine the series in game 7.
This year, I turned up my nose and stuck my pinkie out with the rest of the country with each new Jail Blazer offense. I laughed at the pure comedic image of Ruben Patterson chasing Zach Randolph around a practice court after Randolph sucker-punched Patterson like Britney Spears in a bar fight.
When the Blazers went down 2-0 to Dallas, I had my agent call up other teams and test the free-agent fan market.
But then Maurice Cheeks put his arm around a scared eighth-grader and belted out the national anthem like he was a finalist on “American Idol.” The Blazers lost and seemed destined for a sweep, but at least the Rose Garden wasn’t completely filled with inmates.
Then the Blazers won their first playoff game since the 14-point collapse to Los Angeles in 2000. Then Arvydas Sabonis, who’s older than Father Time, tipped in a shot at the buzzer and sent the series back to Portland. Then, in game 6, the Blazers owned the Mavs like Mark Cuban never could.
By Sunday, like the self-respecting sports fan I am, I was hooked on the idea of a comeback. But this wouldn’t be just a comeback, it would be the comeback. The scope was enormous. In all the playoff series in all the sports in America, only a couple hockey teams from the 40s had pulled off this feat — from zero to hero. From 3-0 to 3-4. From swept to sweep.
So I donned my red-and-black on Sunday. I had some people over to my house and yeah, I rooted for the Blazers. I complained about the officiating (the phantom sixth foul on Sabas? Are you kidding me?). I made fun of Cuban’s T-shirt that he stole from a trailerpark laundromat.
And I found out there’s more to love about this Portland team. There’s Sabas, throwing a completed pass over his head. There’s Damon Stoudamire, pulling a Superman on a ball that was clearly headed for the lap of some random cameraman. There’s Scottie Pippen, playing in pain, still clutch in the end with a three from the corner.
That three was Custer’s last stand for the Blazers. Dallas’ duo of Dirk “Über-baller” Nowitzki and Steve “Have a Labatt’s, eh?” Nash drained the kind of shots that belong only in video games on “easy” mode. The Blazers couldn’t hang.
But after the game, I noticed something. Even in the midst of the Blazers’ we’ve-come-this-far-back-only-to-lose disappointment, Rasheed Wallace and the rest of team initiated the high-five line with the Mavs. In that moment, Dallas players understood the magnitude of the comeback, Portland players understood the talent of the Mavs and everybody shook on it.
It wasn’t quite as touching as Mo Cheeks singing “O’er the ramparts we’ve watched,” but it helped me make an important decision. I think I’m going to sign a long-term fan contract with the Blazers.
That is, at least until game 7 of the Kings-Lakers conference final.
Go Sacto.
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His views do not necessarily represent those of the Emerald.