The Morning After: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the NBA

It's Over.

Last night the San Antonio Spurs were eliminated from the 2008 NBA Playoffs by the Los Angeles Lakers, ending the Spurs quest for their first ever back-to-back championship.

And I'm OK.

Let me start out by saying I'm a fairly intense fan of these San Antonio Spurs. In 1992 my family moved to Kerrville, Texas, which is a little over an hour from San Antonio. David Robinson was in his first few years out of the Academy and could be compared, I think, to a narrower version of today's Dwight Howard. Just a total freak. I can remember him being likened to a 7 foot "gazelle," which I've heard used to describe other players, and didn't realize how strange a simile that is until I mentioned it to one of my female friends. Her response was laughter, and questioning the masculinity of anyone who would revel in such a descriptive--which I've noticed many non-sports lovers just love to do. This is probably an annoyance that dates back to fans of naked wrestling in ancient Greece. I just don't understand why they keep calling this homoerotic!

Anyway, yeah. I became a fan of Mr. Robinson, and of the Spurs as soon as I got to Kerrville. 8th Grade. I've been a badass Spurs fan ever since. Through playoff losses to Utah, playoff losses to Houston, playoff losses to plenty of other teams we obviously should have defeated; through the Alamo Dome years, the teal, the pink, the orange, the Worm, Nique's last stand, Vinny "Ski Instructor" Del Negro, playoff losses to Shaq and Kobe--and, of course, through the Spurs last 10 years of consistent dominance and 4 NBA championships--through all of this, I've been a pretty big Spurs fan.

They've been a steady source of both great joy, and misplaced, but very real and excruciating pain. To be honest, I'm not even proud of the way they make me feel sometimes. I don't know what the honest experience of other sports fans is like; but for me, watching the Spurs is either pure ecstasy, or complete, nearly uncontrollable fury.

It has made me call into question whether this is a love for the game, a healthy passion...or if it's a manifestation of some pent up rage. I mean, I'm not a violent person. But of course everyone has violence in them. And it makes sense that the more restrained and peaceful someone is, the more their natural aggression and primal violence needs to manifest itself somewhere. That isn't to say I go off the handle when the Spurs are losing. But I do inside. I sit there and flinch and stare off into space while I enact atrocious scenarios of carnage in my mind. Against the opposing players mostly...or their coach or fans. Or those refs! Brutal fantasies of snapping limbs, splitting skulls, tearing flesh. It's horrible. The only other time I get like that is when I drive. And sometimes when I play video games. But really only sports games...not murder and meyhem games...which tells something about games, and vicarious fantasy, I think.

I've been working on it...trying to become more zen about it...very consciously trying to remove myself from my over-involvement in the game. Reminding myself that I have no control over what happens; that I've been very lucky that the Spurs have given their fans 4 trophies in 9 years; and that anger like that can only hurt and embarrass me.

And last night, I let go. I did it. When the clock ran out, and the Spurs' season was over, I was able to nod, shrug, and toast a final "Go Spurs Go" of the season. All the murderous impulses left me, and I was at peace.

The Lakers were a better team. There were some close calls--like the game 1 collapse, and the uncalled foul against Brent Barry in Game 4. But the Spurs lost, and I was immediately okay with it. I didn't want to throw anything or mentally attack anyone.

It's a small victory. One that may only make sense to me. But as a result I feel like a better Spurs fan, and a slightly less derranged human being.

Go Spurs Go.