North Star Writers Group

As a Philadelphia native now living in the Bay Area, I was fortunate enough to attend a Phillies game last Thursday, in which they inflicted a rather sound walloping on the hometown Giants in AT&T Park. The hot dogs were delicious, and the low-quality domestic beer, priced similarly to my wireless bill, was nothing short of euphoric. It was a chilly evening, and the rain was falling just hard enough to be annoying but not hard enough to stop the game. Leave it to me to neglect to wear anything that would protect my head from the elements. It felt a lot like the East Coast.

The Phillies were ahead by a comfortable seven runs by the end of the fourth inning, and I was beginning to sense both despair and rebellion all around me. It was beautiful. But then something peculiar happened.

It was Omar Vizquel, who struck out to end the fourth, stranding a runner on second base. But directly afterwards, I heard from behind me a great roar – not a roar of outrage, but a very distinct roar of approval.

I have never disputed that an uncanny percentage of San Franciscans are a bit off, but cheering in the face of defeat has only ever been acceptable when sarcastic – called a Bronx Cheer. It is employed, for example, when a strike is finally thrown after eight or nine straight balls, or perhaps when a floundering goalie successfully receives a pass from a defenseman, instead of allowing the puck into the net. It is one of my favorite avenues in sports, one in which I have had many a fortunate occasion to participate. But on this particular Thursday night, after this particular double play, I was absolutely certain that this roar was one of sincere approval. It was truly bizarre.

As I reached the concession stand behind all of the bleachers, I instantly realized what was going on. The Golden State Warriors were in the process of wiping the floor with the Dallas Mavericks. There were crowds of people packed so densely around these scattered televisions that I could barely pass through in order to reach the restroom.

Now allow me to back up a bit. For those of you who have not been paying attention, the 2007 Warriors are one of the greatest sports stories you’ll ever witness. With 10 games left in their regular season, they boasted a 33-39 record, and were a full four games behind the eight-spot in the playoff race. To make matters even more impossible, the final 10 games of their schedule included games against opponents such as the Rockets, the Jazz, the Suns, the Spurs and the Mavericks – five of the toughest teams in the NBA. In fact, only three of these final 10 games were against non-playoff-bound teams.

They won nine of them, earning the final spot in the Western Conference playoffs by one game. It’s the first time the Warriors have been in the playoffs since 1994.

The fans here were going nuts. Sports radio was littered with, “We’re going all the way!” and “I don’t even care what happens anymore. We made the playoffs!” followed by prolific glass-clinking and cheering.

Then the unthinkable happened.

It is no secret that the Warriors, for whatever reason – be it Don Nelson’s jaded history with the Mavericks, or because the last name of the Mavericks’ soon-to-be-named MVP includes a “w” that is correctly pronounced as a “v” (and that just doesn’t fly around here) – have the Mavericks’ number. But most sports analysts picked the Mavs as clear favorites. Vegas even gave them 9-1 odds at winning the series.

But then the Warriors shocked the sports world by winning game one in Dallas. The Mavs scraped by in Game Two, and that’s when things came back to Oakland. The fans were unbelievable. It was as if the Mavericks never stood a chance. They surged, shrieked, groaned, cheered, and yes, roared, after every rebound. Every Warriors bucket set the place in a frenzy. Everyone was on their feet. An alley-oop nearly blew the roof off the place.

The truth is, they almost won the series in Game Five at Dallas, but were unable to make a nine-point lead stick with two minutes left. But perhaps it was only fitting that the series end in Oakland, as Baron Davis, on one good leg, led his team to a 111-86 victory. It was Thursday, May 3, the night of the Phillies game, a night I will always remember being overshadowed by the exuberance of a basketball team playing with nothing to lose, reminding themselves and their fans how incredible and rewarding the world of sports can truly be.

My allegiances remain, but I must admit, while I can’t quite consider myself a part of this incredible David and Goliath tale of a sports team and its adoring fans, it has truly been a joy to witness, if only from the bleachers of my Philadelphian heart.

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