Thanks for the Memories.

After the first half of the 2010 season, it seemed Spurs were back on track. I was giddy with excitement. Despite what I thought last year at this point in the season, it appeared the glory days weren’t quite over. Despite the ‘experts’ of the NBA riding us off for innumerable reasons, (We’re too old. We’re too slow. We don’t have the killer instinct any more. Our fan base is too brown. We don’t have a true point guard. Our bigs are soft. We’re too short to contend with the length of the Lakers. Our front office isn’t aggressive enough in the off-season. Tim and Manu are on the wrong side of thirty.) we were playing the best basketball we’ve played in a looooong time, and I thought for sure the big three were gonna get another shot at the title.

EEEEHHHHHHHHHH!!! Wrong. Memphis happened. After getting unceremoniously bounced in the first round, I was shocked. Then angry. Then sad. In my sadness, I started reflecting on what the spurs have meant to me over the years. Ever since I was a child, the spurs have been woven into the fabric of my life.

 My first memory of the Spurs is as a 7-year-old kid, sitting on the couch with my dad in a Minnesota hotel room. My family had taken a trip to Minneapolis to visit the Mall of America. I don’t remember much about my that weekend, but I will never forget turning on the television and watching the men in silver and black lift the giant gold trophy on that summer night in New York. I remember the Greek-God of a man wearing with the number 50 across his chest smiling and laughing as he kissed the giant gold trophy. My dad explained to me that the man with pythons for arms, crew cut, and faint trace of a mustache was David Robinson. I immediately decided that one day, I was going to be just like him. The next day at the mall, my dad bought me my most prized possession: my very own David Robinson jersey. Thus, my obsession with the greatest basketball team on the planet began.

 I followed the Spurs religiously from that point on. As a first and second grader, I would tiptoe out of my room on school nights to catch the final seconds of (unbeknownst to me) meaningless regular season contests. So many memories with my beloved Spurs, among them…

 I remember adjusting the wire bunny ears on the fuzzy television set to catch the scrawny 19-year-old French point guard blaze down the court and, half the time, finish lay-ups from impossible angles, the other half dish it to the halfro’d all-star power forward from the Virgin islands for a thunderous dunk. I remember Pop shaking his head and the Alamodome exploding with applause as Le Croissant rapped in his native tongue at the 03’ championship party.

 I remember crying as I watched the mammoth of a man and his arrogant sidekick wearing the malignant purple and gold of Los Angeles dominate my beloved Spurs and knock us out of the playoffs two years in a row.  I got so upset over losing those 3 years I had to cover up the holes I punched in my wall with posters, but I will never forget watching the Lakers cry as we celebrated on their home court in 2003.

 I remember the farewell season of The Admiral, my first sports hero, culminating in the shower of confetti in the SBC Center. He had one arm around his fellow twin-tower, the other lifting the Larry O’Brien trophy high above his chiseled seven-foot frame. One of the all-time greats went out where he belonged, at the top. Mike Tirico summed my hometown in one sentence, “The whole city of San Antonio is Mr. Robinson’s neighborhood.”

 I remember pacing our houses den, cackling with laughter as GINOBILI seemed to defy the laws of physics and made play after play that left opponents shaking their heads.  I remember Manu lighting up the suns over and over and over as he dropped 48 points and we came back from 17 down in 03’. Or the (pre bald-spot days) floppy haired Argentine taking a hand off from Timmeh, then drive baseline and throw down a ridiculous reverse dunk against the Lakers in the 03’ playoffs. Or the more recent battle with the bat (ON HALLOWEEN!) in the AT&T Center, in which he further amazed us by slapping the blood-sucking creature out of the air and saving all of us from being transformed into undead wraiths. After this amazing display of inhuman precision, he deadpanned: "When you can't dunk anymore, you have to find a way to make it into the news," Classic. Obi-Wan Ginobili will always have a place in my heart.

 I remember my mother stalking Bruce Bowen in Costco, giggling like a junior high schoolgirl as she snapped a picture of the gutsy (or as some misled people like to describe him, dirty) perimeter defender with her cell phone. I remember watching him drill a corner three, getting fouled in the act, and promptly step up to the stripe and air ball the ensuing free throw. I remember watching Bruce Bowen play defense and feeling personally insulted every time another player or coach took a shot at him.  All those years of him putting the clamps on all the prima donna guards I grew to hate inspired me, a plucky skinny white kid, to play my balls off on defense for the one year I played organized basketball.  

 And I remember Tim. The most humble superstar on the planet. I remember the most underrated performance in Finals history (21 points, 20 Rebounds, 10 Assists, 8 Blocks) and how after the game, when he was asked if he was aware he was two blocks short of a quadruple-double, he simply responded “No I didn’t. That’s cool.” I remember the way he put us on his back in game 7 of 2005.  I remember his pigeon toed line drive free throws, how the bank was always open for him from the elbow, his terribly awkward GUNN commercials, the way he hugged the ball before each game, and the time I saw him wandering through a Barnes & Noble on the north side of town and I timidly muttered “Hi” to the greatest power forward ever. I could fill up an encyclopedia with Tim memories.  He is and will always be my absolute favorite player.

I don’t see the Spurs as callous superstar athletes streaming onto my television screen. I see them as old friends whom I have grown up with. Through first kisses, September 11th, the death of my dog Denny, moving from South Dakota to Texas, junior high, girlfriends, torn hamstrings, pre-calculus, fake friends, prom, sunburns, getting my drivers license, my sister going moving out of state, concerts, best friends moving away, fights with my parents, unmet expectations, disappointments on the soccer field, crappy jobs, birthdays, weddings, heartbreak, good and bad, thick and thin, the Spurs have been with me through it all. That is why they are more than a team to me; they are a part of my family. They kept me going through some hard times, and I will always love them for that. Thanks for all the buzzer beaters, blowout losses, river parades, “GO SPURS GO” chants, international draftees, rodeo road trips, NBA Championship t-shirts, missed free throws, battles with the Mavericks, and countless moments that helped define my childhood.

I’m graduating from high school on Saturday, and a lot of changes will be happening very quickly. I’m not sure what the future holds for me, but I know one thing for sure: I will always have a little bit of home with me as long as I can find a TV set and watch the men in Silver and Black.