WASHINGTON 鈥� Nobody likes a front-runner.
That鈥檚 the strange position the Golden State Warriors have found themselves in, despite not winning a championship in 40 years and making the playoffs for just the fourth time in the last 21 seasons. It鈥檚 just as odd of a position for their fans, of which I am one.
There鈥檚 the somewhat incorrect misperception that Warriors fans are mostly San Francisco Giants fans, already blessed with an embarrassment of recent postseason success in other sports. But many of us are not. Many are Raiders fans, whose last Super Bowl win came in 1983, after the team had moved to Los Angeles. Many of us are also Cal fans, a Power Five university whose last Rose Bowl trip came in 1959 and who last advanced past the Sweet Sixteen the next year. Nearly all of us are Sharks fans, a franchise with a history of recent postseason failure that rivals the home team here in Washington.
I grew up in the East Bay, 25 minutes north of the Coliseum complex and Oracle Arena. The three games in which I鈥檝e sat in the stands as a fan at Verizon Center the past three seasons were when the Warriors came to town. As for my Oakland fandom, I was in the , the far reaches of the 聽and the second level of . My .
But the only championship memory I have occurred when I was six and was interrupted by an act of God, as the Earth itself literally shook the World Series to a halt in 1989. Since then, I鈥檝e watched as Tom Brady tucked, as Derek Jeter backhand flipped, as Aaron Rodgers came up short of the goal line at USC, as the Royals began their run to the American League pennant by steamrolling my heart (and no, I鈥檓 not linking highlights to any of those 鈥� look them up on your own, if you must).
But nothing compares to being a Cleveland sports fan. You already knew this, even before . It doesn鈥檛 matter that Oakland checked in at number nine on that list. It just can鈥檛 compete.
And so, the one person who might understand my plight as I suffer through this series, hoping, praying that the drought might end, is also secretly wishing fire and death upon my team. That would be my boss, who is from Cleveland.
鈥淪o, how are you feeling?鈥� I ask him Wednesday afternoon, following the 96-91 Cleveland victory in Game 3 that put the Cavaliers ahead two games to one.
鈥淚鈥檓 feeling well, hopeful,鈥� he replies. 鈥淢ore hopeful than last week.鈥�
鈥淵ou鈥檙e allowing yourself to be hopeful?鈥�
鈥淚鈥檓 allowing myself to get so emotionally involved that I will be crushed when they lose.鈥�
This is what it means to be a fan of teams of these towns. I ask him if it鈥檚 worse that his team is up 2-1. The answer is simple and expected, as it would be from any Cleveland or Oakland fan.
鈥渊别蝉.鈥�
The Warriors should be America鈥檚 Team. The storylines are there, between Steph Curry鈥檚 ascent to stardom, the former All-Stars Andre Iguodala and David Lee re-emerging as key players, the impossible road back from injury for Shaun Livingston. Some in the Bay Area , but it has become apparent that such a declaration can no longer be made. We are the favorites, , fighting our own playoff demons in obscurity, shadowed by LeBron鈥檚 self-manufactured narrative of returning home to win for the city聽he once spited.
That storyline is sealed through the collective shared sports misery of every Clevelander, one with which Oakland鈥檚 own infamous postseason history does not measure up.
鈥淚 watched The Fumble live. I watched The Drive live. I saw , I saw that live, and same with the (1997) World Series,鈥� my boss counters my list of tragedies. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 the height of my impressionable youth in sports.鈥�
Nobody feels bad for the Warriors, or for their fans. When the Warriors fired Mark Jackson, hired Steve Kerr and raced to one of the greatest regular seasons in recent NBA history, the bandwagon started filling up quickly. The sweet-shooting Dubs are a tremendously fun team to watch, after all, with a highly marketable MVP and his spotlight-stealing daughter. But this team, the one this year, hasn鈥檛 suffered any real hardship or adversity.
Meanwhile, LeBron鈥檚 teammates are dropping off one-by-one, right on script, as if to add to his hero narrative. With Kevin Love previously relegated to the bench, Kyrie Irving pushed his already injured knee to its actual breaking point in Game 1. Iman Shumpert reinjured a shoulder in Game 3 that he had previously dislocated. Curry tormentor Matthew Dellavedova received IV treatments for cramps after Tuesday night鈥檚 game, eventually getting .
鈥淚 think at first it kind of provided you an easy out, a rationalization for why we鈥檙e going to lose,鈥� my boss says, channeling both cities鈥� inner fatalism. 鈥淏ut the fact that they keep winning now, I鈥檓 buying into the fairy tale, and it鈥檚 been 鈥� it probably won鈥檛 be a happy ending.鈥�
The Cleveland-Oakland dynamic is not like a New York-Boston rivalry, steeped in tradition and littered with championship moments. We don鈥檛 flash the bravado that fans of those cities often do, far more worried about the karmic implications of overconfidence. I can鈥檛 even bring myself to put Oakland first as I list the cities, telling myself I鈥檓 doing it for alphabetical reasons, but knowing deep down I鈥檓 doing anything I can to keep from tempting fate.
Naturally, my boss is doing the same.
鈥淣o one wants to jinx anything,鈥� he says. 鈥淎nd historically, bravado works out very poorly for us.鈥�
That鈥檚 true in Oakland, too. I was in the East Bay for Game 2, but not at the game itself. My single serving friend from my flight to California was far more confident than I was about Golden State鈥檚 prospects, as we rode the AirBart past the Coliseum complex and Oracle Arena a few hours before Game 2.
鈥淒o you think the Warriors will sweep?鈥� he asked me.
I cringed, the only response I know.
鈥淎s long as they win three of the next six, I don鈥檛 care how they do it,鈥� I replied.
Now, of course, that鈥檚 become three of the next four. So while I may believe the Warriors can still come back, while I know they have it in them, I would never dare say it here. I wouldn鈥檛 be a real Oakland 鈥� or Cleveland 鈥� sports fan if I did. At least my boss and I can agree on that.
