Parting Shot

The morning after the Golden State Warriors lost the sixth and what was to be the final game in the 2019 NBA finals, I read that Pat Bowlen had died. Mister Bowlen was the owner of the Denver Broncos. He was part of that driving force that finally brought a Super Bowl trophy to the Mile High City. That was some time ago. Twenty-some. It was only a year ago that the Golden State Warriors hoisted the Larry O'Brien trophy, their third in the past four years. It was that giddy feeling of vicarious winning to which I had become accustomed to, living just up the street from the arena where they played their home games.
"Played" because they won't be anymore. The Warriors are moving across the Bay to San Francisco. I expect there will be some fun and magic to be found in their new home, but it certainly would have been nice to have one more parade in Oakland before they packed up and left. And it's not like they didn't give it their best shot. They left it all on the floor, but in the end, it was time for the trophies and parades to move on somewhere new.
Pat Bowled brought parades to Denver. He was the guy who hoisted that first Lombardi Trophy into the air and decreed, "This one's for John." He was referencing the John of Elway fame, who had labored mightily on a number of near-miss teams who just couldn't seem to get past that last game. That's the one everyone really wants to win. It makes the off-season so much easier to bear.
Yes, I understand that I am referring to a group of millionaires playing a game. I also understand that the money made by the athletes in this scenario pales in comparison to the stacks of cash that get moved around to make room for more stacks of cash for owners of professional sports franchises. I am making none of this money. I am helping pay for those salaries by buying the swag and occasionally buying a ticket to see a game in person. What do I want in return?
Well, I don't know about everyone else, but I am looking for a sense of community. I want to feel that, however tangentially, I belong to the team. And it's easier to feel that sense of community when you're tossed the bone of a championship every so often. Like Pony Boy used to say, nothing golden can stay. So savor those moments and the giddy silliness of dancing on furniture because the group of millionaires you happen to be watching manage to win that last game. Because there will be another after that. Players retire. Franchises change cities and old stadiums become parking lots. Time catches up with us all. But hopefully not before we get off that one last shot.