OK after a weekend in Coconino county, it's time to get back to what matters, and that's watching my beloved hometown Spurs pick apart their competition and send them fishing. I need to get a sign ready for tomorrows game and also to get myself emotionally ready to represent amidst the throngs of salivating Jazz fans here in Utah. I'm a little embarrassed to say this, but I wasn't into the game like these Jazz fans were. - I mean, these guys are INTO IT. They want blood. They are happy when a Spurs player appears to be injured. While watching the game at the Dam Bar in Page, Arizona they were whooping and yelling at every Jazz score/steal/smile, while I was quietly thinking "okay just string together a couple of stops and we can chip away at this thing" or, "man that rotation was a little late - he should be cheating over a couple of feet". They seriously act like they haven't been there before, what with all their heavy breathing and whooping, and I've found myself thinking maybe that's not really a bad thing. Maybe it's OK to act like a blithering, myopic idiot sometimes.
Case in point: There should be no empty seats in the playoffs, and yet it happened in my beloved hometown. We Spurs fans have got a major problem, and it's this 'acting like we've been there' business. It has to stop. We have to hearken back to '99 or even 2003 when winning in the playoffs meant something every step of the way, and we loved our team like they were our tall, rich uncles. Utah has the little team that could right now, and while logic dictates that the Spurs take this thing, our fans are getting their fannies handed to them by PHOENIX and UTAH. Are you kidding me? Who'd a thunk that Phoenix and Utah would throw a better party in their respective barns than us folks down here in San Antonio? A sea of baby blue, who looks like they should be holding a bunch of signs that say "It's a Boy' is doing a better job of representing than my fellow flour tortilla and BBQ brisket loving townspeople.
This is a town that started the tradition of the Baseline Bums, we've been doing the drunken idiot rowdy fan thing for a lot longer than those guys, and it's time to show what our experience has taught us. I'll be there for game four. I'ma go there and represent, y'all! Get out there for game 5, folks! Show 'em whatcha got. Drool and slur your epithets at the opposition. Jump around with some clever sign. Curse at the refs and the squadron from otta town. And for heavens sakes, act like you haven't been there.