I’m wearing a Sonics sweatshirt today. It’s green, it has a hood, it zips up, it’s nice.
I wore a Sonics t-shirt yesterday. Grey. It’s my favorite shirt. I wear it every week. There’s a faded stain underneath the screen print that most people don’t notice. I get a little self-conscious about blemishes on my clothing, but this one doesn’t bother me so much.
I have a trash can in my room. It’s a Sonics trash can. Right now it’s lined with a plastic shopping bag from Target. This morning, I noticed the bag was obscuring the green-and-gold logo on the exterior. I rearranged the bag. I want people to see that logo when they walk in.
I have a hoop on my bedroom door. When I dunk on it, I’m Shawn Kemp. When I shoot jumpers, I’m Detlef. When I kiss it off the glass, I’m G.P. When I miss, I’m Sene.
I like to search “seattle sonics” on YouTube and see what comes up. I like to mutter “Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuupersonics” quietly under my breath when no one else is around. I get a little excited when I overhear names like “Eddie Johnson” in casual conversation.
Continue reading Screw It, Seattle: It’s Time To Get Excited
The NBA likes to pretend we don’t exist. That we don’t care about them and as a result they, in turn, don’t have to care about us. Seattle? Where’s Seattle? Is that a village or something? What is that?
We had our basketball team stolen from us and relocated a thousand miles away in the middle of God-knows-where. That was bad enough, certainly. But it was made worse by the fact that we were repeatedly slandered after the pillaging. That the thieves made off with our prized possession, then tried to convince the masses that we didn’t care about being hijacked. Seattle fans are apathetic, they said. Seattle fans don’t deserve our product. Seattle fans haven’t been showing up to games, or cheering for their team, or even giving a damn about what happens on the court with their Sonics. Seattle fans weren’t good enough, they claimed.
Continue reading The Lovingly Incensed Fan Base of the Seattle Supersonics
One for every f**king year of history we have.
1. We’re the Seattle Supersonics, the only team in NBA history to have the word “Super” in our nickname. That’s not by accident. We’re super awesome.
2. We used to play our games in the Coliseum, which is so highly thought of that the Romans named their ancient structure after our much more modern one.
Continue reading 41 Reasons Seattle Deserves To Have The Sonics Back
Why? Why the hell not? If this doesn’t brighten your day, your day is unbrightenable. Bring back the Sonics.
Check out this excerpt from an article entitled Whistled While They Worked in the May 30th issue of ESPN The Magazine. ESPN’s Kenny Mayne interviews a panel of sports figures notorious for running afoul of the rules, including Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban. Here’s how the article comes to its conclusion:
Mayne: Are you worried about fallout because you spoke candidly about referees?
Cuban: There’s always a risk of my getting fined. But in this case there’s no solid ground.
Mayne: What if in the transactions it said, “Mark Cuban fined $100,000 for talking to that bastard Kenny Mayne from Seattle, the city we stripped of a franchise”?
Cuban: That would be money well spent.
In the words of Jeffrey Spicoli, “Awesome. Totally awesome.”
Thank you, Mark Cuban.
There is something all too empowering about a bike lane.
Really, when you get right down to it, all you have is an ephemeral white line upon equally ephemeral man-made pavement. In mere minutes, the bike lane can be reduced to nothingness, the restricting boundary erased like a stray pencil mark on white college rule, the manicured rockery eroded like silt along a riverbank.
And yet for some reason we give unto the bike lane as if it were more than that. As if its whiteness — purity’s hue, mind you — is more than just the rigid absence of color. We are asked to share the road, to co-inhabit the concrete, and we do that. We do it both willingly and lawfully, steering our motor vehicles or our pedestrian paws away from said lane. Seemingly at all costs we avoid this forbidden expanse…save for those of us who pedal our Schwinns down its purity-lined path, of course.
As drivers and foot commuters, we yield space to our two-wheeled brethren. One could argue, however, that they do not yield equally to others in return. Consider, if you will, all those cyclists who filter into the flow of motorized traffic, who wander onto walkways, who stray from the sanctity of the bike lane in spite of its mere existence. Wherefore art thou, dear cyclist, when this holy light through yonder pavement breaks? Dost thou not revel in its grandeur, in its grace? Nay, thou dost not.
Continue reading That, Sir, Is A Bike Lane
I remember when I got my first Sonics jersey. The year was 1995. I was in fourth grade, ten years old at the time.
It wasn’t the jersey I really, truly wanted. Every kid in school wore KEMP or PAYTON on his back. I wanted to wear KEMP or PAYTON, too. But I had to settle for McMILLAN. These replica jerseys — watered-down mesh imitations made by Champion — sold for forty dollars at regular price. This particular jersey, bearing the name and number of the team’s most unsung player, was on clearance, and therefore affordable enough to go home with me on this day. Thus, I became the only kid at Medina Elementary with the uniform of one Nate McMillan.
(My little brother, meanwhile, became quite possibly the only kid in history with a Sarunas Marciulionis Sonics’ jersey…it was the only jersey they had on sale in his size.)
Continue reading The Neverending Fan Base