“Light the beam! Light the beam! Light the beam!” This chant has become the heart of Sacramento Kings fandom.
Sacramento locals use this phrase at every opportunity, whether it’s a chant that breaks out near the end of a Kings game, or a greeting exchanged between strangers wearing purple merchandise.
After every Sacramento victory, a brilliant purple beacon shoots into the night sky above the Golden 1 Center. If it’s a home game, fans come rushing out from the arena to watch the beam emerge from the roof. If it’s an away game, the beam is still lit, visible from every corner of the city. And if that isn’t impressive enough, imagine flying into town on a night the Kings have won.
I’ve followed Sacramento basketball all my life, but my love for the sport was instilled in me from a different source — my aunt Cait. She played at the collegiate level for UC Davis, just a short drive from Sacramento, and became the first female athletic director and head coach of two Northern California colleges before moving to Las Vegas, where she quickly became the associate head coach of the UNLV Lady Rebels.
Aunt Cait’s career was an inspiration to me as a young girl. I was always well aware of the challenges women faced in the sports world, hence why her role was so important to me. At the time, the WNBA wasn’t nearly as popular as it is today. It struggled for recognition, with far less media coverage, sponsorship deals and fan engagement compared to the NBA. The rise of players such as Caitlin Clark has just recently started to shift this dynamic, as her star power has brought new attention to women’s basketball.
Watching my aunt coach a women’s team inspired me and allowed me to find women to look up to. My entire family would go sit courtside at her games, with my grandfather, Papi, being the most enthusiastic of us all. The players would sign posters and merchandise for me, and my room turned into a shrine dedicated to UNLV women’s basketball. I had its calendar and Christmas cards, and even adopted #14 as my basketball number in honor of my favorite player on the team, Aley Rohde.
The pressure to live up to this legacy was immense — self-imposed and fueled by the expectations surrounding me. Aunt Cait, as Papi’s only daughter and the most athletic member of the family, embodied a standard of excellence that felt almost too high to reach. For me, it wasn’t just about the game; it was about proving I could stand out in the shadow of her remarkable achievements and fulfill the dreams my family had for me, or the ones in my head that I thought they had.
Papi was into it — he got me a trainer to ensure I’d make the club team. He’d email me box scores from the UNLV games and call every week to see how practices went. Basketball wasn’t just a pastime; it was a shared bond between us, something we both could talk about endlessly.
My grandfather cherished our height comparisons, a playful tradition that marked my growth alongside aunt Cait. Each time we stood side by side, it wasn’t just about inches; it represented my evolving journey in sports and identity. As I grew taller than my idol, I could see Papi’s proud smile reflecting his joy in watching both of his athletic girls succeed. This moment captured not only our physical transformation but also the legacy of encouragement that shaped me.
That legacy was front and center on a day that stands out vividly in my memory. I was set to play in a basketball tournament, and Papi was driving all the way down from Nevada City to watch me play. I felt a mix of excitement and anxiety. It wasn’t just any game; it was my chance to show him how far I’d come — to prove that all the hard work and dedication was paying off. As I stepped onto the court, I was determined to make him proud, to live up to the expectations that felt so heavy on my shoulders.
But that day didn’t go as planned. I tore my medial collateral ligament, or MCL, during the game, and it was a crushing blow — not just physically, but emotionally. The disappointment was palpable. I had let down not just myself but Papi, who had always been my biggest supporter. The dreams I had of impressing him seemed to slip away with every painful step I took off the court.
In many ways, I felt my injury mirrored the struggles of Sacramento itself — a city that had long been overshadowed by its more glamorous California neighbors.
For years, the Kings had languished in mediocrity, trapped in a cycle of disappointment that felt all too familiar. Before the Golden 1 Center was built in the heart of downtown Sacramento, the Kings’ home court was 20 minutes up the I-5. Sleep Train Arena, named after a mattress company, became a symbol of the team’s long slumber, a place where hopes and dreams seemed to fade with each passing season.
Sacramento was often dismissed as a “cow town,” better known for being the state capital than for its sporting culture. It often felt similar to a forgotten corner of California, with wide streets and quiet neighborhoods that lacked the vibrancy of nearby cities. It was a town that, like me, seemed stuck in a moment of potential unfulfilled.
But just as I was trying to navigate my own path, the Kings were beginning to stir awake. The opening of the Golden 1 Center infused the franchise with new energy, transforming game nights into vibrant celebrations that felt like a fresh start. After two decades of playoff drought, the Sacramento Kings made a remarkable turnaround that reignited the passion of their long-suffering fans.
“New coach Mike Brown made winners out of a team that suffered through 16 losing seasons, 12 coaching changes and countless NBA draft misses,” said Maya Miller of the Sacramento Bee.
Additionally, the acquisition of talented players like Domantas Sabonis — a versatile big man known for his exceptional passing and scoring abilities — and sharpshooter Kevin Huerter brought a dynamic edge to the Kings’ offense.
This shift rekindled a sense of hope and anticipation among fans who had waited so long for a glimpse of success. Suddenly, Sacramento had pride again, and this time, the stakes felt as if they were higher than ever. Each game became an opportunity not just to win, but to reclaim the city’s identity and prove that it was worthy of respect in the basketball world.
Enter “the beam.”
Introduced on Sept. 16, or “916 Day,”— a nod to Sacramento’s area code — the beam made its debut just more than a month later. This isn’t just any beam; it’s the brightest full-color laser setup in the world, reportedly visible even from outer space.
Fast forward to April 15, 2023, when star player De’Aaron Fox lit the beam following the Kings’ thrilling 126-123 victory over the Golden State Warriors in Game 1 of the first round of the NBA playoffs — the Kings’ first playoff win since 2006.
The atmosphere was electric as the crowd erupted in chants, the familiar sound of cowbells ringing throughout the arena — a tradition born in response to former Lakers coach Phil Jackson’s comment that Sacramento was a “cow town.” The beam shot up into the night sky, a reminder of the Kings’ resurgence and the pride of a city that had long waited for this moment.
“Six 1,000-watt lasers piercing the atmosphere over Sacramento tonight, symbolic of this team’s rise to prominence,” said the announcer.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Sacramento wasn’t just a forgotten “cow town” that was grouped in with Davis, or even the state’s political hub. It had become a city on the rise, and the Kings embodied that sense of renewal. Every win felt like a victory not just for the team but for the entire city, as if the team’s success was everyone’s success. And that’s why the beam became more than just a gimmick — it became a symbol of hope.
At first, I just thought that some rich CFO of the Kings had come up with this as a genius marketing idea, but upon further thinking, I’ve decided that the beam is more than just a flashy gesture. It’s Sacramento’s way of finally being seen — of proving to the world, and maybe to itself, that it’s worth paying attention to. The beam was the city’s way of showing its own people that they should be proud, that they belong on the map.
For me, impressing Papi wasn’t just about basketball or winning. It was about showing him that all the time he’d invested in me — coaching, supporting, guiding — was worth it. It was about living up to the legacy that aunt Cait had built and making him proud in a way that resonated with his values. But the drive to impress often reflects a deeper desire to meet expectations and embody an idealized image of who we think we should be.
Just as I wanted to prove myself and fulfill the expectations set by those I admired, the Kings hope to impress their own city, showing Sacramento that they are worthy of pride. Impressing others is a strange, complicated drive — it goes beyond just wanting recognition. It’s often about validation, the desire to prove that we matter, that we can meet or exceed the expectations placed upon us.
Whether it’s family, friends or even a community, the urge to impress is intertwined with a need to feel worthy and seen. We spend so much of our lives navigating expectations — some external, others internal — trying to live up to them, sometimes without even realizing it. It’s a powerful motivator, pushing us to work harder, strive higher and put ourselves through immense pressure.
Papi passed away from acute myeloid leukemia in 2019, long before the beam was ever introduced. At that time, I was just an underclassmen in high school. The pressure to impress him was never as intense as it might have seemed, much like how Sacramento’s love for the Kings remains steadfast, regardless of their performance. Yet, the urge to prove oneself persists. Even though I stopped seeking his approval through athletics, getting into UC Berkeley — Papi’s alma mater — felt like a different kind of achievement that would have made him proud.
In some ways, it felt like a victory — not one from the basketball court, but a more personal triumph that aligned with the academic legacy he left behind. Just as the beam lights up Sacramento’s skyline after a win, getting into Cal was my way of shining, not through sports, but by fulfilling the intellectual and personal values that Papi held dear.