I remember sitting on the couch next to my father. It was a warm, typically humid night in Memphis, Tennessee, in the middle of June — nothing out of the ordinary.
Except it was Game 5 of the 2014 NBA Finals, the San Antonio Spurs versus the Miami Heat. Veteran Tim Duncan’s team facing off against LeBron James’ South Beach squad.
My dad — with all of his glorious ball knowledge — cheered the same way he always did: a loud, emphatic yell that would startle me, no matter how prepared I was for the inevitable, followed by a cacophony of applause.
I knew then that I was witnessing history — or about as much as a fourth grader could. It was an Avengers-level ensemble complete with Duncan, Kawhi Leonard, Tony Parker, Danny Green and Tiago Splitter.
From that moment, I became a Spurs superfan, cheering on the same team and same players my dad had as a child — or so I thought.
Life would prove otherwise.
Among my newly-formed obsession with college athletics, the incessant requirement of streaming subscriptions to watch non-local NBA games and life’s demands, I found it difficult to follow the Spurs as closely as I wanted to.
Moving to Northern California made me an obligatory Warriors fan, and the time difference made it nearly impossible to watch games at odd and often inconvenient tipoff times.
Granted, I did keep up with the larger stories: Leonard being traded; Gregg Popovich’s stroke and subsequent retirement; Victor Wembanyama going first overall in 2023. But the minute, day-to-day, often inconsequential games and front office actions fell by the wayside.
More often than not, I followed the Spurs in passing through box scores on ESPN and updates on X. After making the playoffs 22 years in a row, they went six seasons without even seeing the bracket. Objectively, I knew the Spurs hadn’t had the best recent seasons, which reminded me of something I heard while back.
I’m paraphrasing, but it was something along the lines of, “Every team has their dynasty, and you have about 20 more years of watching them lose before they’re great again.”
(Now, I will say this was in regards to Alabama football losing to an unranked Florida State after Nick Saban retired, and I’m not ready to give up on the legacy he left behind.)
But I feel that the advice was general enough that it could apply to all sports franchises.
Yet, despite their lackluster performance and minimal success, I gradually began watching the Spurs again — listening to broadcasts at the gym on weekday evenings or tuning in to a stream on bus rides. It became a familiar background noise for the mundanity of my everyday life.
Except this time, I wasn’t on a brown couch in my childhood home, but charting my own path. I was cheering for a team not because of my father but because I truly wanted to.
Seeing Wembanyama play for France during the 2024 Paris Olympics piqued my interest in a team I hadn’t “truly” kept up with since I was a child.
The starting lineups changed and the team improved, but the magic remained the same — and that was the important part.
They say your dad’s team often influences who you cheer for. And while I refuse to utter a single word of praise toward the New England Patriots, I can appreciate what the Spurs have done down in San Antonio.
Watching Wembanyama block Deni Avdija’s shot in Game 5 of a playoff series against the Trail Blazers made me feel — if only for a second — like the 10-year-old girl watching Popovich lead his team to a championship. I found myself cheering like my father. No yelling, of course, because I have roommates, but I will admit there were a few loud claps.
That right there is worth more than a championship trophy in my book. But I’m not playing for a championship, so take my words with a grain of salt.
And, perhaps, that moment showed me that maybe it doesn’t take two decades for a dynasty to return.