Shane Anderson - After the Oracle

Beginning, Again

on three very bad days that would turn into

three very bad years and beyond

April 1416, 2010 and beyond

Thats it, I thought. Weve lost. I pushed my office chair away from my desk in frustration. Then rolled backwards with my hands on top of my head and groaned. My chair hit my bed and I spun around to look at the alarm clock on the dilapidated Art Deco nightstand I had found on the street last week. Scheie, I said. It was almost 6:00 am here in Berlin. Way past an even indecent hour to go to bed but also too early to fall asleep; I had to see whether my favorite basketball team, the Golden State Warriors, were really going to lose this final game of the 200910 regular season.

Our odds looked awful even though we were technically winning, 108104. The Warriors Devean George had just fouled out with 4:47 left in the final quarter and there were no healthy players on the bench to replace him. I didnt know what would happen but guessed we would be forced to forfeit. I cursed under my breath, this time in English, and a smirk emerged on my lips. It figures. We always lost. It was our destiny. With but a few notable exceptions, the Warriors had been an awful team since long before I devoted myself to them in elementary school in the late 1980s. And this year hadnt been any different. We had already lost 56 of the 81 games we had played, often very badly. Tonights inevitable loss really stung, though. We had actually had a chance against the Portland Trail Blazers, a team headed to the playoffsunlike us, who were headed to the NBA draft lottery like all the other bottom feeders.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and adjusted my glasses. Come on, I thought, who knows? Still seated and crab walking back to the computer screen, I listened to the Warriors broadcasters detail some NBA legalese that would allow George to stay in the game. The camera cut to Don Nelson, the Warriors head coach, who was arguing with the referees, pleading for the game to continue. I watched him raise his eyebrows and shake his head then looked out the window of my studio apartment. The sky was already bright and blue and the horse chestnut in the courtyard was in bloom. I did a quick mental calculation. If it was 6:00 am here, it was 9:00 pm in Portland, Oregon, where the game was being played. And if it was April 14, 2010, on the West Coast, then tomorrow here would be the 16th, my birthday, which I dreaded. It would be my second birthday alone and the fifth one in this foreign country I now called home.

I started feeling anxious. Like I needed to smoke. I walked into the kitchenette, opened the window, lit a cigarette. While I watched my breath dissolve over the quiet courtyard, I thought about Portland, the city my sister lived in, and about my sister, whom I hadnt spoken to in years. The last time we connected was when she was living in Alaska, working on a fishing boat. I had heard she was now studying fish management at a community college in Oregon, since when I didnt know. I wondered whether I should check in with her or if she would write for my birthday. I knew she wouldnt. Everyone was still mad at me for what had happened. And I didnt want to have anything to do with any of them, either. Not after everything that had happened before. I inhaled some more smoke, then exhaled and turned my thoughts to what just happened on the court.

The Warriors had started the game with only six players healthy enough to play: the five starters (Stephen Curry, Monta Ellis, Chris Hunter, Anthony Tolliver, and Reggie Williams) and George, who would only come off the bench in case of emergency. Unfortunately, the Warriors had to cash out that insurance policy pretty fast. Hunter injured himself in the first quarter, and the rest of the Warriors, now down to the absolute minimum of players, would have to play a perfect game for its remainder. No fouling out, no injuries, no ejections. And they did, coming back from a ten-point deficit and demonstrating heart and grit. But now George had to exit and there was no way we could win with only four players on the court.

I closed the kitchenette window, walked back to my desk, and saw Hunter hobbling to the scorers table.

Whats going on? Theyre not going to make him play with a bum leg, are they?

They were.

The game started again. And Hunter blocked a shot on the first possession. I started rooting for my team, I could feel the positive effects it was having, the hope that was blossoming. But then the Warriors missed their next shot and Hunter fouled a Blazer on the next defensive possession. An and-1 that was even worse since he also reinjured his leg. He hobbled back off the court and we were back at the beginning.

Now what?

Timeout, Golden State.

I looked out at the blossoms again, at the tree that would produce horse chestnut seeds, poisonous if eaten. I thought about buying curtains, also to sleep better in the daytime. In the background I could hear the Blazers home crowd turning from impatient to apoplectic. Their boos were becoming architectural in dimension, towering over the Warriors broadcasters. Worried about waking my neighbors, I muted the feed I was illegally streaming then watched Nelson yell what I guessed were obscenities at the referees in silence. I watched hundreds of fans stand up and threaten him, incensed about this ridiculous ending, which was also frustrating me. I was tired. I opened another browser tab to look for curtains at IKEA, too expensive, then eBay, too ugly. I considered going to bed but grabbed a beer from the half-sized fridge instead. When I came back to my desk and clicked on the games tab, I saw Ronny Turiaf walking onto the court. I unmuted the computer. The Warriors broadcasters reminded the viewers that Turiaf was injured but that he had suited up because of some arcane NBA regulationa team needs at least eight players in uniform to competeand now would have to play. I thought it was cruel of the referees to not back down from the stringency of the law, but I didnt expect anything less.

The game started again.

Then stopped again.

Turiaf immediately committed an offensive foul and feigned a new injury.

He left the game and the referees made Anthony Morrow check in.

Morrow, the other inactive active Warrior player, performed the same charade.

The game started, then stopped, when Morrow hurt himself as Ellis casually fouled a Blazer on the next possession.

Whats going on? I thought.

Why are we doing this?

It seemed like some mad-hat endgame strategy where we were willing to give up all of our pieces, but I wasnt sure what it was for.

Now we were down 108109 with 3:38 left to play and only four Warriors still on the court.

The broadcast cut to a commercial break in this never-ending game.

I took a sip of beer; an SUV advertisement aired in the background. I opened another tab and looked at the league standings on nba.com. I couldnt believe what I was seeing. It would actually be better to lose. A loss tonight would mean falling in the standings and falling in the standings would mean that our record would be worse than the Kings, and that would mean we would be projected to draft DeMarcus Cousins, a center from Kentucky who could provide inside scoring and strength and finesse like we hadnt seen from a center since the 1980s, and that would mean we might actually stop losing all the time, it would mean we would change our destiny. I started praying for the Warriors to lose. Please, just think about the future.

The broadcast came back and I clicked on the tab.