As I think back to last night, I realized that I didn’t cry. I could have cried. I should have cried.
It was that 5-year old kid at St. Joseph’s Elementary school making his first basket on the playground, thinking back to the Warriors he saw on TV.
It’s that kid who was so excited about the Antawn Jamison draft pick that he drew Jamison’s new Warriors jersey and taped it on his wall.
It was that little boy who thought that the head coaching changes were decent and that the 1999 team was on to good things.
It was that teenager who couldn’t believe that the Warriors let Gilbert Arenas go.
It was that young college student who still watched the Warriors thinking maybe Speedy Claxton could be somebody good.
It was that man who was in the see of gold and for one season, he truly believed.
It was that older man who sat in the arena and listened to the people boo their owner on jersey retirement night.
It was that man now standing in his office, 300+ miles away from home smiling as the Warriors punched their ticket to the NBA Finals.
That man is me. I could have cried. I should have cried. But not yet. I’m too happy to know what else to do. It’s not ever yet.