Loss of Innocence

A lot of words and tears will be spilled in the next days and weeks as all of us seek to describe what has happened to the Seattle Supersonics. After 41 years of heartache and happiness, 41 years of Kemp and the Glove and Gus and DJ and all the rest, trying to distill the emotions of what transpired will be difficult, if not impossible. But allow me to offer up a small window into how I'm feeling this afternoon, though.

When I was a boy growing up in Seattle, one of my most prized possessions was a special edition of the Seattle Times from 1979, the year the Sonics won their (can we say only now?) NBA title in Seattle. It was chock full of anecdotes, statistics, game recaps, and other bizarre tidbits of information. In those pre-computer years, it was a delightful mishmash of stories, obviously put together by editors and writers who were just overjoyed to be doing the work.

As the years passed, the newspaper yellowed. I've moved quite a bit since leaving Seattle; first Oregon, then Southern California, now Vancouver. Somehow, that newspaper always managed to tag along with me. Every so often, maybe once or twice a year, I'd open it up and read through the stories again and it never failed to make me smile, to put an extra hop in my step.

Now, though, I don't know if I could bear to read it; that special section became a little less special today. Not because I was convinced the Sonics would never leave, but because a small part of me hoped they wouldn't. That small part of me that scoots to the edge of my seat when the Sonics are involved a close game; that small part that makes me pick up and phone Raf or Paul when the Sonics do something extraordinary; that small part of me that imitates Xavier McDaniel when I'm shooting hoops by myself.

After what happened today, that small part of me isn't doing so well right now.