But it wasn't St. Patrick's Day and we're (mostly) not color blind. It was Game 3 of the 2015 Western Conference Finals and the Houston Rockets were down 2-0 to the Golden State Warriors. The Rockets lost the first two games by a combined total of five points. Expectations were high for Game 3. My sisters had snagged playoff tickets for all of us at the last minute, so we crammed into my mom's '98 Suburban and drove towards the Toyota Center. As we cruised down I-10, we blasted Fat Pat and Paul Wall and Mike Jones to get us turnt.
The 2014-2015 Houston Rockets are (were?) a special team. James Harden averaged 28 points and 8 assists, Dwight Howard pulled down nearly 14 rebounds per game and the Rockets won a competitive Southwest division that sent all five of its teams to the playoffs. This was their first trip to the Western Conference Finals since 1997.
These are facts I have memorized through sheer repetition from watching the playoffs (another oft-repeated fact: Did you know that Dwight Howard and Josh Smith were former AAU teammates?), but I don't truly understand their significance. 28 points a game seems like a big deal, but you might as well tell me Harden averaged "a bazillion jillion points" and I'd be equally impressed.
I love watching basketball, I just don't understand the underlying mechanics or complexities (this is indicative of a larger problem of mine. I can tell you that I enjoyed the new Mad Max film, but I can't tell you why). The subtleties elude me. Pick-and-roll and zone defense and flagrant 2 are all terms that I have heard during games, terms that sound familiar, but if asked to explain them I would not be able to. Which is what happened a few weeks ago when my wife, Delma, started watching games with me.
"What's an illegal screen?"
"It's like... When a player stands there, but also he like... moves."
"Oh. Ok."
Pause.
"Why is he shooting two free throws instead of one?"
"Because... He... Got fouled harder?"
"Oh. Ok."
I enjoy basketball on the surface level. The athletic theatrics: fluid passes, acrobatic dunks, half-court buzzer beaters. It's a spectacle. But it's the emotional aspect of the game that gets me riled up, the drama both on and off the court. All of the trash talking and front-office discord and juicy Twitter beef (it's worth pointing out that I was a huge fan of professional wrestling growing up).
As I explained to Delma, it's the storyline of the games that I enjoy, the character development and plot twists. Like watching a soap opera with dudes who are 6'6" and have 40 inch verticals. It's gratifying seeing players like Kevin Durant and Steph Curry achieving their potential, breaking through barriers and winning MVP awards. And it's shocking seeing once-vaunted players (Harden, Deron Williams, Shaq) get traded to another team. It's the narrative behind the sport that's so intriguing. I can't tell you what Jason Terry excels at on the court, but I CAN tell you that he once tattooed the Larry O'Brien trophy on his right bicep and the Mavericks then went on to win the NBA Finals later that season.
It's especially entertaining when your team starts winning because then that emotion spills off the court, out of your TV set and into the city. People start sporting jerseys, cars wave flags, buildings light up with team colors. Suddenly, everyone's a fan, which annoys longtime supporters, but I would argue that it's not so bad. If anything, it's awesome because the city is united, filled with civic pride. I can go out to buy a gallon of 2% milk wearing my Rockets hat and someone will honk at me and shout "GO ROCKETS WOO" as they drive by. Winning pulls a city together, brings its citizens closer.
It's done the same with my family.
My sisters and I are fairly close, but throughout these playoffs, we've been texting each other nonstop.
"Dude, did you see that pass??"
"Are these refs blind!"
"Dwight actually made a free throw."
"I hate Matt Barnes."
"Man Klay ugly!"
"Go Rox!!!"
"
"
(We've also taken to ending all of our conversations with three rocket emojis because, you know, Rockets.)
When I come home on the weekends, my sisters and I gather around the kitchen table with some pan dulce and talk about the players as if we actually know them. We recite stats and spout cliches about why we lost or how we can win the next one ("We just need to play with heart!" and "These dudes need to hustle!" or "It is what it is"). My family has always had this "us against the world" mentality and the Rockets are another shared interest for us to bond over, to grow closer.
Even my moms has been getting in on it this series, shouting "Ese pinche puto!" at the TV every time Steph Curry hits a three.
So it was nice to actually go experience a game together as a family, especially a game that we were expected to win.
Our seats were in section 102, row 26. We were given free foam fingers as we entered the stadium. The crowd was hyped, cheering half an hour before tip-off, everyone using the foam fingers to give strangers high-fives. Whenever a Warriors fan passed by, they were booed loudly and mercilessly. My sisters and I could not stop smiling, feeling a buzz from just being there.
The beginning of the game couldn't have gone better for the Rockets. They won the opening tip, scored a bucket, got a stop, then scored again.
We were on our feet. Shouting, stomping, clapping, cheering.
"LET'S GO ROCKETS."
CLAP CLAP CLAP-CLAP-CLAP.
That was the peak of our happiness that night.
At the end of the first quarter, the Warriors were up by 12.
"It's ok," Kimberly told Delma. "We came back from being down 19 against the Clippers."
At the end of the half, we were down even more.
"We'll bounce back," said Michelle. "We just got off to a sluggish start.
Midway through the third quarter, we were down thirty points.
"There's still time," I said quietly. "Plenty of time."
The crowd was stunned, our optimism fading. The loudest sounds were the grunts of the players on the court and the squeaking of their shoes. The dude next to Delma was sleeping.
The Rockets ended up losing the game by 35 points. We left the Toyota Center dejected and hopeless. No one said a word as we walked back to the parking garage.
We piled back into my mom's Suburban. My mom, wife, cousin, three sisters and our close friend Gabriel. All of us wearing red. All of us sighing.
I turned to them and said two words.
"Ice cream?"
As we sat outside Amy's Ice Cream, eating our sorrows, a fellow Rockets fan offered us his condolences. Delma and I shared a large cup of vanilla with pecans and cookie dough. No one spoke.
We were sad. Obviously. We had high hopes for the night and they didn't pan out. Realistically, the Rockets weren't going to advance to the NBA Finals. It was a four-game series, but no team has ever come back from being down 3-0. Based on our performance that evening, it would be a miracle if we even won one.
But in spite our sadness, there was a feeling of contentment. It was a nice, quiet evening. We had ice cream. We were together.
My sisters and I are all growing up, growing apart. Kimberly had just graduated college and is considering grad school. Michelle is thinking of joining the Peace Corps. Kayla is slowly turning into a contemptuous teenager. Who knows how many of these moments we have left together, moments where we're close enough and have enough free time to enjoy each other's company.
Despite the result of the game, I'm glad we went. I'm glad we were there. Because those moments are fleeting. And thanks to the 2015 Rockets, we had a chance to savor at least one more of them, if only for a little while.
Go Rox.
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