Once, we were Kings.
Only a betrayal of the greatest kind kept us from our rightful jewel, the NBA Championship. But we were Kings. Shaq knew it. Phil knew it. The Lakers knew it. The whole league knew it. No one wanted to play in Sacramento--unless they were on the home team. It was a time of legend. And now it is all but a myth.
As Fippin pointed out, our record shattering shrieks are forgotten, even by the history books. The talking heads of the world of basketball crown new throne rooms the best in all the land. Too bad they couldn't, can't break our record. But we can. We will.
And why not forget us? We fell. Poisoned by those meant to protect us, either in collusion with the league, or more likely in an act of individual or small group of individuals. Then our King feel from his horse. And it ended. We were defeated.
We were kicked while we were down, stabbed in the back again, by creatures unworthy of name.
We clutched to our ancient dragon eggs of hope while the league, the world moved on. Forgetting how a "cowtown" had once dominated sell out streaks, jersey sales, Sports Illustrated. Some of us scattered.
But a new hope arose. Clutching those eggs of hope an unlikely hero, a native born son we had once shunned, walked into a funeral pyre for us--you see, we were living sacrifices to the demi-godlike men who own teams and jerk around cities like play things. But something strange happened, when the pyre consumed all, another city's hopes were burned (again--tragically) and our mayor clutched those eggs of hope no more.
Clinging to him were baby dragons.
Fire breathing beasts ready to aid their Kings. Loyal to their Kings. Us reborn.
Now as the plans to tear down our old throne room and replace it with a new one march on, we grow again. We stand ready to stride into our new throne room, having survived the wars that earned our spot on its throne. Battle weary, but stronger for the fight. We are poised for not only a new throne room, but a new era were our chambers never again will know the sullied taste of horrible campaigns.
Our Kings are like us, reborn, but young. I see it. Do you? David and Goliath may have been adversaries of old, but Vivek has found a way to put them on the court together. And they will grow to become formidable. They and their fellow Kings.
They will be aided by monsters in the stands, breathing fire and clanging cowbells, while they drink the rich bounties of the best beers in the land and eat food fit for King--and their dragons.
Sounds like thunder will arise from our throne room. It is not thunder. It is the roar of 17,317 dragons, rising to cheer for their Kings. Watching their reborn Kings rise to claim the throne that was stolen from their ancestors. Oh it will take time. Seasons even. But they will fear our throne room again--starting in just a few days. They will fear our Kings. They will fear us. They will envy us. And when we slough our old, beloved throne room like skin and march into our new one, they will beg to join us.
This week men and women will chant in a foreign tongue as we rise from the ashes of our betrayal, climbing the walls of the dark dungeon creatures unworthy of name cast us into. And we will emerge. Our terrible roar will be felt as much as heard.