Learning to lose: Enduring wins and loses off the hardwood

This is an essay I wrote for Flux Magazine in the spring of 2008. It's a personal essay about my brother and me growing up as Portland Trail Blazer fans, and what being a fan has been like without him.

Andy was always the bigger sports fan. I was seven when my brother introduced me to the Portland Trail Blazers in a losing effort against Detroit in game five of the 1990 NBA Finals. We had the TV muted, preferring the radio announcers instead. I didn’t know anything about the Blazers. Andy just told me they were from the same place we lived, and that was enough.

Initially I had a lot of questions about basketball. Why did they bounce the ball? Was Kevin Duckworth’s jersey number, double-zero, how many points he scores? Andy was four years older than me and had a lot to teach. He took me outside and taught me on the hoop our father had attached to our old leaky one-car garage — it was later torn down and replaced with a two-story, four-car garage, but of course the hoop was reattached. Andy placed his left hand on the side of the ball while his right hand held it in front of his face saying, “This way your left hand will act as a guide and keep the ball straight when you shoot.” He’d demonstrate, jumping and letting the ball go as his body stopped gaining altitude. His tongue twisted between his teeth as he concentrated on letting the ball roll off his fingertips. It was technically perfect. Then I’d try, and he’d critique my shot.

Andy bought our oldest brother Tim and me nosebleed tickets to Blazer games for Christmas two years in a row. We’d spend the first quarter of each game scouting the arena for three empty seats. Midway through the quarter we were practically sitting courtside. In total, Andy and I saw five Blazer games together: the team won every game.

On January 8, 2005, just after I’d watched the Seattle Seahawks lose to the St. Louis Rams in the NFL Wild Card game, I woke Andy and told him. Andy raised his head from the pillow and murmured, “I don’t care about the Seahawks anymore.” I shrugged in agreement.

That was the last time we spoke. Sometime after midnight, while Andy was out drinking, he climbed onto the roof of McMenamins Edgefield through a bathroom window. He walked around the edge for a bit before slipping on a wet mossy spot and falling three stories. He died from massive head trauma.

A few months later the Portland Trail Blazers fired head coach Maurice Cheeks. It got me wondering what Andy would have thought. I knew then that I would have to figure it out for myself.

This past season, I would have asked Andy who his favorite Blazer was. My choice would have been Brandon Roy: the most electrifying player, modest and humble, earning a spot on the NBA All-Star team. I’m sure Andy would have said Greg Oden, seeing past the savior hype and just loving the coolest Blazer off the court with a mohawk and a dog named Charles Barkley McLovin’.

Andy’s appearance never screamed big sports guy. He didn’t crunch stats or participate in sports trivia. He tuned his car radio to alternative rock just as much as sports. He knew all the best indie bands, and with the exception of the last six months of his life, he spent about ten years in the drug culture. He quit smoking heroin the summer before he died, and through it all he was aware of his influence on me. When I was in high school, Andy gave me the “do as I say, not as I do” speech. I watched his first heroin-free night as he and his girlfriend twitched on the couch like bees were stinging them. But thanks to some new medication and his drive to quit, Andy and I were back in the driveway shooting hoops two days later. He was still watching my form, helping me improve.

In October 2004 I came home from an exhausting day of school, Andy said to me, “What are you doing tonight?” “I am going to drink some PBR and watch the Red Sox win the World Series,” I replied. Andy shook his head and presented two tickets to a Trail Blazers exhibition game. I might have wanted to see history, but a live game is more exciting. So we went to our last Blazer game together — meeting Tim, who’d gotten his own tickets.

We’d given our mother instructions to call us the minute the Red Sox won. Before she could call, a silver-haired man who was watching the televisions in the luxury suites through his binoculars turned to us and said, “The Red Sox just won.” Then Tim’s phone rang. “It’s Mom,” he said. Several minutes later the Blazer’s PA announced the Red Sox victory. The Rose Garden erupted into applause, collectively wondering if Portland could end the Sam Bowie, Michael Jordan curse. The Blazers beat the Toronto Raptors 97-95, and I’ve never been happier to miss a part of history in my life.

I didn’t attend another Blazer game for three years. The team wasn’t doing well, and I didn’t want to revisit those haunting memories of days spent with Andy watching the team we loved. Brandon Roy winning Rookie of the Year was great but not enough. I’d lost interest . . . until they won the NBA Draft Lottery for the number one pick, ultimately selecting Greg Oden. But Oden went in for microfracture surgery and was out for the season. The excitement collapsed. That day, along with game seven of the 2000 Western Conference Finals and Andy dying, was one of the worst days of my life as a fan.

Sunday December 9, 2007 I turned on the TV and saw the Blazers battling Milwaukee. I watched until the end and learned that the Blazers had won three in a row. Two days later, they beat Utah — at Utah — something the team hadn’t done since 2003. I decided it was time to see a game in person again, and what better way than to do it the way Andy had done. I bought Tim, my dad and myself $10 nosebleed tickets to see a game three days after Christmas against the Minnesota Timberwolves — the first opponent Andy and I saw together.

I spent the first quarter scanning the arena for better seats. I found three in the Rose Garden's most expensive section — but we were content to stay. No one ever claimed those seats. The Blazers won their twelfth game in a row and the streak peaked at thirteen before the team cooled off for the second half of the season, missing the playoffs but finishing with a 41-41 record. In that moment, I returned to the Blazers a passionate fan, proud to have channeled Andy for my first game in three years.

Today when I stand on a basketball court alone, trying to improve my shot, I think about the past, the Blazers, and conversations with Andy. Our love for the Blazers bonded us beyond brotherhood, and now I carry that alone. I know that part of him so well that conversations I imagine us having aren’t too lonely. I’m doing things on my own, and learning for myself.

As I continue through life without Andy and new questions arise, before I search for the answers myself, my first thought is always, who would know the answer to this? Andy would know.