Four days…nine hours…seventeen minutes…twenty-two seconds…and counting�?/P>

Two days…four hours…fifty-three minutes…fourteen seconds…and counting�?/P>

Two hours…and counting…driving to the park-and-ride, T-shirts, caps, and pins �?our uniform, “the ticket�?(around our necks in a plastic envelope) - our passage to a higher plane.

Waiting for the bus…diesel exhaust a welcome stimulation…stirring dormant memories…of the champs.  Our champs.

On the bus now…you could cut the energy with a knife; everyone’s excited.  There’s a hum you can’t describe, reverberating between each and every passenger, ricocheting back and forth.  From every background, every culture, every religion, every part of the city you can imagine - we all have a single mission tonight; if you’re not on the bus, you would never get it �?if you are on the bus, you could never explain the feeling.  We are kindred spirits tonight, at least for the next four hours.  We are one.  We know.  Opening night!  We’ve been here before, but each one is like a sweet first time, it’s all new and we are like kids in a candy shop. 

We wind through the city streets and freeways.  The arena comes into view and a cheer goes up.   Then, we're off, marching across the parking lot like a determined army.

One hour to go until Timmy-time.  Pizza and soda, it’s an arena ritual, a family tradition.  The smells: pepperoni…popcorn…beer…jalapenos on the nachos…hot dogs…barbecue…soft warm pretzels…giant dill pickles…people.  The sounds:  laughter (lots of laughter)…game-talk, bragging…excited little kids…more excited adults…rapid Spanish and slower English…shoes squeaking on the freshly painted floor…the whir of the escalator up to Club 200…the crowd.  The arena is decked out and everything is shiny and new.

This building is like a mold, the tension inside is a solid block, ready to pop out like an ice cube.  And, then, at long last, after months of waiting…we hear him…the voice we’ve heard in our sleep, all of us, all summer, waking up smiling…Stan Kelley: “Here come the Spurs!�?SPAN>  Finally, everyone breathes and there is an audible collective sigh.  THEY’RE BACK!

Hip-hop music, serious bass beat you can feel in your middle.  A black and white blur on the court - the court where, a few short months ago, our guys played their hearts out (sorry, Lebron, you just weren't ready for that kind of greatness!)!  The boys are back.  WE are back!  And, it’s been a long summer. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back your 2006-2007 NBA Champions, the SAN ANTONIO SPURS!�? The Coyote and the Trophy.  The new banner, number four, hanging from the rafters, shrouded in black like a work of art, then unveiled…the rings, diamonds and gold, tears and grins.  This NEVER gets old!

The season is ON!  The rhythms and the beat of the game of basketball is reality again.  13 men, 7 coaches, 3 trainers, and 19,000 of their biggest fans (and we are all friends here in this place)…all with a single purpose…another trophy.  Strive for five.

We smile.  And smile.  And settle in.  It’s a long time until June.

(San Antonio, 30 October 2007)