When Damian Lillard swished in a deep 3-pointer over the outstretched arms of Chandler Parsons, I, like many Portland Trail Blazers fans, let out what can only be described as a primal scream. Not only was it one of the most incredible finishes to a game I’ve ever witnessed, but, it also sent my favorite team to the 2nd round of the NBA playoffs for the first time in nearly a decade and a half. I was just so unbelievably ecstatic that I could hardly contain myself. In 0.9 seconds, I experienced everything that’s great about being a fan.
Happiness for the Blazers extending their season wasn’t the only emotion I was feeling at that moment, though. Not by a long shot. As elated as I was to see my beloved Blazers emerge victorious, I’d be lying if I said that a hefty part of that primal scream wasn’t directed at the opponent that night, the Houston Rockets. In fact, if we’re being real, in that very moment, it might have been a shade over 50/50 towards the opposing bench.
Yes, while it may be somewhat taboo to put into print, I was equally as jacked up that the Rockets were exiting the playoffs, as I was that the Blazers were moving on. After six heart-wrenchingly tight playoff games, I hated that team.
You see, every playoff series is intense. It’s just human nature to garner a healthy dislike for anyone you have to compete against that many times in a row, particularly with that much on the line. But, with teams like the Rockets, it’s a bit different. They’re the kind of team who just gets under your skin from the opening tip of Game 1, and then somehow manage to keep digging deeper and deeper until all you can think about is how much you want to expel this parasitic presence from your joyous pastime.
I know I wasn’t alone in taking a little extra delight in watching Damian Lillard and the Blazers send that Rockets team to an early offseason in such heart-breaking fashion. I’m pretty sure most of Portland felt the same way.
So, if you’re one of the many like me, and have been thinking most of the year that the worst case scenario this season is sitting through another series of watching James Harden’s hobo beard trying to escape his face (why else does his head jerk around so much when he plays?) and Dwight Howard’s fake-nice-guy grin as he tries to bully his way out of his newfound mediocrity, I have but one message for you: Be careful what you wish for.
Because, all that hate, anger and frustration could soon be bubbling up again if today’s standings hold up. Only this time … [I can’t even believe I’m about to write this] … it might be even worse. That’s because, as of right now, the Blazers are set to play the only team in the NBA more dislikable, despicable and downright infuriating to play than the Rockets: the Los Angeles Clippers.
To the casual fan, the Clippers are the likable underdogs trying to fight their way out from the shadows of the 16 championship banners their Staples Center roommates, the Los Angeles Lakers, have arrogantly (and literally) hung over their heads for years. Led by two of the best players in the league, who star in likable national advertising campaigns and are known for their high flying style of play, you’d think this would be one of the easiest teams in the league to root for.
Watch even a few minutes of one of their games, though, and even the most casual of basketball fans will see what makes them so detestable. If Houston has the Picasso of floppers in James Harden, the Clippers entire roster is like a Renaissance era arts festival, with masters of the flailing arts littering the landscape. They have Michelangelo flapping his arms through a screen, Donatello going down on a drive like he was shot by a sniper, and Rafael collapsing on a jumper because a defender was in the same zip code as him. They’re like some sort of evil, bastardized Ninja Turtles of unenjoyable basketball.
That’s because the Clippers play the refs just as much, if not more, than they play their opponents. From the opening tip, every whistle is a non-stop parade of players walking over to the nearest referee, palms to the air and mouths agape. If you counted words, I’d bet my next month’s salary that Doc Rivers and his players talks to the refs more than their own team.
And, while every NBA team probably spends way too much time worrying about, and interacting with, the refs, these Clippers take it to a whole new level. I’ve never seen a team complain more on blatantly correct calls in the history of any sport. Heck, I’ve actually seen Doc Rivers go ballistic after getting a call. On multiple occasions. Is there anything more frustrating than to watch someone blow a gasket when things are going their way? If there is, I’d rather not find out.
Yet, while it’s all so incredibly frustrating to watch and live through, it’s that raw emotion that makes the playoffs so fantastic. It’s that borderline unhealthy level of hate directed at people you’ve never even met that really ratchets up the intensity and make playoff basketball so enthralling.
It doesn’t even matter whether it’s a six-decade blood feud like Celtics-Lakers, or if, like Blazers-Rockets last year, you have cartons of milk in your fridge that have been around longer, there simply isn’t a better feeling in sports than to watch your team topple a hated rival.
At the same time, intense playoff rivalries can be a tough road to travel. It can take a fist full of heart pills, padded walls and a tether on your remote control to survive every game, but, don’t lie to yourself. That’s why you’re a fan. It’s those adrenaline pumping moments where you question why you put yourself through all this pain and emotional anguish, only to let out the most cathartic primal scream that you never knew resided inside you. That’s what it’s all about.
That’s why you shouldn’t be afraid of these intense, emotional and downright infuriating matchups. You shouldn’t fear another agonizing series against the Rockets, or a frustratingly bitter seven games versus the Clippers. You should relish those matchups. That’s why we’re all here, so why not enjoy it.
The playoffs are coming. Embrace the hate.
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