In Memoriam of the Spurs "Dynasty" (straight rambling)

David Stern is happy. Doug Collins is happy. Marv Albert is happy. Charles Barkley is happy. The PTI guys are happy. The casual basketball fan is happy. ABC and ESPN are happy. Jack Nicholson and Flea are happy. Bill Simmons is happy. Red Aurbach's ghost is happy. Jerry West and Kevin McHale are happy. Brian Scalabrine is happy. Bill and Wilt are happy. The Caesars of Rome are happy. The people of Camelot are happy. The Pharisees are happy. The horn of Gondor blows victory and it's all because the San Antonio Spurs are done.

From 1999 to 2007, the NBA did not know what to make of itself and its marquee team in silver and black, and everyone went into hibernation, missing an important lesson on archetypes and human nature. Everyone missed what the basketball gods were trying to show us. The writing was on the wall, and we were all hooked on phonics. The Tim Duncan, Greg Popovic, and R.C. Buford era just taught us more about ourselves than we ever really wanted to know.

They taught us that it's not the foundation we appreciate, nor the exposition of a plot line, or anything of obscure subtlety. We long to be awed. We long to worship at the feet of kings and emperors, and if we can't have those, then bring us our golden calves, but please, give us something to bow down to. Show us our place, rather than something that forces us to find our own way, like a riddle.

David Robinson's selflessness during the 1999 and 2003 championship runs was like having a stable lover. His presence on those teams was like seeing one's dad always drive them to and from soccer practice or seeing one's mom always find some way to get food in the family's belly by seven, even if she was at work all day. This kind of love is not what the public wanted; the public wanted Valentine's Day every day. The public wanted rose pedals that led to the hoop and a Hallmark card perched against the backboard. The public wanted to know what color paint was on the walls and what the story's climax was, but the public did not want to know what held up those walls or how we got to the story's turning point. We did not want to see the work that goes into real love.

The San Antonio Spurs were the how and the why of love and all anyone wanted to know was the what; what is easier to digest. In 1971, Marvin Gaye asked, "what's going on?", and there was not an easy answer in basketball terms until the 1980's. In the '80s, one could look at Magic's smile and Larry's glare and know that two opposing forces were ramming into each other like good vs. evil or cold and hot fronts on a weather map. Any idiot could tell where the storm was. In the '90s, there was no deep thought required to know what color paint was on the walls. Michael Jordan wrote a Valentine's Day card every time he stepped on the court. He flew to the hoop on cupid's wings; his dunks and fadeaways hitting us like arrows. If basketball were a high school dance and every basketball fan was wearing a corsage, then every fan would dream of either Magic, Larry, or Michael being their dance partner when "Til the End of the Road" comes over the loud speaker. Tim Duncan showed up for the dance wearing combat boots and flannel, and his date wore an anarchy sign on her spandex cheerleading outfit.

Tim Duncan never asked to be called The Big Fundamental. When Charles Barkley first played against him, he described the experience as, "I have seen the future." Let's remember that at this time Shaq was still a young player who had already made a Finals appearance, but it was Duncan that made Barkley feel like a gypsy palm reader; and it was Shaq who dubbed Duncan more of an insult than a nickname, especially in a world where bankshots do not make bank and help defense means nothing in an All-Star game. But Duncan was never just The Big Fundamental. Duncan was a wizard. Duncan was Merlin.

In every story or myth, there is the great hero archetype, the savior, the king, the uniter. Larry, Magic, and Michael were a royal triumvirate. They were the old Roman Empire. We could easily add Caesar or Constantine to Jordan's long list of nicknames because he held the empire together, and there is no doubt he left a void upon his retirement. After Caesar's death, the void was managed by a weak triumvirate: Marc Antony, Octavian, and the guy no one remembers. Shaq played the part of Marc Antony during the last decade, praising his own skills and experience in battle. Octavian was Kobe, and Dwayne Wade was the guy no one will wind up remembering. The Pistons were the Huns, the Vandals, and the Visigoths. A group like them was never supposed to win a championship, but they burned Rome to the ground anyway. This allegory of archetypes works well, but where is Tim Duncan in all of it?

He's Merlin. He's the archetype no one really appreciates. In the absence of a true king, Merlin rules with shadow puppets and patience, watching a stone with a sword in it. He's Gandalf with an eye and an ear on the ring, on Mordor, and on a king who has yet to claim his place. He's John the Baptist in the wilderness, preparing with honey and locust the throne of his Savior. He's Obi Won Kinobi on Tatooine, always knowing the heartbeats of two twins because of the Force. If we can not find Tim Duncan in these archetypes, then where do we find him?

The Spurs were the league's gatekeepers for a decade. The gatekeeper is not an easy role to play. The gatekeeper is often old, bearded, and past their prime. The gatekeeper holds silently to a faith that all will be made good, even if everyone else doubts their sanity. Whatever Bruce Bowen and Robert Horry did to the Suns and Hornets, it was done because as the gatekeepers they knew those teams were not the rightful heirs to the throne. The gatekeeper is ornery. The gatekeeper is seldom straightforward. The gatekeeper asks more of us than we do of ourselves. The gatekeeper makes everyone wait. The gatekeeper often is forced to resurrect itself through stone tables, the Force, or a flux capacitator, but no matter what is always there.

These Spurs have been resurrected before. They did it between '99 and '03, and they did it again between '03 and '04. Can they do it again? Will they do it again? Do they need to do it again? The real answer depends on whether Kobe is the true heir to the triumvirate of Magic, Larry, and Michael. Will Octavian become Augustus? Because if Kobe is not the true heir, then a gatekeeper is still needed. Otherwise, chaos ensues, and barbarians become champions, like Rasheed Wallace doing his best Attila the Hun impersonation.

The Spurs did the league a thankless job. When no other team or player was ready, they minded the throne, and they did it in a way that set them apart from other champions. They did it as if they had to, not because they wanted to. Merlin never takes Excalibur as his, and Gandalf never wears the ring. The Spurs never wore the role of champion well. Why else did they never repeat?

But the fact that Kobe had to go through San Antonio in order to make the Finals lends credence to his claim that he is ready, and it's why I must believe that the Lakers will beat the Celtics. Kobe has looked so Jordanesque that I must believe he was born under the sign of the Pendragon, and while I appreciate the gatekeepers in stories more than those who walk through the gate, I know the rest of the world needs its champions to wear crowns. I know the rest of the world needs its king because it shows all of us that there is an order to things. It shows all of us that our kings are bigger than us, more Hollywood than us, and on a different plane than us. Why so many people need such a hierarchy is beyond me. Maybe, such hierarchies offer us all the excuse that it's not about work ethic but about one's birthright, and deep down the Spurs made us all feel guilty from Barkley to Derrick Coleman to my students who never turn anything in to me for not motivating them to turn anything in. If the Spurs could win championships without a king archetype, then why can't we also? (and that's what we never wanted to know)

Spurs, I thank you for minding the gate.