I was born and raised in San Antonio – code for "silver and black run through my veins." And just like everyone else in San Antonio this morning, I woke up reeling from the one thing worse than any alcohol-induced aftermath: a Spurs hangover.
It's not something people outside of San Antonio easily understand, but San Antonio is the Spurs. This team is the glue that holds our city together.
These 15 men have more control over San Antonio's emotions than any psychological affliction ever could.
Their pain is our pain, their loss our loss, their heartbreak our own.
I often joke that the most consistent thing in my life is this team – but on some level, it's true.
Over a span of 15 years, I watched this team win an astounding 5 championships and soar past all but 3 franchises for most titles won in the entire 68-year history of the NBA.
And not only have our long-standing Big 3 shattered NBA records after 13 long years together, but the last time we missed the playoffs I was in kindergarten. And I'm turning 26 in August.
Let that sink in for a moment.
And although I've lived in New York for the past 8 years, there's still nothing that brings me greater pride than watching my boys bring the beautiful game out to the court every night.
All of them.
Parker, Ginobili, Leonard, Green, Mills, Diaw, Bonner, Belinelli, Baynes, Splitter, Ayres, and...
Shoot, I think I'm forgetting someone.
Oh, right: Tim Duncan.
Growing up, I wasn't NOT a Duncan fan – but he wasn't my favorite player. I didn't have his jersey, I didn't have his poster on my wall, and I didn't own any of his fan memorabilia. The only thing of his I did own was a bobble head that my grocery store was giving away for free one Sunday afternoon.
No, the pre-teen girl in me was obsessed with Tony and Manu and all our young "NBA heartthrobs". And if not them, then George Hill, Stephen Jackson, Bruce Bowen – the ones who would thrill us with their threes or sink impossible buzzer beaters as their bodies defied gravity.
The media (when they would actually talk about us) focused on "Tim Duncan's greatness", his legacy, his incomparability, his overwhelming presence on the floor.
"What are they talking about?" I would ask myself. "What's all this hype around Timmy?"
Timmy.
That's how familiar we were with him: the man everyone else referred to by his first and last name was spoken about as casually as a primito, or little cousin, in every other house in San Antonio.
The world was impressed by him; my generation and I, we were simply growing up with him. To us, he and these Spurs were basketball. What was all this hype about?
He was Timmy. Number 21. The tall guy who made the same bank shot off the glass every night.
But I'm not 7 or 12 or 15 anymore.
I'm 25 and have watched nearly all my childhood favorites come and go, seen so many great players reach their expiration dates, and yet each time turned around to see Timmy still there, as if time had not passed at all.
I'm 25 and watching the media continue to rave about Timmy, learning every game that he's broken some new NBA record, and seeing that over the past 18 years I've witnessed him accomplish more than I ever realized.
I'm 25 and starting to see what everyone else was always talking about, beginning to understand the true gravity of what has been right in front of my eyes ever since a few years after my earliest memories started forming.
28 points. 19 points. 17 points. 6 double-doubles. Triple-doubles. 9,000 playoff points. 25,000+ career points.
Is it 2015 or 1997?
In all, 18 of my 25 years have been spent watching this future hall-of-famer. From October to May (and often into June), Timmy has carried me through nearly 3/4 of my life with such quiet consistency that I didn't even realize it.
And Timmy's still just as quiet as he's ever been. He's still emotionless (minus that awwwwww-worthy smile the other night), and he still weaves himself in and out of games so silently that it takes the final stats to make others realize his impact.
But it took him reaching an age that only a fraction of the league ever reaches for me to begin seeing his game in a different light, for me to begin noticing every basket and rebound and block he makes, simply because he's 39 years old and statistics say he shouldn't even be out on that court.
"Luck" is the word I use to describe the fact that my standard for basketball was crafted by a man some are calling the second best player in NBA history; and "gratitude" is the word I use to describe the fact that I didn't even realize it until these final years, his greatness masked behind unwavering humility and quiet consistency – night after night for 18 years.
I say "gratitude" because the clandestine nature of his presence has been a hidden gift waiting for me at the end of his career, one that contains a life lesson on how the biggest impacts come from the most selfless people.
It's about long-term legacy, not short-term thrill. It's about purpose, not glamor. It's about team, not fame.
Only after it's (almost) said and done have I realized how incredibly fortunate I've been to call this man – this legend – everything I've known about basketball, to live with him in my living room for 18 (and counting? …Por favor?) years, taking him for granted for the same reason I did the fact that the sun would rise the next day: it was the only thing I knew.
At 39, Timmy is still one of the strongest players on our team. He's tied for the second-oldest player in the NBA, and there's a possibility he will become the oldest next year. Unlike current "old man" title-holder Steve Nash, Old Man Riverwalk comes out on the court and contends every night with a vengeance, making clutch shots with such ease that you would think he was dropping empty bottles into the recycling bin.
Timmy is the heart of our team and our city – and as with any heart, after a while you start to forget it beats; you cease to notice it even as it gives you life day in and day out, its regularity and rhythm so perfectly timed that you need not worry it somehow falter.
That's Timmy.
The heart that beats inside the team that beats inside San Antonio.
Only now all of our hearts have temporarily stopped, because the season is over and Timmy is 39 and Manu is likely leaving and the only certainty in life is that all good things must come to an end.
And for the first time since I was in first grade, we are facing a very real possibility that next year we may have a Timmy-less Spurs team.
Maybe it's because I'm still reeling from a tumultuous game 7, but typing that last sentence brought unexpected tears to my eyes, a testament to not only the grief there is over this impending loss of our hall-of-fame superstar, but also the regret there is for not realizing what I had sooner.
Last night was heartbreaking, a true mixture of emotions as a heart-stopping 7-game series closed out in the last 1.0 seconds. Such dramatic endings take time to process. When things happen so quickly (and in this case a literal split-second), it takes time to understand what you've just seen. I think we are all still in a little shock.
But shock wears off, and when it does you find yourself having to resume the rhythms of everyday life.
And for San Antonio, that means watching someone else's team the rest of the post-season.
Ever since last night, I've been asking myself, "What is May without the Spurs?"
But forget May.
As more time passes and the fact that we won't be playing another game this week begins to sink in, an even bigger question looms on the horizon, one that speaks to the longevity of this man and the unparalleled legacy he's left over the last 18 years:
What is San Antonio – and for so many like me, what is life – without Tim Duncan?
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