Ten Weeks without NBA, and Counting
For a long time, I did not care for sports. I attended high school in 1990s Illinois, and I never understood the pervasive obsession with the Chicago Bulls. Into adulthood, I thought sports were boring, and I could not understand why people swore loyalty to teams of ever-changing, hired athletes. Nothing sounded more tedious.
Then on December 23, 2018, I went to my first Oklahoma City Thunder game and finally understood what all the fuss was about.
Earlier that year, my husband and I had moved from Virginia to Oklahoma. While researching our new city, we learned there was an NBA team: the Oklahoma City Thunder. We had never attended an NBA game, never followed basketball. We were curious. I bought tickets, expecting a mild evening out.
The experience of being in Chesapeake Arena for that game was unlike anything I could have imagined. It was a self-contained, electric, raw, joyful, family-friendly spectacle of people-watching, pre-game and halftime entertainment, drummers, and fan energy.
The Storm Chasers cut loose with infectious enthusiasm and the mischievous mascot Rumble hammed it up. I could not stop watching Rumble, always messing around and causing tiny disruptions in the most amiable ways possible. I challenge anyone to observe Rumble in action and not want him as your best friend.
And the game itself was more fascinating and easier to follow than I had expected. Basketball did not confuse me like football or put me to sleep like baseball. It drew me in, and it made sense. I was mesmerized, watching the players run across the court, making shots. Workers dashed out and quickly mopped sweat from the court at precise moments. I was enthralled, and I wanted more.
My husband and I deliberated and eventually splurged on half-season tickets for 2019–2020. That meant we would attend half of the home games throughout the full season, starting in October, 2019. The purchase felt extravagant and impractical, but it gave us something to look forward to doing together. Going to see the Thunder play became our thing, and we planned our schedules around games. And in February, with the current season still in progress, we renewed our seats for next season: 2020–2021.
Then on March 11, it all came to a bizarre halt. We had recently started to hear warnings about the potential spread of coronavirus in large groups of people, and as we drove to the game, I wondered if the crowd would be smaller than usual. It was.
The seats to my right, normally occupied by an older couple who held half-season tickets like us, stayed empty. From our seats in Loud City, we surveyed the arena around and below us. There were more empty seats than usual. I started to feel vaguely uneasy, wondering if it was safe to be in the crowded arena. Still, we looked forward to the game.
Just before tipoff, something happened. But what? We hadn’t seen anything. One moment, we were about to watch a game; the next, we were restless and wondering why the players had been so hastily swept away. We did not realize, in the moment, how significant that unexplained delay would become. We had no idea that Utah Jazz player Rudy Gobert had tested positive for COVID-19.
We waited. Rumble and the Storm Chasers did their best to distract us.
When Frankie J, the halftime performer, sang, I knew there would be no game. I may be a newbie sports fan, but I know halftime shows don’t happen before games. We were dismissed. A man in front of me snapped a photo of the Jumbotron, with its message that the game was postponed. In hindsight, I wish I had done the same.
A reporter stopped my husband and me as we walked from the arena. How were we feeling? Our responses must have been unremarkable, because she let us move along without asking our names or follow-up questions. By the time we got home and turned on the tv, we learned that the NBA season had been suspended. It seemed impossible.
Ten weeks later, I have no idea what will become of the final games of this season. It’s hard to imagine next season. I don’t know when, if ever, I will feel comfortable sitting in a packed arena. I remember the effort to make myself as small as possible in my seat, not wanting to brush legs and arms with the man next to me. Standing up every time someone had to get through to the end of our row, and cringing once when a woman grabbed onto my arms to support herself as she squeezed through the row of bodies.
When I think of returning to that arena, I imagine the invisible virus moving from person to person. It’s hard to imagine attending a live game ever again.
Ten months ago, I was deciding whether to purchase 2019–2020 season tickets.
Ten weeks ago, it felt safe to attend games.
Ten days ago, I faced the frightening fact that Oklahoma was preparing to reopen.
Ten minutes ago, I wondered for the thousandth time if I will come out of this pandemic alive.
I wonder what my world will look like ten months from now. I’m just glad Rumble is quarantined somewhere safe.
