December 16th, 2015
The final buzzer sounded and Max let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, letting out a loud yell and a fist pump that would make Tiger Woods blush. The arena was rocking with the chants of "LET'S GO SONICS! LET'S GO SONICS! LET'S GO SONICS!" as the crowd stayed, stood, and gave a standing ovation to the team.
All of it was deafening, all of it was near ear-shattering, but it made him feel
alive and it felt good. From his seat right behind the bench, Max reached over and offered his hand to his favorite player, Ray Allen, and the two shook enthusiastically.
Twelve years ago Ray had become a Sonic and immediately became one of Max's favorite players -- just 20-years-old at the time, Max was still in college, still watching Sonics games on his small 12-inch tube TV, and half the time he was fighting with the damned thing to get good reception.
But the one thing that had always held true with that TV and Ray was that, when Ray shot a three, the TV would never have an issue; any other play was up in the air as the signal fluctuated sometimes, but the threes by that sweet shooting guard were never missed by Max.
If he was honest with himself, signing Ray was a move made for nostalgic purposes more than anything; some in Seattle held a small opinion of him since he was traded to Boston, but Ray had never said anything prior to that about being traded. Above all, Ray was a professional -- and an adopted son of the city in Max's opinion.
"Way to go, Ray!" Max yelled above the clamor, his voice barely registering, but Ray heard him all the same and only smiled as he was swallowed back up by his teammates. His insertion into the starting lineup hadn't been flawless -- he wasn't shooting great, but he was doing better than Crawford and the first-team just ran better with him.
Max slowly turned in his seat, listening to the arena applaud and cheer, and felt his chest fill with joy.
This is what Seattle was supposed to be, this was the sanctuary that the people of this city had been missing. Seattle wasn't known for its sunny skies, and every team that played there played outside, where the clouds would hang.
But there were no clouds in this arena; there was only the Sonics and the joy they brought, the bright lights of the greatest sports stage in Seattle. Basketball was back and it was beautiful.
****
The game had been over for nearly two hours now, but Max could still feel the buzz in the air. His skin crawled with excitement and, not for the first time, he looked down at the box score of the game.
The team was finding its way. Now sitting at 15-10, they were still in the 7th seed of the playoffs, with Dallas trailing them at 12-12. It wasn't as good as some in the media demanded (Max's opinion of the
Seattle Times Vonny Lee wasn't high) but it was good enough. With Noel returning to the starting lineup from his injury soon, the team would be even better.
"That was some game." Max turned around to see Paul Allen, owner of the Blazers and the Seahawks, with a grin affixed to his face. "Must admit, I thought we had you at the ten minute mark."
Max grinned back at him. He had invited Paul to the arena after the game for some drinks and conversation. He had questions he wanted to ask. "I thought we were going to let it slip away," he admitted as he reached into the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of white wine. "Would you prefer something else?"
Paul waved him off. "That'll be fine, thank you." Rather than taking a seat in the plush leather chairs of the owner's suite -- something Max had no intention of ever using, he'd rather be on the floor -- Allen sat down at the minibar. "You've assembled quite a team."
Max finished pouring both their glasses, stuck the wine back into the fridge, and gave a glass to Paul. "I'd like think so." He held out his glass. "A toast: to Seattle. May it continue to thrive."
Paul clinked his glass against Max's and took a sip of his wine. He nodded with approval. "You have good taste."
"My mother instilled me with it; my father was always a beer drinker." Unbidden, memories of his father's rants against wine popped into his mind; the old man had always been a staunch defender of beer while his mother had always found it unrefined.
Both his parents had drank and so had his brother.
Gill just took it too far.
"You want to know something," Paul stated, amusement in his voice. "I suppose I would have questions too in your position."
Brought back to the moment, Max put aside his feelings on his brother. "Uh ... yes, actually." He took a sip of his wine, then sat his glass to his far left. He pushed his frames up. "Why did you fight for me?" He held out his hands. "For this?"
"I would hope my love for Seattle is more than apparent at this point," Paul joked, his lips curled into a smirk. "This city, these people ... they matter more to me than words can express." He pointed at Max. "And that's why I fought as hard as I did for you. For this. Since the Sonics were relocated, this city hasn't been the same." Paul leaned forward a little, his voice dropping an octave. "Even when we won the Superbowl, the feeling wasn't quite the same as the championship in '79. That title and the feelings associated with it ... I've never felt anything like that since."
Max took another sip of wine as he watched Paul's face relax. "And that's why you threw your support behind me, some punk coder?"
He laughed. "It was a gut feeling, I admit. Your ambition was far greater than anything I thought was still out there. People don't have the passion you do, it's a rare thing and should be encouraged; accepted. You came in here strong and you made a believer out of me." He sipped his wine, then added, "But I was a believer in the Sonics first. I would have supported anyone who managed to clear the hurdles you did."
Max chuckled at the compliment; it wasn't often a billionaire had
good things to say about him. "I hope the other owners don't take it out on you."
Paul waved off the comment. "Most of them understand business is business, not personal." He frowned. "But Bennett isn't one of those. He tends to take things personally." He pointed a finger at Max. "And you should beware that you don't do the same. You have to balance passion with practicality. Clay Bennett isn't my favorite person in the world, but I have -- and will -- have to deal with him. It's a fact of the NBA."
Max's face grew dark. "You can do that. I won't. The Thunder are at the top of the list of organizations we have to bring down; they, and they alone, are the most responsible for the loss of the Sonics. They still parade around with
our star."
"
Their star," Paul corrected, his voice cautionary. "Durant is OKC and OKC is Durant. One day he may leave there ... but that day isn't coming soon. I hope you don't think he'll head anywhere
but there this summer."
Max shook his head. "I'm not
that delusional."
The other man laughed. "Just make sure to keep it that way. In the NBA, the more delusional you get, the worse your team becomes."