If the Denver Nuggets Win the NBA Finals, I Want a Ring, Too.
Though I definitely had better things to do, I tuned in to most Denver Nuggets games this season, whether they were blowouts against bottom-feeders like the Houston Rockets or would-be finals previews against squads like the Miami Heat. Conservatively, I’d say I watched 72 regular season games—or almost eight full days worth of witnessing Jokic’s heaving hook shots dropping into a 18-inch diameter rim with ease.
I was on the East Coast for most of them, too, so unless it was one of the 18 games they played in my time zone, I was up as late as 3 a.m. taking in each ending. My now-fiancée would start most of them with me, indulging in our new shared hobby (she finally caved during the pandemic; what else did she have to do?) until she’d fall asleep, inevitably missing the final buzzer. She’d swear it was our good luck charm. If she stayed up, they’d lose. Each morning, I’d fill her in, going too deep on the details over coffee. I’d also DM her clips entirely too often—of Nikola Jokic breaking microphones during post-game pressers, highlights of her celebrity crush, Aaron Gordon, posterizing opposing players, and footage of head coach Michael (not Mike) Malone saying something spicy in an interview.
Most times, she understood my ways, and eventually came to accept my diehard status. Sometimes, though, she felt ashamed of how invested she’d become. Once, after canceling a dinner with friends that overlapped with a Finals game, she texted, “I can’t believe I’m this girl, but there’s a Nuggets game.”
Just last week, The Media told me no one would care about the NBA Finals. That a battle between chemistry-driven mid-market teams (Miami, mid-market?) wouldn’t draw the same audience as Lakers vs. Celtics: Part 13. But I was elated. Over the moon. My team, the video game-loving, Goliath-led Denver Nuggets, are on the cusp of their first-ever Larry O 'Brien Trophy. Hell, this trip to the finals is the first in the franchise’s history—a feat the likes of Carmelo Anthony, Alex English, A.I., or Mutombo-led teams can’t match.
To many, this Nuggets team is full of confusing outcasts—fringe players without formidable resumés. But I see Jamal Murray, a Swiss Army Knife scorer on the rebound from a double-season-ending ACL surgery. Or Michael Porter Jr., who was told he’d never play again by a Los Angeles Clippers team doctor in the leadup to draft night. Then there’s the atypical superstar himself, Nikola Jokic. Drafted during a Taco Bell commercial in 2014, the Serbian has since risen the ranks of all-time players, earning two MVP awards, two first team All-NBA honors, and the respect of "this era just isn’t the same" greats like Shaquille O’Neal, all while actively avoiding the spotlight at all costs. And still drawing scrutiny from all corners of the NBA media world.
As I watched ESPN shift its focus from the Lakers or the Celtics to my beloved Nuggets, I became territorial—and defensive of my favorite team, which had kept itself out of headlines as much as others avoided covering them. “How dare they care now? Did they even watch them?” I’d ask myself. I guess that’s the beauty of sports and fandom at large. You subscribe to something bigger than yourself, far removed, often even geographically, and then let it consume you.
Looking back, I don’t know the eras of Alex English or Dan Issel firsthand; Mutumbo was no longer a Nugget by my second birthday. This might not make me the longest-tenured fan, but Carmelo Anthony’s mid-range game is a core memory. Deep in my closet, there’s a powder blue Allen Iverson Nuggets jersey from the years he spent regressing in the Mile High City. I watch games like I’m reporting on them, calling out missed switches an keeping a mental note of how players could improve over the course of the season. Superfan delusion, sure, but I’m here early at age 28.
Now, the Nuggets are up 3-1 and headed back to Denver, and I’m anxious—usually I’m far from it. The franchise known for its proximity to the Rocky Mountains is finally ascending, and I hope I can recall the weeks—or roughly two whole days I spent glued to the TV watching Jokic, Murray, Gordon, Porter Jr., and co. win the franchise’s first-ever championship.
Even now, I look at my fiancée in slight disbelief, unsure of whether this is really real—like we somehow had a hand in it. With closeout games now a part of the equation, though, some of our superstitions will be tested. If the Nuggets win tonight, she’ll want to stay up to see them celebrate, but I won’t mind if she dozes off during a close fourth quarter. (It’s worked so far, right?) We’ll probably keep the watch party close-knit, if open at all. They say the more the merrier, but it seems every time we host anyone outside of our regular crowd, the Nuggets lose. We had folks over for Game Two. We lost by three—on home court, too, for the first time this postseason. For the rest of the series, I’ll still grab a six-pack of Coors Banquet, because it’s made from that sweet, sweet Rocky Mountain Water.
And if the Nuggets do win it all, I might even spray it in celebratory fashion, too, all over the couch we watch the games on. Because though I’m no equipment manager, assistant coach or even arena employee, I want a ring, too—for dealing with the doubters and then minding the bandwagon fans; for the miserable years in the rear view; for never turning on the players the Nuggets chose to slowly develop over the better part of a decade; and for the caloric spikes caused by the countless close games I watched this year.
I’m sure others feel the same way. But I look at my fiancée with a little guilt, too, partly because I’m unsure whether she knows she’s committed to a lifetime of seasonal sports obsession. I promise, though, when this series is over, I’ll take up a more productive, albeit probably less rewarding, hobby with all my newfound free time. Or maybe we’ll finally plan our wedding. In that case, I’ll get a ring—no matter what happens in Denver tonight.
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