I am convinced that there are two different kinds of people when it comes to sports: those who carry the sweet knowledge of winning around in their breast pocket (Yankees fans, Spurs fans, Lance Armstrong fans…although I haven’t met anyone personally who rides a high from their guy consistently beating ass in cycling, but you know…), and those whose optimism guides them blindly though each season, but the sweet sting of one catastrophic defeat has left them deeply, emotionally scarred.  I became one of those people because referees are evil scumbags.

NBA Finals, 2005: the Dallas Mavericks ride through what can only - and should only - be considered a magical playoff run. They pummel the Grizzlies into the floor in a sweep, overcome the championship Spurs team in 7, and then orchestrate a glorious win against the (also great) Suns in the Western Conference Finals. All that was left - all they had to do, dammit - was pick off a Miami Heat club that had no business getting to the Finals, but had Shaq and Wade, so everyone got excited because at least they had the celebrity to make for good television. And Dallas raced through two wins, giving them a sizable advantage, and went down to Florida to sleepwalk to a title. But then, for some reason - be it fate, Satanic intervention, or David Stern assuming his little, freaky puppetmaster stance - the refs started sending Wade to the free throw line. A lot. I’m talking, somebody farts in the room, and Wade shoots free throws. And suddenly, he’s free throw shooting Miami through four quick wins, and suddenly Antoine Walker has a championship ring. Remember when Steely Dan beat out Beck and Radiohead for Album of the Year at the 2001 Grammys? And this was when Beck was up for “Midnite Vultures” and Radiohead for “Kid A?” That’s what it felt like seeing Antoine Walker wearing a ring instead of Josh Howard.

So, the age old story. Boy roots for team, team makes it to the Finals, somebody somewhere wants Wade to be heroic enough to look good on a Nike commercial (but, and I know I’m not alone here, the dude comes off like a prick, sitting up in that empty booth calling his own name out - yeah yeah yeah, championship drive and all of that..dude is up there calling out his own name), and team loses Finals. One year later, team loses to Golden State in the first round after posting a record-breaking season. This is the kind of pattern than makes sports fans walk around like Kirk Cameron in that episode of “Growing Pains” where he wrote the answers to the test on his shoes, but then didn’t actually use them and passed the test without cheating, but got busted for the shoes anyway - you ride the high, and then the next thing you know Boner is sitting behind you just shaking his head at the merciless nature of the universe.

So for the first time this year I joined a fantasy basketball league with a bunch of buddies from school. I have a rock solid team - no perennial starters in the All Star game, sure, but I have Steve Nash starting at the point, with Devin Harris and Leandro Barbosa as his backup. I have Josh Howard, Antawn Jamison, and Hedo Turkoglu at Small Forward (and if anyone told me five years ago I’d be jumping up and down at the athletic prowess of Hedo Turkoglu, I would have laughed in their face). Chris Wilcox - a powerhouse in the making - rocks it out at center with Samuel Dalembert and Andrew Bynum (the Moriarty to Kobe’s Sherlock) picking up his slack. Oh, and I have Ben Gordon running like crazy all over the floor. Yeah, he might be a poor man’s Kobe, but he’s my poor man’s Kobe, and he’s lathering my team’s stats on a nightly basis.

So after a few full weeks of play, I somehow managed to grab onto the top spot in the league. Sure, I have competition breathing down my neck, but what respectable NBA team would really feel good about winning a championship if the road to the top wasn’t at least somewhat of a struggle? My boys have stayed healthy, and played their asses off, and together we could take this game to the next level.

We could, of course, if it wasn’t for the black cloud hanging over my head that is the 2005 NBA Finals. I know all about the rise to glory, the push for success, and the inevitable unraveling to despair and tragedy. I know these things because I sat, in agony, through the post-game championship ceremony where Gary Payton beamed like a Glow Worm at the prospect of finally nailing his dream, even if he had to slip into a stacked deck to get it. I watched this, and I remember every detail. So I don’t take for granted my well-balanced, superbly oiled fantasy team. I know how quickly the end comes.

For me, Mr. Nash, Mr. Gordon, and the rest of the crew…we’re heading straight to our own 2005 Finals. Because there is always some metaphorical, sadistic, whistle-friendly ref waiting in the wings to spit in the punch bowl and start handing over hardware to the Steely Dans in our lives.