| Fan Article: In A Love-Hate Relationship, Sonic's Provide The Former Authored by Jason "Sweezo" Schwisow - March 8, 2005 - 2:48 pm
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Since I’ve been alive, I’ve had a love-hate relationship with the franchise, heavily tilted towards the “love” side of the spectrum. While explaining the reasons for that relationship seems a tremendous task, the reasons for both myself and all the other fans to love this franchise are so vast and varied, that the task isn’t so tremendous at all.
I love the Seattle Supersonics because one of the first shirts I wore said “Seattle Supersonics—1979 NBA Champs”…until my dad misplaced it. One day, I plan on forgiving him, and buying me a new shirt would be a step in the right direction.
Because, with all apologies to Muhammad Ali, Xavier McDaniel was a bad, bad man.
Because Dale Ellis wasn’t.
Because a diminutive guard named Luke can make bullet-like passes that turn the heads of the Sonic faithful who scoffed and snarled when the Sonics picked some curly-headed kid from a place called Blaine.
Because if you listen close, when Fortson knocks someone on his butt or Evans grabs a little jersey and calls it “defense,” you can hear Brad Miller gritting his teeth into dust.
Because Brickowski wasn’t going to take no crap from Rodman, even though millions of fans watching the ’96 Finals had no idea who he was.
Because Kemp and Payton were better than Stockton and Malone, and no one knew it but us.
Because Slick Watts made headbands cool.
Because Kevin Calabro is the greatest announcer in the sport, and anyone tolerates Craig Ehlo as a color commentator deserves his day of recognition.
Because when GP cocked his head to the side, jaw flapping and talking trash as he steadily dribbled the ball, you knew the opponent’s fans were saying “God, I hate that guy.”
Because every time Ridnour flashes his quick hands to pick off a pass or slap the ball away, he makes a total fool out of Jay Bilas…and the chair he’s sitting in.
Because Detlef Schrempf taught me that under the right circumstances, there was a place in my heart for a Husky.
Because one of the greatest Sonics, whose number hangs from the rafters of Key, now sits on the sidelines in a finely tailored suit, ordering around a new collection of future Sonic greats.
Because over seven seasons we’ve seen Rashard Lewis turn from the loneliest kid in the green room to an All-Star, albeit one who was afraid on All-Star Weekend that reporters wouldn’t speak to him, reminding us a bit of that same lonely kid in the green room with the tear-streaked cheeks.
Because Alton Lister is still splayed out on the hardwood somewhere, wondering if the cops got the number of the man who ran him over. They did…the number was “40.”
Because a slew of writers have dedicated this season to backtracking and grudgingly giving a little credit to the men in green and gold, just as they’ll have the off-season to tell how the Supersonics earned right to call themselves “NBA Champions.”
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