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There was a version of me, years ago, who spent way too many nights doing something I’d never admit to the average person walking down the street. I’d hop from team blog to team blog under the infamous blogboi moniker of Goldbloodedking, deep in enemy territory, soaking up whatever fear and doubt was leaking out of the comment sections.

I was skulking through Pounding the Rock during the Spurs’ slow fade. I was hanging around The Dream Shake when the Rockets were still convinced they had one more run in them. I took kerosene and matches to Fear the Sword, back when Cleveland fans were bracing for whatever came after LeBron’s first go-round. I’d show up uninvited and declare, with the full confidence of a visionary who had one drink too many on a Friday night, that their franchise had been chosen for one purpose: to be the next team the Warriors dynasty flattened on its way up the mountain.

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The Warriors hadn’t won anything yet when I started saying this. I wasn’t reacting to a trophy case. I had a feeling, and I said it loud enough and often enough that the other blogs got sick of me. Pounding the Rock banned me. The Dream Shake hated my guts. Fear the Sword ran me out of town before the ink was even dry on the first banner. I didn’t care. I believed it before it was true, and then it was true, and I got to be right in front of everybody who told me to sit down.

This week I found myself reading a Warriors headline that sounded exactly like the conversations I used to have with everybody else, except this time I couldn’t laugh it off: “Warriors are just fine running back this old team”.

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