I edged my way down the row of seats, row seven of section 219, to be exact. I took my customary seat, number nine, two from the wall. The guy sitting next to me stuck his hand out, and I shook his hand firmly. While we'd barely exchanged any sort of words throughout the playoff run, there was a pleasant charm in recognizing somebody who's been there the whole time, with more or les the same angle on the action.

The two seat to my right were occupied by my mother and ten year old brother, which admittedly hurt my abilities as a fan, since my occasional impulse to curse under my breath or hiss at a bad call would be stymied by their presence. Regardless, I was feeling good about things. And why wouldn't I? This was, of course, Oakland, Warrior City.

I had been nervous before the game, but as always, these fears evaporated as I entered the arena. How, I wondered, could the team lose in here?

As it turned out, I was about to get just the demonstration I needed. Baron Davis jumpers clanking off the rim. Free throws richoeting tis way and that. Stephen Jackson trying to drive down the middle and fumbling the ball for what seemed like the tenth time. My eyes constantly darted at the scoreboard. Just stay close. Win quarters. Win runs. Even just minutes.

I've heard it said that a team cannot blame a loss on the officials if they failed to convert their freethrows, open shots, and layups, because a good team perseveres through that. In consideration of that, I saw that I couldn't pin the unsettling feel of the game on the refs. Whether or not I viewed the officiating as an occasional farce that allowed the Jazz to physically abuse the Warriors whilst drawing fouls on a number of evident flops was irrelevant (though I did), because when the Warriors made it to the line, they weren't hitting, so it seemed perhaps meaningless even had they gotten the call.

I inhaled sharply as a Derek Fisher three from the left side swished through the net. It was suddenly clear. They were going to lose.

"That's the only damn thing Derek Fisher can do with with a basketball," I yelled to nobody in particular. "The only thing, and he's wide open!"

As the fans filed out following the final buzzer (to their credit, most all stayed to the end), the mood was understandably somber. As I slowly inched my way out the gates in the deadlocked lines of traffic, I briefly found myself thinking about what a shame it was, to beat Dallas and to fall short against Utah. My bitterness gathered as the night wore on, and I fell asleep thinking mainly about how much I hated Carlos Boozer. Thankfully, though, my thinking changed earlier today.

As I was walking down to the fishing bait store to buy some line for my friend, I was startled by a car honking its horn as it sped past. I looked up to see a guy leaning from the window, fist held in the air. "I believe," he yelled, having spied my shirt. I shot him a thumbs up in response, delighted to find that the community spirit hadn't diminished.

It is with great pride and great confidence that I now declare we will win game 5. Why? Because, as I realized, I owe this team. Even in the money I've spent on tickets, food vendors, and other Warriors junk, the money spent hasn't come close to overvaluing the experience this team has given me, and it's my firm suspicion that this is true for many.

No matter what it seems like, how bad it may be looking, we owe this team. Which is why I'll still say they'll win, no matter the dire circumstance.

Besides... who is Deron Williams, anyways?